The news from Marco was a tactical nuke that vaporized the entire landscape of the transfer market.
Flavio Briatore, in a move of such breathtaking, galaxy-brain audacity, had not just rejected PSG’s money; he had demanded their crown jewel in return. He wanted to trade Lautaro Martínez for Lamine Yamal.
Leon just stood in the middle of the triumphant, noisy Brighton dressing room, the phone pressed to his ear, his mind a complete, silent void. The sheer, beautiful, unadulterated chaos of it was almost too much to process.
"Marco," he said slowly, his voice a quiet murmur amidst the celebration. "Are you telling that Briatore is trying to hijack our transfer, to steal the player we wanted, by trading away my old captain?"
"HIJACK?! LEO, HE IS NOT HIJACKING THE PLANE, HE IS TRYING TO TRADE IT FOR A SPACESHIP!" Marco roared, his voice a frantic, hysterical ss. "This is not a transfer! This is a declaration of war! He is a madman! A beautiful, evil, Gucci-wearing madman who is playing four-dinsional chess with the entire footballing world!"
The story of Briatore’s "Great Heist," as the dia had instantly dubbed it, was the only thing anyone in the football world could talk about for the next week. The Liverpool dressing room was a hotbed of speculation, debate, and, of course, Julián Álvarez’s unique brand of philosophical analysis.
"Okay, so," he began during a team breakfast, holding up a croissant. "If Inter is the croissant, and PSG is the coffee, and Liverpool is the sugar... and Yamal is the little almond flake that everyone wants... and Lautaro is a different, very angry croissant... who is actually having breakfast? The taphor is getting very confusing."
The players just shook their heads, a mixture of amusent and genuine concern for their teammate’s beautiful, strange brain. The consensus was simple: the whole situation was insane, and they were very, very glad they weren’t in the middle of it anymore.
Arne Slot, in a team eting, had put it perfectly. "Gentlen," he had said, a calm, amused smile on his face. "There is a very loud, very expensive, and very dramatic party happening. We are not invited. And that is a very good thing. Our focus is here. Our focus is on the Premier League."
And so, life moved on. The transfer saga beca a distant, amusing soap opera, a show they were watching from the sidelines. They trained, they worked, they prepared for their next match, a ho ga against Nottingham Forest. They were a team, a family, and the circus was in another town.
The match against Forest was a statent of professional, ruthless efficiency. After the emotional rollercoaster of the last few weeks, this was a calm, controlled, and utterly dominant performance.
Mo Salah, in a mood of pure, unplayable genius, scored a brilliant solo goal in the 18th minute, a classic, cutting-in-from-the-right-wing masterpiece.
In the 32nd minute, a thunderous header from Virgil van Dijk from a corner made it 2-0, a goal of pure, authoritative power.
And in the 41st minute, Leon added his own touch of magic. He received the ball 30 yards out, glided past a defender with his ’Silken Dribble’, looked up, and with the confidence of a man at the absolute peak of his powers, he unleashed a perfect, curling, unstoppable finesse shot into the top corner of the net.
3-0 at halfti. The ga was over. They won with a calm, beautiful, and slightly terrifying swagger.
That night, Leon was at ho, a feeling of deep, contented peace washing over him. The drama was over. The chaos had subsided. He was a Liverpool player. He was scoring goals. He was winning matches. And he was happy.
He was on the phone with Sofia, recounting the details of the match, and Julián’s latest theory that a football pitch is just a "very large, very aggressive salad."
"...and then he scored," Leon was saying, laughing. "A proper rocket. You should have seen it."
"I did," Sofia’s voice ca through, a warm, happy lody. "I was watching. With my dad. He was... impressed. He even said, and I quote, ’The boy has a good right foot’. From him, that’s basically a declaration of love."
Leon grinned. "Well, don’t tell him, but he taught that."
He was about to say sothing else when a notification flashed up on the news channel they had on in the background. It was the familiar, urgent, yellow banner of a breaking news story.
[BREAKING NEWS: TRANSFER SAGA OVER. THREE-CLUB AGREENT REACHED.]
Leon’s heart stopped. He and Sofia both went silent, their eyes glued to the screen.
"We are getting reports from our sources in Paris, Milan, and Liverpool," the news anchor said, his voice filled with a sense of imnse, historic gravity. "That the most complex transfer negotiation in football history has reached a stunning conclusion."
The screen split into three images: the crest of Paris Saint-Germain, the crest of Inter Milan, and the crest of Liverpool.
"The deal is done," the anchor continued. "Lautaro Martínez, the captain of Inter Milan, will be moving to Paris Saint-Germain. And Lamine Yamal..."
He paused for dramatic effect, and in that single, agonizing second, Leon’s entire world seed to hang in the balance.
"...will be moving to Inter Milan."
A wave of pure, unadulterated shock washed over Leon. Briatore had done it. The madman had actually pulled it off. He had traded his captain for the most exciting young player on the planet.
But then... what about Liverpool? Where did they fit in?
"And in the final, and perhaps most stunning, part of this multi-club deal," the anchor said, his voice a mixture of awe and disbelief, "a third player is on the move. As a ’facilitation fee’ for their role in the negotiations, and in a move that will send shockwaves through the Premier League, Liverpool have agreed to a deal with Inter Milan..."
Leon’s blood ran cold. No. It can’t be.
"...and will be signing their World Cup-winning Argentine midfielder... Julián Álvarez."
Reviews
All reviews (0)