On the flight back from Madrid to Mallorca, José was in high spirits.
This trip had cost him $4.5 million in transfer fees, but in return, he offloaded two players who were no longer in his plans and brought in striker Samuel Eto'o, left-back Joan Capdevila, and Paraguayan defender Carlos Gamarra. Strengthening both attack and defense, he still had $2 million left in his transfer budget.
Back in Mallorca, José was full of confidence. To his left was forr Real Madrid technical director Pirri and Caroonian forward Eto'o, while to his right stood future Spain national team left-back Capdevila and Paraguay's vice-captain Gamarra. Surrounded by his new signings, he cut an imposing figure.
After instructing the club staff to arrange accommodations for the three new arrivals, José and Pirri headed straight to his office. His desk was already piled high with scouting reports—potential transfer targets for Mallorca.
"This office is yours now," José told Pirri with a smile. "You have a full scouting departnt and the entire transfer division under your managent. You're also free to observe and evaluate players from the first team, reserves, and youth squad. Once you've made your assessnts, just report them to . I promise, only I will see them—no one else."
Pirri nodded. This was exactly the working environnt José had promised him, and he was satisfied.
"Take your ti settling in. You can start tomorrow if you want," José added. He didn't want to overwork the veteran too soon—after all, Pirri was almost sixty.
Pirri laughed. "Are you underestimating , kid? Just because I'm fifty-six doesn't an I'm slowing down. Unlike many retired players, I've never stopped training. Look at —do I look overweight?"
José glanced at him. While there was so natural aging, Pirri was in remarkably good shape for his age.
"José, I heard you ended up in the hospital last season from overwork," Pirri teased. "You'd better not let an old man like outlast you."
José shrugged. "What can I say? It was my first ti as a head coach, so I did everything myself. Now that you're here, I can finally catch a break."
"Good. Now go do your thing. I'll go through these reports and get back to you in three days," Pirri said, already engrossed in the docunts. Given his experience and age, he had earned the right to be a little informal.
José didn't mind. Seeing Pirri so focused, he quietly left the office—after all, his place was in the manager's office, not the technical director's.
He wasn't concerned about any confidential information left behind. He had only been acting as technical director for two weeks, and he trusted Pirri's professionalism. If Pirri said he wouldn't leak any information, then José believed him.
As José made his way back to his office, he ran into Claudia, the club secretary.
Claudia was a woman in her mid-thirties, still very attractive. She had worked with Alemany Sr. for years, rising from a hotel staff mber to a hotel manager, and eventually becoming his personal secretary. A loyal supporter of the Alemany family, José was also aware of her... special relationship with his father. But he didn't mind. His mother had passed away when he was very young, and he had grown up with his father. It wasn't his place to judge, nor did he care—after all, his father was only in his early fifties and still full of energy. A little companionship was natural.
He also wasn't worried about any surprise half-siblings. Unlike his father, José was already financially independent, and he didn't care about the family's wealth.
"Miss Claudia, is there sothing you need?" he asked politely.
Claudia had always been fond of José. Having watched him grow up, she appreciated that he never showed any resentnt toward her and Alemany Sr.'s relationship. In European culture, children were generally expected to stay out of their parents' personal affairs, but José's attitude made her especially grateful.
Smiling warmly, she said, "José, your father wants to see you in his office."
"Got it, thanks," José nodded and followed her toward the president's office.
Mallorca's administrative offices were located at the Doral Training Base in a small three-story building. The first floor housed the club staff, the second floor contained the offices of the technical director and head coach, and the third floor was reserved for the president's office and the boardroom. However, with José's plans to eventually buy out all shares, the boardroom would soon be obsolete—he had been considering converting it into a tactical analysis room with advanced equipnt.
"What's this about?" he asked Claudia casually. Unlike in formal settings, he referred to his father as "dad" only when speaking privately.
"Sothing about a contract, but I'm not sure. You should ask him yourself," Claudia replied.
A contract? José frowned. What contract? Every new player had already signed theirs, and even Pirri's agreent was finalized.
The mystery was solved when he entered his father's office.
"Co in, son. Have a seat," Alemany Sr. greeted him warmly, motioning toward the chair in front of his desk. José sat down, looking at his father in confusion.
"Take a look at this contract. If everything looks good, sign it," his father said, pushing a docunt toward him.
José picked it up, puzzled. A few seconds later, he chuckled—this was his own head coach contract.
Slapping his forehead, he laughed. "I was so busy I forgot I never signed my official contract."
In truth, it wasn't that he forgot—it just never occurred to him. Last season, he was an interim coach and never renegotiated his deal. After his dical leave, his contract reverted to his original youth team coaching terms. When he acquired majority ownership of Mallorca, everyone simply assud he was officially the manager.
As a result, José had already coached two league matches without a contract, and no one even noticed.
Of course, this was just a formality, but José was happy to sign it. While he technically didn't need a salary, Mallorca was still a multi-shareholder club. That ant every paycheck he received wasn't just moving money from one pocket to another—it was also dipping into the other investors' funds, sothing he found amusing.
Alemany Sr. understood this as well, which was why the contract terms were incredibly generous—an $800,000 annual salary with performance bonuses and a five-year duration.
José grinned as he read it. "Dad, you're very generous... $800,000 a year? That's almost top-tier wages for our squad."
"A coach of your caliber deserves it. If you showed this to any Mallorca fan, they'd say you're worth every penny," Alemany Sr. said seriously.
José laughed again before picking up a pen. "Alright, I'll sign it."
He looked at the signature line, then signed his full na: José Alemany.
As soon as he finished, his expression turned slightly odd.
His father noticed. "Sothing wrong, José?"
José hesitated for a mont before shaking his head. "No, dad. Just rembered sothing about the team... nothing important."
Alemany Sr. was slightly concerned, worried it might be a health issue. But after a few questions, he was reassured that José was fine.
"Don't overwork yourself, son. Managing a club is endless work—just focus on coaching. I'll handle the rest."
José nodded and left after saying goodbye. This eting was just about the contract—nothing else.
As he stepped out of the office and glanced around to make sure no one was watching, he clenched his right fist slightly, a smirk forming on his lips.
"Interesting... Why now? Very interesting..."
Taking a deep breath, he strode forward.
This wasn't the ti to dwell on it. He'd think it over when he got ho.
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