Humming a quiet tune, Ling walked into the meeting room, where a calm, neatly dressed man was already waiting for him.
Not Mourinho.
It was Gareth Southgate, the current England manager.
Beside him sat an official from the English FA, a middle-aged man in a dark suit with a folder resting neatly on the table.
The two men did not look as if they had come to make a dramatic sales pitch. There were no cameras, no reporters, and no grand promises prepared for the media.
It was just a private conversation.
Southgate stood first and offered his hand.
"Jeremy. Thank you for agreeing to meet us."
Ling shook his hand and sat down opposite him. His expression stayed calm, though his mind had already started turning.
He knew why they were here.
This conversation had been circling him for a long time.
Ever since he became Manchester United's No. 7, ever since he carried the club through the Premier League and Champions League, and ever since English pundits began openly discussing what he could bring to a national team, the same words had kept appearing around him.
England eligibility for naturalisation.
Nobody close to him had said it too loudly, but everyone knew the question would come sooner or later.
Southgate did not rush.
He looked at Ling for a moment before speaking in his usual measured tone.
"I'll be direct. We know this is not a simple matter for you. You were born in China. Your parents are Chinese. Many fans there see you as their hope, and we are not here to ask you to deny any of that."
Ling's gaze shifted slightly.
That opening was better than he had expected.
The FA official opened the folder, but Southgate raised a hand gently, stopping him from turning the meeting into paperwork too soon.
"You came to England when you were thirteen," Southgate continued. "You grew up in this football environment. You trained here, studied here, and became the player you are here. You have never played a senior competitive match for China, and from a footballing standpoint, you meet the relevant eligibility conditions. The legal process still has to be handled properly, of course, but the door is open."
Ling looked at the folder without touching it.
"What do you want from me?" he asked.
Southgate smiled faintly.
"A footballer."
That answer made Ling look up.
Southgate leaned forward, his voice still calm.
"England has excellent players. Kane, Sterling, Rashford, Sancho, Dele, Mount, Foden coming through... the competition will be real. I won't promise you special treatment, and I won't tell you that everything will revolve around you from day one."
The FA official looked slightly nervous, as if Southgate was being too honest, but Ling's expression softened instead.
"What I can promise," Southgate said, "is that if you choose England, it will be because you believe this is your football home. Not because someone pressured you, not because someone sold you a dream, and certainly not because we want to use you against the country where you were born."
The room fell quiet.
For a while, Ling said nothing.
He thought of Chinese fans staying up until three in the morning to watch his first Premier League minutes.
He thought of students wearing cheap United shirts with his name printed on the back, old men in late-night food stalls in Bin City shouting until their voices cracked, and young players who had written to him because they believed his road might one day become theirs too.
Then his thoughts darkened.
He remembered his previous life, the phone calls, the pressure, the match he had refused to throw, and the injury that had ended everything.
He remembered officials who could push young players into a pit and still call it duty, loyalty, and national pride.
His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the chair.
Southgate did not interrupt him, and that patience made the meeting feel more respectful than any passionate speech would have.
After a while, Ling asked, "What happens if I say yes and half the world calls me a traitor?"
The FA official froze.
Southgate's expression turned serious.
"Then you'll need to be certain enough in your own heart to live with that noise."
Ling gave a quiet laugh.
"That's not exactly comforting."
"It isn't meant to be," Southgate replied. "International football is emotional because people care about it. If you choose England, some people will be hurt, some will be angry, and some will never understand. I won't lie to you about that."
Ling leaned back in his chair.
For the first time in his life, someone from a football association had sat across from him and refused to dress ambition up as righteousness.
No one told him he owed them, no one told him to sacrifice himself, and no one tried to wrap a demand in the flag and call it honor.
They simply gave him a choice, which somehow made it feel even heavier.
"What role would I play?" Ling asked.
Only then did Southgate open the tactical file.
"Flexible forward. Wide attacker. Second striker. Depending on the opponent, maybe even a free role in transition. Your ability to carry the ball thirty or forty yards under pressure is rare, and your finishing is already elite. But what interests me most is your decision-making! You understand when the pitch opens."
He tapped the diagram lightly.
"With Kane occupying centre-backs, Sterling attacking space, Rashford stretching the line, and you breaking from deeper zones, England would have a very different kind of attack."
Ling studied the page for several seconds.
He could see it clearly: Wembley, white shirts, knockout football, the roar of English fans, and the chance to stand on the World Cup and European Championship stage with players already competing at the top of European football.
His heart moved, but another part of him resisted.
Once he stepped through this door, something would break.
Not his connection to China, because that would never disappear.... but the dream millions of Chinese fans had placed on him would crack, and he would hear that sound for a long time.
"I won't give you an answer today," Ling said finally.
Southgate nodded at once.
"I didn't expect one."
The FA official seemed surprised, but Southgate stood calmly.
"Speak to your parents, speak to the people you trust. Whatever you choose, make sure it's your decision."
After they left, Ling remained alone in the meeting room.
The folder was still on the table.
He stared at it for a long time before finally reaching out and turning the first page.
...
That night, Ling called home.
It was already late in China, but Yan Lanxia picked up almost immediately, as if she had been waiting with the phone in her hand.
"Why are you calling at this hour?" she asked. "Did something happen?"
Ling opened his mouth, then closed it again.
For some reason, the words were harder to say to his mother than they had been to Southgate.
"Mom," he said slowly, "the English FA came to see me today."
The other end of the line went silent.
A few seconds later, Ling heard movement. His father's voice came from farther away.
"What happened?"
Yan Lanxia did not answer him immediately. Her breathing had changed.
"They want you to play for England?" she asked softly.
Ling lowered his eyes.
"They asked if I would consider it."
Another silence followed, and this one hurt more.
After a while, Yan Lanxia said, "Do you know what people back home will say?"
"I know."
"No, you don't," she said, her voice trembling now. "They won't care how young you were when you left. They won't care how much you suffered alone. They won't care who protected you or who hurt you. They'll only say you abandoned them!"
Ling gripped the phone tighter.
He had imagined anger and disappointment, but hearing fear in his mother's voice made his chest ache.
Then Ling Changzheng took the phone.
"Son, tell me the truth. Is this about the World Cup?"
Ling did not answer immediately.
"It's part of it," he admitted. "I want to play on the biggest stage. I won't pretend I don't. But it's not only that."
He paused before continuing in a lower voice.
"I still want to help Chinese football. I still want to build pitches, support academies, and give kids back home a better road. But Dad... I can't hand my career to those people. Not again."
The final two words slipped out before he could stop them.
Ling Changzheng fell silent.
He did not know everything.
Ling had never told them of his previous life, and he never would, but fathers often understood more than sons thought they did.
After a long time, Ling Changzheng said, "A country is not the same thing as a football association."
Yan Lanxia made a small sound in the background.
Ling's throat tightened.
"You were born Chinese," his father continued, each word slow and firm. "No passport can erase that. Your mother and I are Chinese. Your first language was Chinese. The fans who supported you from the beginning were Chinese. Those things are real!"
"I know."
"But your football life was built in England," Ling Changzheng said. "We sent you there because we wanted you to have a road. We didn't send you there so someone else could drag you back into a pit and call it loyalty."
Ling shut his eyes.
For a moment, he was not Manchester United's No. 7, not a Champions League winner, and not the player every sponsor in China wanted.
He was just a son listening to his father.
Yan Lanxia took the phone back.
Her voice was softer now, though the worry had not left it.
"If this is really your choice, then we won't stop you. But you must remember one thing."
"What?"
"You can't speak as if the people who loved you don't matter."
"I won't," Ling said immediately.
"You can choose England," she continued, "but don't let others turn your mouth against China. Don't say cruel things just because people are cruel to you first. Do you understand?"
Ling's eyes stung.
"I understand."
Only then did Yan Lanxia seem to relax slightly.
"Then think carefully. Your father and I will always stand behind you."
The call ended a few minutes later.
Ling sat in the dark for a long time, thinking of Carrington, Old Trafford and the fans who had sung his name in rain and snow.
Then he thought of Bin City, his parents, the food stalls, the children wearing his shirt, and the old dream of Chinese football rising one day.
He had two homes, and now football was asking him to choose which shirt to wear.
...
The next morning, Jorge Mendes arrived at Carrington with a thick folder under his arm.
He had already heard the news.
"England?" Mendes asked, sitting down opposite Ling.
Ling nodded.
Mendes was silent for a moment.
"Commercially, China is the larger story. First Chinese superstar, first Chinese Ballon d'Or candidate, first Chinese-born player to conquer Europe. Brands love that."
Ling looked at him calmly.
"But?"
Mendes smiled faintly.
"But your career cannot be built as a marketing slogan."
He opened the folder and tapped the first page.
"If you choose England, some doors in China may close, some sponsors may panic, some fans will curse you. The media will turn it into a war because war sells better than nuance."
"I know."
"No," Mendes said. "You know it as an idea. You haven't felt it yet."
Ling said nothing.
Mendes leaned back.
"I'm not here to tell you which country to choose. I'm here to make sure that when you choose, you survive the consequences."
That was why Ling had chosen him. Mendes was not gentle, but he understood storms.
...
By noon, rumours had already begun to leak.
No one knew who had spoken first.
Perhaps someone inside the FA, perhaps someone close to a sponsor, or perhaps someone at Carrington had seen Southgate leaving.
Once the first report appeared, the internet caught fire.
📰 The Athletic: England FA Holds Private Talks With Jeremy Ling Over International Future
📰 BBC Sport: Southgate Refuses to Comment on Ling Eligibility Rumours
📰 Sky Sports: Chinese-Born Manchester United Star Faces Major International Decision
📰 Daily Mail: England Ready to Steal China's Greatest Football Hope?
On English social media, excitement spread almost immediately.
📱 @ThreeLionsWatch ✔
Jeremy Ling came to England at 13, came through Carrington, won everything with Manchester United, and has never played a senior competitive match for China. If he chooses England, that is not stealing. That is football reality!
| ↳ 📱 @StretfordEndTom
| Reply: He grew up in our football. He is United's No. 7, get the damn paperwork done!
📱 @EnglandTalks ✔
Kane, Sterling, Rashford, Sancho, Ling. Southgate, please. Don't overthink this!
...
In China, the reaction was messier and far more emotional.
Some fans were furious, some refused to believe the reports, and some could only describe it as a kind of heartbreak they had seen coming but never wanted to face.
📱 @LateNightCNFan
I watched his youth-team matches. I watched his Premier League debut. I watched him win the Champions League. I really thought he would wear our shirt one day. Don't tell me this is happening....
📱 @CNFootballRealist
If Ling chooses England, don't only ask why he left. Ask why the best Chinese-born player in history didn't trust the people running our football.
📱 @RedFlagNo7
He can play for England if he wants. But don't ask us not to hurt! We waited too long for someone like him.
📱 @YouthCoachLiu
He built academies, he spoke up for our kids. Whatever happens, don't say he forgot China. That's unfair.
For now, Ling said nothing publicly.
Manchester United released no statement, and the English FA declined to comment.
The Chinese Football Association could not stay silent for long.
By the afternoon, it issued a carefully worded notice welcoming Jeremy Ling's contribution to the national team at any time, a polite response that avoided direct confrontation while making it clear they still hoped to bring him into their own setup.
But Ling was no longer the boy who could be summoned with a phone call.
-----
Don't know if this reaction is good or nah tell me about it..