The victory celebration that night didn't last long for the captain, as there was still a league match approaching and a crucial Champions League knockout game next month.
Around 11:30 PM, at The Ivy bar in Manchester.
"Alright, that's enough for today. Everyone, head home early and hydrate."
After settling the hefty bill at the bar, Ling returned to the VIP booth and addressed his teammates.
He had managed to squeeze out some precious leisure time from Mourinho, but it came with his reputation and status as collateral.
If the team showed up in poor condition for training tomorrow, Ling could already imagine how furious the manager would be.
Mourinho definitely wouldn't tolerate unprofessional behavior and wouldn't hesitate to drop players.
"Alright then," Mahrez agreed.
Even though he was still somewhat reluctant to end the night, he decisively pushed his glass aside and stood up.
"Yeah, in March we only have five matches. We can ask the boss for a proper break then," Valencia chimed in to support his vice-captain.
He knew that a few players in the squad, like Rashford, Jesse Lingard, and Paul Pogba, were more inclined to party and might not listen, so it was better to give them a firm heads-up early.
"Right, right, there will be plenty of opportunities in the future. But if we lose or draw against Burnley in the league, catching up to City will only become harder," McTominay showed no attachment to the festivities.
He knew exactly what he wanted for his career.
Most of the Manchester United players were sensible enough to leave, but Ling spotted Lingard and Pogba whispering to each other near the bar entrance.
He didn't need to think twice to know they were planning to sneak off and continue the night elsewhere.
In the end, he just sighed silently.
Sometimes, trying to force people to do what's best for them only ends up causing friction.
Besides, they were adults and needed to take responsibility for their own fitness.
"Let them be," Ling murmured.
After bidding farewell to the rest of his teammates, he boarded his waiting business car and left for home.
"Mr. Mendes asked me to inform you that the first collaboration sneakers with Puma are set to launch in early April," his assistant reminded him from the front seat.
"Oh, right. Are there any promotional events I need to attend?" Ling rubbed his temples, feeling the fatigue setting in.
He had been so focused lately that he had forgotten about the shoe deal.
He hadn't expected Jorge Mendes to quietly get most of the design work done behind the scenes.
"There are a few launch events in London on March 1st." While waiting at a red light, the assistant handed Jeremy a tablet.
[Wind Super Speed I]
Looking at the digital renders of the sneakers on the screen—entirely red with a few sleek yellow stripes running through them, exuding a sense of premium custom craftsmanship and bearing a subtle resemblance to the Manchester United crest—Ling nodded in satisfaction before browsing the technical specifications.
[A dynamic-fit high-top collar and a laceless design, paired with Puma's latest NETFIT SYSTEM]
Mendes knew the vast potential of the Asian market, so there was no need to cut corners on materials to save costs.
Doing so would only alienate the fans.
Besides, Ling's first signature sneaker was all about building a premium reputation.
Otherwise, how could they realistically compete with giants like Adidas and Nike for market share?
Ling had specifically reminded Mendes before signing that his annual football income was already substantial, and he didn't want to exploit his fans' loyalty for a quick profit with a cheap product.
Though it might sound a bit sentimental to a businessman, that was genuinely how he felt.
Puma had initially pushed back, but after Mendes persuaded them to take a long-term view of the brand, they finally agreed to compromise on their profit margins.
"I just wonder how they actually feel on foot. Didn't Puma send a prototype pair over?" Ling asked, scrolling through the images.
"Sorry, I forgot to mention. They're right there in the back seat," the assistant tapped his forehead apologetically.
Lately, with Ling's global profile heating up, endorsement offers and event invitations had surged.
As his personal assistant, he had been swamped and running around nonstop.
When Ling opened the black shoebox next to him, he found a pair of blacked-out sneakers meant for daily field testing. The final model would be adjusted based on his direct feedback.
Turns out building a brand isn't easy, Ling thought to himself as he traced the textured patterns on the shoes.
'I'm definitely not cut out for the business side of things.'
Fortunately, he had chosen an excellent agent.
...
The next day at Carrington, the mood was tense.
"Misplaced passes! Slow movements! What exactly did you two do last night?!" Mourinho's voice echoed across the training pitch.
"With this kind of sluggish form, how are we supposed to win tomorrow?!"
Watching Pogba and Lingard's sluggish performance in the passing drills, Mourinho was fuming, nearly exploding on the spot.
He knew that young players growing up in the social media era led more privileged lives.
The old-school methods of motivational speeches and aggressive pep talks didn't always work on them, so he had reduced the frequency of such tactics.
But when it came to basic training attitude and fitness, he would never, ever compromise.
However, the manager had another headache to deal with.
Mourinho glanced at the medical report in his hand provided by the physios.
Valencia, Ander Herrera, Nemanja Matic, and a few others had all sustained minor knocks and muscle fatigue, likely due to the grueling 120-minute intensity of the cup final.
Several players would miss one to two weeks of matches depending on their recovery.
Pogba and Lingard were reprimanded so harshly they couldn't even lift their heads, though only they themselves knew if they actually regretted staying out late.
Mourinho blew his whistle and addressed the squad with a cold expression.
"Formation 4-3-3 for Burnley. Front line: Marcus Rashford, Jeremy Ling, and Mason Greenwood."
"Midfield: Scott McTominay, N'Golo Kante, and David Luiz."
"Defensive line: Luke Shaw, Victor Lindelof, Phil Jones, and Aaron Wan-Bissaka. Meeting adjourned."
Only then did Lingard suddenly look up, sheer disbelief in his eyes.
He hadn't played a single minute in the cup final, so his fitness and form should have been the freshest among the attackers.
Yet Mourinho had ruthlessly chosen Greenwood to start—a teenager just recently promoted from the youth academy.
Though Pogba was also visibly dissatisfied with being dropped from the starting eleven, he ultimately didn't dare to speak up and challenge the manager's authority in front of the group.
After training wrapped up, Ling walked into the head coach's office to discuss the makeshift lineup.
To his surprise, Mourinho simply waved his hand before Ling could speak and said, "I know it's difficult for you to see your friends dropped. After all, you're still very young and you try to protect them, but I had to teach them a lesson about professionalism."
"Also, tomorrow's match against Burnley will bring a lot of pressure," Mourinho continued, his tone turning extremely serious.
"Given the current Premier League landscape, if we lose points to smaller teams now, we'll lose all hope of catching City for the title. Even a draw won't be enough!"
The office fell silent for a moment as the weight of the title race settled over them.
"Boss, you know me," Ling finally said, pointing firmly to his chest. "I don't have a million different strengths, but I can handle the pressure."
"So, don't worry about tomorrow. I've got it."