The locker room was quiet the moment Sir Alex walked in holding a folded red jersey
He didn't say a word
Just looked straight at Cristiano
Everyone stopped moving
Even Keane sat down without a sound
Sir Alex walked over and held the shirt out
The back faced up
7
The same number worn by George Best
Eric Cantona
David Beckham
Cristiano blinked
He didn't reach for it immediately
"You understand what this means?"
Sir Alex asked, voice low but sharp
Cristiano nodded
But inside
His chest pounded like drums before a storm
"I didn't give this to you to be flashy
I gave it to you because you work harder than anyone else here
Don't make me regret it"
Cristiano finally took the jersey in both hands
It felt heavier than steel
That night
He couldn't sleep
He stared at the jersey hanging on the wall across from his bed
Eyes open
Heart racing
The number glowed faintly in the moonlight
Like it was staring back at him
Next day
He came to training first
Left last
Refused to leave the gym
Started eating different
Studying his own runs
Watching Beckham clips over and over
The players noticed
Some rolled their eyes
Some started training longer just to keep up
But Cristiano didn't care who watched
He wasn't chasing them
He was chasing someone that didn't exist yet
The perfect version of himself
That weekend
He walked onto Old Trafford wearing the 7 for the first time
Fans stood
Not to cheer
But to watch
To judge
To compare
He didn't smile
Didn't wave
He whispered something under his breath in Portuguese
"This shirt doesn't carry me
I carry it"
Then he exploded past the first defender before the whistle even blew fully
The Number 7 had returned
But not like before
This time
It came with fangs