CHAPTER 191: LEAK

Monday morning, at the ProfiCamp.

At 9 a.m., the conference room on the second floor of the administrative building was already alive with the low hum of discussion. Outside, Frankfurt was still waking up, a pale sunlight filtering through the glass walls, but inside the room the atmosphere was sharp, focused.

At the long rectangular table sat Markus Hardung, impeccably organized as always, a neat stack of documents arranged in front of him. Beside him, two of his assistants typed quietly on laptops, ready to pull up figures when needed. Across from them sat Marco, leaning back in his chair with the exact posture of a man determined not to be pushed around.

The tension in the room wasn’t hostile — just the natural electricity of high-stakes negotiation.

Hardung opened the meeting with the standard formalities, but Marco wasted no time.

"Look," he began, hands spread, voice steady but firm. "We can’t pretend we don’t see what he’s doing. 34 goal contributions in 15 matches for club and country is outrageous. Out-ra-geous. There are players who’ve gotten Ballon d’Or mentions with worse seasons than that — and Lukas is 16. 16!"

The assistants exchanged brief glances — the kind that silently admitted Marco had a point.

Marco leaned forward.

"And this isn’t a purple patch. This isn’t luck. This is his baseline. His starting point. Every time he steps on the pitch, he changes the game. One match without a goal contribution so far — one — and even then he was still the most dangerous player on the pitch."

Hardung listened without interrupting, though his fingers drummed lightly on his closed folder.

"I mean, look at the take-ons," Marco continued, now in full flow. "Do you know how absurd it is for a 16-year-old to be completing eighty percent of his attempted dribbles? He’s creating chances at a rate that doesn’t make sense. And against Bayern and Leverkusen? 4 goals and 2 assists in those two games alone. At sixteen!"

Hardung nodded slowly, acknowledging the facts. "Marco, believe me, we are not underestimating him."

"Good," Marco shot back. "Because I won’t let him be lowballed."

"We have no intention of doing that," Hardung responded. His tone was calm, conciliatory but not weak. "We will review the structure again — salary, bonuses, progression scaling. We want Lukas here for the long term. He knows that. You know that."

Marco folded his arms. "And the release clause?"

The assistants stiffened; they had expected this part.

Hardung exhaled. "€140 million is the number. It has to be."

Marco shook his head. "Bring it down. €100 million is more realistic if you want negotiation flexibility."

"With all due respect," Hardung replied, "at €100 million, half of Europe will come knocking next January. We need a clause that reflects his trajectory and protects us from losing him too soon. You know this."

Marco huffed, but grudgingly accepted the logic.

"So what are you offering in return?"

"A higher base salary," Hardung said. "Significant increases to performance bonuses, a loyalty bonus, and...the agent commission will also be improved."

Marco’s eyebrow lifted at that. "Good. I’ll expect the updated numbers soon."

"You’ll have them by the end of the week," Hardung promised. "And I’m confident you’ll be... impressed."

They shook hands — firm, professional.

But Hardung didn’t let Marco leave just yet.

"There is one more thing," he said, reaching into his folder.

Marco paused.

Hardung slid a new document forward.

A slim folder. White cover. Blue tab.

On the front was a neatly printed header:

Transfer Offer — Manchester City FC

Marco’s eyebrows lifted.

He opened the folder and read the figure.

€77,000,000.

Hardung cleared his throat. "We are contractually obligated to inform you of any bid over €75 million. City submitted this two days ago."

Marco’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you planning to negotiate?"

"No," Hardung said flatly. "We don’t want to sell him. And Lukas has already expressed he does not want a summer move. Once he signs the new contract, this becomes irrelevant."

Marco tapped the edge of the folder. "This is a new development. I’ll need to discuss it with him."

"Of course," Hardung said, though there was a faint flicker of unease on his face. "But Marco... please don’t misunderstand. We aren’t looking for ’good faith’ reasons to offload him. We want him here."

"I never said you didn’t," Marco replied.

"Still," Hardung added, "I have to remind you, as the clause requires — the club cannot block you from meeting City’s representatives."

He said it reluctantly, like a man giving a child scissors.

Marco’s lips curved slightly. "Good. Because if they’ve made an offer, they’ll want a meeting."

Hardung stiffened. "I hope you’re not aiming to force a move. The Premier League is... unforgiving. Especially at his age. Here, he is protected. He is central. He develops without drowning."

"I hear you," Marco replied. "But my job is to evaluate everything. His development. His market value. His long-term career path."

"And ours," Hardung said, "is to keep him here — where he belongs."

Marco closed the folder carefully.

"Well, Markus, I suppose we’ll both be doing our jobs then."

He stood, shook hands once more, and left the room with the white folder tucked neatly under his arm.

The door clicked shut behind him.

One of the assistants leaned toward Hardung.

"Do you think he’ll be tempted? Lukas, I mean. City is... City."

Hardung exhaled heavily, rubbing his forehead.

"Tempted? Maybe," he admitted. "But it wouldn’t be wise. Not now. Not at sixteen. The Premier League will break him physically before he finishes a full season."

"Then you trust Marco to see that?"

A small, tired smile crossed Hardung’s face.

"Marco is many things," he said. "But he is not stupid. He knows what’s best for Lukas’s career."

The assistant nodded.

"And City will try again?"

Hardung looked out the window toward the training pitches where the squad was beginning their warm-up.

"Of course they will," he murmured. "Everyone will."

He closed the folder, tapping it once with his fingers before placing it neatly on top of the stack.

"But we have to make sure," he said quietly, "that when the time comes... Lukas Brandt leaves Frankfurt on our terms — not theirs."

* * *

Meanwhile, almost at the same time, in Manchester, England.

The rain had just started to tap against the wide glass windows of the Etihad Campus, leaving streaks of water that blurred the blue sky mural of the adjoining academy building. Inside Txiki Begiristain’s office, the lighting was dimmer than usual — he always preferred it that way when he needed to think. A thick binder of player reports lay open on his desk, but his eyes weren’t on it.

He reached for the landline, pressed a button, and spoke calmly.

"Can you come in for a moment?"

Not thirty seconds later, his assistant pushed the glass door open. A young, sharp-suited analyst — the kind City bred effortlessly — stepped in with a tablet in hand.

"You called for me, sir?"

Txiki leaned back, pen between his fingers.

"Yes. Any response yet from Eintracht Frankfurt?"

The assistant shook his head. "Still nothing. No email. No return call. But they’ve definitely seen the bid. Our analytically flagged that their legal department accessed the encrypted portal twice today."

"So they’re sitting on it." Txiki muttered.

"Seems so," the assistant replied. "Both clubs appear to be trying to keep this quiet. None of the German press have it. Not Sky Germany. Not Bild. Not Kicker. Even in England, it hasn’t gone anywhere. We controlled the leaks on our end."

Txiki exhaled slowly and set his pen down.

He had seen this game before — many times.

A German club stalling a foreign offer.

Buying time.

Preparing a renewal with a higher clause.

Locking in a wonderkid before anyone else could touch him.

"Frankfurt are smarter than they pretend to be," Txiki murmured. "They’ll try to move fast behind closed doors. New contract. Maybe even scrap the release clause entirely, or at least take it to 3 figures. Something no one will touch for another year or two."

The assistant nodded.

"That’s likely. And if they succeed, we lose the timing advantage."

Txiki went silent.

The rain continued its steady rhythm against the glass.

Then he straightened up in his chair.

"Leak it," he said.

The assistant blinked. "Sir?"

"Leak the bid," Txiki repeated, decisive now. "To Ornstein and Romano. Both of them. No details about negotiations — just the essentials. Manchester City submitted a €77 million offer plus €8 million achievable add-ons for Lukas Brandt."

The assistant’s eyebrows lifted. "That’ll blow it wide open."

"That’s the point," Txiki replied. "Once the story is public, Frankfurt can’t quietly finalize a renewal without questions. The pressure will shift. The market will talk. The fans will talk. And the boy himself will hear the noise."

"And pressure makes decisions faster," the assistant said, already unlocking his phone.

"Exactly," Txiki murmured. "If they want to lock him down, they’ll have to move fast — maybe too fast. Negotiations under public spotlight can be... messy. Someone always slips."

The assistant walked briskly toward the door, already scrolling through his contacts. "Right on it, sir."

The door clicked shut.

Leaving Txiki alone with the soft hum of the building and the rain outside.