Chapter 311: The Blueprint II
The next morning, I called a eting with the club’s head of scouting, a man nad Tim Allen. He was a seasoned, seen-it-all-before scout in his late fifties, with a weary face and skeptical eyes.
He had been at the club for fifteen years, had served under a dozen different managers, and had seen more than his fair share of false dawns. He was, in other words, a man who was difficult to impress.
I didn’t try. I just handed him a printed, multi-page dossier. It was a reformatted, anonymized version of the System’s report. It didn’t na a single player. But it detailed, in excruciating detail, the exact profiles I wanted.
"I need a deep-lying playmaker," I said, my voice calm and firm.
"Under the age of 22, with an elite passing range, high tactical intelligence, and the potential to be a world-class player. I need an athletic, attacking right-back with high stamina and a proven track record of assists. I need a creative attacking midfielder who can play across the front line and who has a high xG and xA contribution. And I need a veteran leader, a player who has won trophies, who can be a ntor to the young players."
Tim Allen and his team of scouts stared at the dossier, then at , their faces a mixture of confusion and disbelief. I could see the question in their eyes: Who the hell does this kid think he is?
The interim manager, the U18 coach, handing them a docunt that was more detailed, more analytical, more ambitious than anything they had ever received from a seasoned, world-class manager.
"This is... comprehensive," Tim said, his voice carefully neutral.
"It’s the blueprint," I said. "It’s how we get better. It’s how we stop being a team that fights relegation and start being a team that challenges for Europe. I need a list of targets for each profile. You have two weeks."
There was a murmur of dissent from one of the younger scouts. "With all due respect, gaffer, we don’t even know if you’ll be here after two weeks. Do you even have the authority to...?"
Tim Allen cut him off with a sharp look. "We have our instructions," he said, his voice firm. "A job is a job. We’ll get it done." He looked at , a flicker of sothing new in his eyes. Respect? Intrigue? Whatever it was, it was a start. "Two weeks," he said. And with that, the eting was over.
I knew I couldn’t just wait for them. Two weeks was a lifeti in the transfer market. That night, back in the solitude of my office, I went hunting.
"System," I said, my voice a low whisper. "Show
the pivot. Show
the player who can change everything."
The System responded instantly, the interface glowing to life. I set the paraters: under 22, deep-lying playmaker, high potential, available for a reasonable fee.
The System processed the data, the nas of a dozen talented young midfielders flashing across my vision. And then, one na glowed brighter than the rest. A na I knew, but a na I had not expected.
[Target Acquired: Rúben Neves]
[Age: 20]
[Club: FC Porto]
[Position: Deep-Lying Playmaker]
[Key Attributes: Passing Range (19/20), Vision (18/20), Leadership (18/20), Tactical Intelligence (17/20)]
[Status: Frustrated. Limited first-team opportunities. Seeking a new challenge. Agent is Jorge ndes.]
[Estimated Current Transfer Value: 10-12 million.]
My breath caught in my throat. Rúben Neves. The boy wonder of Porto, the youngest captain in Champions League history. A player of such imnse talent that he had been tipped to be the next great Portuguese midfielder. And he was available. For ten million euros. It was a joke. A beautiful, brilliant, insane joke.
I knew the stories. I knew he had fallen out of favor at Porto, that he was seen as a player who had not quite fulfilled his early promise.
But the System saw the truth. It saw the underlying numbers, the quality of his passing, the intelligence of his movent. It saw a world-class player who was just waiting for the right manager, the right system, the right club to unlock his full potential.
I looked at his profile, at the glowing numbers, at the face of a 20-year-old kid who looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. And I knew. He was the one. He was the pivot. He was the first piece of the puzzle.
I added his na to my secret, personal shortlist, my heart pounding in my chest. The hunt had begun. And I had found my first target. The war for the future was on. And I was going to win it.
The following morning, before the team assembled for training, I found Aaron Wan-Bissaka doing extra work on the training pitch.
He was alone, running through a set of crossing drills, his face a mask of concentration. He would receive the ball on the right, drive forward, check his shoulder, and deliver a cross into the box. Then he would jog back and do it again. And again. And again. He had been doing it for, by the look of him, a very long ti.
I stood at the edge of the pitch and watched him for a few minutes without saying anything. He was extraordinary. The pace, the directness, the defensive instincts... they were all there, natural, God-given.
But the crosses were inconsistent. Sotis they were perfect, whipped in hard and low to the near post. Other tis they were overhit, floating harmlessly over the box. It was the one area of his ga that was still raw, still developing.
He noticed
and stopped, a flicker of self-consciousness crossing his face. "Gaffer," he said, nodding.
"Don’t stop," I said, walking onto the pitch. "Show ."
He set up again, received the ball, drove forward, and delivered a cross. It was good, but not great. I could see the hesitation in his final stride, the slight loss of balance that cost him the precision.
"Your last step," I said. "You’re planting your standing foot too far from the ball. You’re reaching for it. You need to get your body over it." I demonstrated, miming the movent without a ball. "When you get that right, the cross will be automatic."
He nodded slowly, processing the information. He set up again, adjusted his approach, and delivered the cross. It was better. Sharper. More precise.
"Better," I said. "Keep working on it. You’re going to be a very good player, Aaron. But you’re going to need soone to learn from. Soone who has done it at the highest level for a long ti." I paused, choosing my words carefully. "I’m working on it."
He looked at , a question in his eyes that he was too respectful to ask. I just smiled, gave him a nod, and walked back inside. The seed was planted. Now I just had to make it grow.
Back in my office, I pulled up the Neves profile one more ti. Ten million euros. The fee was almost laughably small for a player of his quality, but I knew the clock was ticking. Jorge ndes was his agent.
That ant other clubs were already circling. Wolves, I suspected, would be the main competition... they had the ndes connection, the ambition, and the money. But they were in the Championship. We were in the Premier League. That had to count for sothing.
I picked up my phone and stared at it for a long mont. I didn’t have the authority to make a formal approach. The chairman had been clear about that. But I could make an informal one. I could make a phone call. I could plant a seed. I thought of what Emma had said: Trust that your talent will be enough. Because it will be. It always is.
I put the phone down. Not yet. I would wait until the season was over, until the contract was sorted, until I had the authority to act.
Two more gas. Two more wins. And then the war for the future could begin in earnest. I looked at the Neves profile one last ti, at the glowing numbers, at the face of the 20-year-old who didn’t yet know that his career was about to change.
"Soon," I whispered to the empty room. "Very soon."
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