Friday. 11:00 AM (PST). SoFi Stadium Media Halls.
FLASH.
"Alright, Kwame, give me aggressive. Give me 'I own the midfield.' Cross your arms!"
Kwame stiffly crossed his arms, staring into the blinding ring light of the EA Sports FC camera crew. He was wearing the brand-new, unreleased Manchester United away kit, but he felt less like a professional footballer and more like a mannequin in a shop window.
"Loosen your shoulders, mate," the photographer coaxed. "You look like you're bracing for an impact."
From the shadows behind the cameraman, a snort echoed through the room.
Kwame's eyes darted over to see Leo Castledine pulling a grotesque, cross-eyed face, sticking his tongue out and puffing his cheeks. Standing next to him, Alejandro Garnacho was trying to muffle his laughter with his hand, while Kobbie Mainoo just shook his head, a cool, effortless smile on his face.
Even Gaz—who was usually a statue of pure stoicism—was hiding a smirk behind his water bottle.
"Leo, I swear to God," Kwame muttered through gritted teeth, trying to maintain his 'aggressive' pose for the camera.
"I'm not doing anything, Icebox!" Leo yelled back, immediately making a duck face and flashing peace signs. "Just trying to help you find your angles!"
"Perfect, we got it!" the photographer laughed. "Alright, onto the interview station. Next up for the face scan... Castledine, get over here."
As Leo groaned and walked toward the blinding green screen, Kwame was ushered into a small, heavily branded alcove for the official club channel interview. A presenter holding a microphone with the United crest smiled brightly at him.
"Kwame, welcome to LA!" the presenter beamed. "It's been an absolute whirlwind for you. From League Two to the Manchester United First Team in Hollywood. You're one of the youngest midfielders on this tour. What's the main goal for you out here?"
Kwame took a breath, ignoring Garnacho who was now making mocking hand-puppets from the sidelines. He fell back on his media training.
"Just to learn from the best," Kwame said earnestly, his voice steady. "And to help the team win. I know I have a lot to prove at this level, so I'm just keeping my head down and working hard."
"Booooring!" Leo coughed loudly from the scanning station.
Kwame couldn't help but crack a genuine smile. It was absolute chaos, but for the first time since signing, he actually felt like he was part of a friend group.
1:30 PM (PST). Outside SoFi Stadium.
The "Young Core"—as Leo had officially dubbed them—had managed to secure a forty-five-minute break between sponsor obligations.
They had slipped out of the heavily guarded VIP entrance and wandered toward a nearby cluster of high-end food trucks operating near a public street basketball court. The blistering California sun beat down on them, but the palm trees and the distant ocean breeze made it feel like a completely different planet compared to the grey skies of Manchester.
"I'm telling you, IN-N-OUT burger is a myth," Leo was arguing, holding a massive burrito. "It cannot be better than a proper cheeky Nando's. It defies science."
"You have no culture, hermano," Garnacho sighed, leaning against the chain-link fence of the basketball court.
Leo pointed at the local kids playing a pickup game on the sun-baked asphalt. "Watch and learn, boys. I've been watching LeBron."
Leo jogged onto the court, waving his free hand. "Yo, pass it here! Let me show you some English magic!"
A kid in an LA Galaxy jersey bounced the basketball over. Leo caught it, did a ridiculously exaggerated crossover that nearly tripped him up, and launched a confident three-pointer.
It didn't just miss the hoop; it cleared the backboard entirely, bouncing into a nearby cluster of palm trees.
Gaz let out a booming, echoing laugh. Garnacho buried his face in his hands.
"English magic, chat," Kobbie Mainoo chuckled, shaking his head. "Incredible."
Leo scrambled back to the fence, his face flushed. "The wind caught it! It's a different aerodynamic over here! The gravity is different!"
The kid in the Galaxy jersey jogged over to the fence to retrieve another ball. He scooped it up, glanced at the group of young men in matching United tracksuits, and froze.
His eyes went wide. "Yo... no way. Garnacho!"
Garnacho grinned, offering a casual two-finger salute. "Qué pasa, man."
The kid dropped his basketball. He looked at Mainoo. "Kobbie! Bro, that FA Cup goal was insane!"
Then, the teenager's eyes shifted. He looked past the established Premier League stars and locked onto the boy standing quietly at the back, sipping a bottle of water.
The kid's jaw dropped. "Wait... are you the Midfield General?"
Kwame nearly choked on his water. He lowered the bottle, stunned. "You... you know me?"
"Bro, I saw the TikTok compilations of you ending careers in League Two!" the kid said, his voice rising in excitement. "The sliding tackle against Stockport? Insane! I can't believe Thorne actually brought you on the tour!"
Leo nudged Kwame in the ribs, grinning from ear to ear. "Global superstar, Icebox. You can't hide anymore."
Kwame offered the kid an awkward wave, his heart racing. He had assumed his fame was restricted to the hardcore English football bubble. Standing in Los Angeles, halfway across the world, being recognized by a kid on a street court... it hit him like a freight train.
Manchester United wasn't just a club. It was a global empire. And he was wearing their badge.
"Yo, can I get a picture?" the kid asked, eagerly pulling out his phone.
Leo instantly stepped forward and grabbed it out of his hand. "Of course. But only if the General signs the ball."
Kwame smiled, the awkwardness finally fading. He took the Sharpie the kid frantically dug out of his pocket and carefully signed the orange leather of the basketball. He stood next to the teenager, throwing an arm around his shoulder as Leo snapped the photo.
As the kid took his phone and ball back, he looked up at Kwame with absolute sincerity.
"Score against Arsenal, yeah?"
Kwame chuckled, exchanging a quick, amused glance with Kobbie. "I'll do my best."
Just as they were turning to head back to the stadium, a street vendor pushing a metal rack full of bootleg sports jerseys rolled past.
"Hey, my friends! Manchester United!" the vendor called out enthusiastically, spotting their tracksuits. "I got the new ones! Half price! You want Rashford? Bruno? I got them all!"
Gaz, ever the stoic giant, suddenly grinned. He walked over to the rack and started flipping through the hangers.
"Oi, look at this," Gaz rumbled, pulling out a bright red shirt. He held it up for the group to see.
Printed on the back, in slightly crooked white lettering, was the number 42. Above it read: ABOGAYE.
Leo and Garnacho burst into absolute hysterics.
"Abogaye!" Leo wheezed, clapping Kwame on the back so hard he stumbled. "They didn't even spell your name right, Icebox!"
"I'll take it," Gaz told the vendor, pulling a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and handing it over.
"Gaz, why are you buying that?" Kwame asked, utterly mortified, rubbing his forehead.
"I'm going to frame it and hang it right above your locker at Carrington," Gaz replied completely deadpan, throwing the bootleg jersey over his broad shoulder. "Gotta keep you humble, Abogaye."
Still laughing, the group finally started making their way back toward the media halls, the immense pressure of the tour completely forgotten for a brief, hilarious moment in the California sun.
8:30 PM (PST). The Beverly Hills Hotel - Private Dining Room.
The luxury private dining room looked like a scene from a movie. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the long, mahogany tables were littered with the remains of high-end steaks, imported pasta, and sparkling water.
The entire squad was relaxed, the tension of the brutal morning training session finally fading.
Then, the clinking started.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Bruno Fernandes stood up at the head of the table, tapping his spoon against his water glass. The low hum of conversation instantly died down. A wicked grin spread across the captain's face.
"Right," Bruno announced, his voice carrying over the tables. "New lads. Time for the songs."
The room erupted into cheers, players banging their hands on the mahogany tables in a deafening, rhythmic beat.
Leo was instantly out of his seat, his phone held high, streaming live on Instagram to what was likely over ten thousand people.
"We are live, chat! Initiation time!" Leo yelled over the noise. "Who's first?!"
"Aboagye!" Marcus Rashford shouted from the back, laughing and pointing directly at Kwame. "Get the General up there!"
Kwame's stomach dropped to the floor. "Wait, no, I—"
"Up! Up! Up! Up!" the entire squad chanted, slamming their hands on the tables. Even Elias Thorne, sitting with the coaching staff in the corner, was hiding a rare, amused smirk behind his coffee cup.
"We picked a song for you, mate!" Scott McTominay yelled, tossing a microphone connected to a portable karaoke speaker across the room. Kwame caught it purely out of reflex.
"What song?" Kwame asked, dread pooling in his chest.
The opening, heavy tribal drumbeat of Shakira's Waka Waka (This Time for Africa) suddenly blasted through the speakers.
The room completely lost its mind. Players were howling with laughter.
"General representing Ghana!" Leo screamed into his phone camera, turning the lens to capture Kwame's horrified expression.
Kwame stood there for a split second, completely mortified. He looked around the room at the multi-millionaire superstars, the World Cup winners, and the Champions League veterans. They weren't judging him; they were waiting to embrace him.
Kwame took a deep breath, stepped up onto his chair, and fully committed.
"You're a good soldier! Choosing your battles!" Kwame belted into the microphone, his voice slightly off-key but overflowing with desperate, hilarious enthusiasm.
The squad exploded. Garnacho jumped out of his seat, hyping him up, while Mainoo and Fletcher clapped along to the beat. Kwame was half-embarrassed, half-laughing so hard his chest hurt. Even Kieran Cross was leaning back in his chair, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye.
8:45 PM (PST) / 4:45 AM (GMT). Across the World.
In a sleek hotel room across town in downtown LA, Afia was sitting on her bed in a bathrobe, surrounded by corporate contracts and her glowing iPad.
She was watching Leo Castledine's Instagram Live.
On the screen, her little brother was standing on a chair, passionately singing the chorus of Waka Waka while the Manchester United squad cheered him on.
A rare, soft smile broke across her usually sharp features. She took a screenshot of the chaotic scene and opened up her WhatsApp group chat with Maya, Chloe, and Mia.
Afia:Your midfield general appears to have been forced into karaoke.
It was almost 5:00 AM in England, but the replies came through instantly.
Mia:THIS IS GOING ON THE INTERNET FOREVER.
Maya:He actually looks happy. ❤️
Chloe:I'm saving this video. I'm playing it at his wedding.
Afia chuckled quietly to herself. She tapped out a quick, pragmatic reply.
Afia:Brand value: increasing.
Back in the private dining room, the laughter finally began to die down. The plates were being cleared away by the waitstaff, and the initiation songs had concluded with Leo doing a disastrous, off-pitch rendition of Oasis.
Kwame took his seat, his face still flushed, taking a long drink of water. His chest felt light. He belonged here.
A heavy hand suddenly clapped down on his shoulder.
Kwame looked up to see Kieran Cross standing behind him. The veteran defensive midfielder wasn't smiling anymore. The relaxed, joking atmosphere of the dinner had completely vanished from his eyes, replaced by the cold, calculating focus of a Premier League elite.
"Enjoy tonight, kid," Cross said quietly, his voice cutting through the lingering chatter of the room.
He tapped Kwame's shoulder twice.
"Because tomorrow, the fun stops. Tomorrow, we start preparing for Arsenal."