CHAPTER 349: THE OTHERWORLDLY TALENT DISCOVERED

Manchester City arrived and departed in a rush. They landed in Amsterdam on Monday and played their UEFA Champions League match against Ajax at the ArenA on Wednesday afternoon. After the game, they flew back to London, and the team disbanded at 8 PM.

The match ended in a resounding victory for City, who convincingly defeated Ajax 2–0 on their home turf.

The next morning, Richard rose early from his bed in the sleek, modern room of the Sea Containers Hotel.

As the soft morning light filtered in through the curtains, he stretched and sat up slowly, taking a quiet moment before starting the day. There it was—the River Irwell, calm and dignified beneath the overcast morning sky, its surface reflecting the soft, silvery hues of the clouds above.

After a quick shower, he headed downstairs, made himself a simple breakfast, and left a note on the counter before driving toward Harry’s new office—the Manchester branch of Maddox Entertainment.

The office was located in a modern business district in West Manchester.

It’s not far from Old Trafford. Harry had leased an entire floor of a sleek office building. While most of the interior resembled a standard corporate setup, both the meeting room and his private office stood out for their size and atmosphere. His office had a formal, no-nonsense design, but the meeting room was laid-back and stylish—equipped with a bar, a plush sofa, a sound system, and a large television. It felt more like a lounge than a boardroom.

When Richard arrived, a cheerful secretary greeted him and led him to the meeting room. He waved off the formalities, telling her to treat him casually since he wasn’t a guest, and asked if she could bring him the day’s newspapers.

A few minutes later, she returned with a generous stack and placed them on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

Richard leaned back and began flipping through them one by one. The variety was almost excessive, but he was used to it. Most headlines barely caught his attention before he tossed the papers aside and reached for the next.

Then—he paused.

"Hmm?"

He frowned as he reached page 9, where the football section was usually tucked away. Something had caught his eye.

Mainstream outlets naturally focused on the previous day’s English Premier League match, where Manchester United had suffered a humiliating defeat at home, as Arsenal cut into their lead in the title race with a 3–2 victory at Highbury.

The headlines were certainly dramatic.

Phrases like "Old Trafford Devastated,""The Fall of the Red Devils,"

and "Rampant Lions Conquer the Theatre of Dreams" filled the front pages—clearly criticizing Manchester United while praising Manchester City.

Richard read with a sense of disinterest, but as expected, a few tabloids ran a story that irritated him:

"United Captivated by Rampant Blues’ Young Brazilian Striker — ’Come Join Us!’"

Ronaldo!

Richard cursed under his breath as he scanned the headline. The media never wasted a moment. One brilliant performance, one goal, and suddenly the tabloids were already dragging the young Brazilian into a transfer frenzy.

However, the next page made Richard open his eyes wide.

The accompanying photo showed Beckham seated at a restaurant table, with none other than Victoria—yes, that Victoria Adams of the Spice Girls—by his side.

The photo was taken around the time Manchester United played away at Anfield. Beckham had met up with her in Liverpool the day after the match. What exactly happened between them wasn’t really the point—or at least, it shouldn’t have been.

Liverpool, being a bustling port city, was always teeming with stories, and when paparazzi caught wind of something—even something ordinary—it didn’t stay quiet for long. Tips and snapshots were passed from one tabloid to the next like currency. In a world where every glance could become a headline, the truth mattered far less than the angle.

Originally, it was just a harmless meeting. But all it took was one clever writer with a flair for drama to turn a casual dinner into a tabloid sensation. Add a few suggestive words, stir public curiosity, and suddenly, it became front-page material.

"Perhaps after his fallout with Sir Alex Ferguson, Beckham had already begun to consider life beyond Manchester United. The question now was—where would he go? Would he take revenge by switching allegiances to their crosstown rivals? Would he really dare wear the blue of Manchester City?"

Even if it was basically full of nonsense, the idea alone was enough to send shockwaves through English football.

Richard’s mouth twitched as he tossed the newspaper into the trash can.

"What kind of gossip is this?!" he muttered.

Ferguson had long begun to worry that David Beckham was becoming more focused on his celebrity status than football. His relationship with Victoria Adams—known worldwide as "Posh Spice"—attracted relentless media attention.

And—where is Victoria’s agency now?

Currently, she’s signed under Maddox Entertainment.

And who exactly is behind Maddox Entertainment?

None other than Richard , the quiet owner of Manchester City.

Which brings us to the real question: Was David Beckham the one approaching Victoria’s agency so he could move closer to City? Or—was it Manchester City, through Maddox Entertainment, that deliberately brought Victoria Adams into their orbit... to eventually draw in Beckham?

"You must be kidding me," Richard was speechless at their creative writing—turning this into some kind of romance.

Sigh — he sighed just as his phone buzzed.

"Talk about the devil..." Richard muttered, grabbing it off the table.

"Richard, it’s me."

Harry—his brother and the CEO of Maddox Entertainment—naturally already knew what this was about. It was impossible not to, especially after Manchester City—Richard’s beloved club—had been dragged into the gossip surrounding Victoria, a talent under him.

But before he could even ask how to proceed, Richard cut in with a calm but firm voice:

"You handle it. However you see fit."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, as if Harry was trying to gauge whether Richard was angry, annoyed, or completely indifferent.

But Richard’s tone had said enough. He wasn’t going to waste his time managing tabloid fantasies. Not when he had stadiums to build, matches to win, and legacies to shape.

Let the entertainment division do what it was built for—contain the noise.

After catching up with Harry on the phone, Richard ended the call—just as Marina entered the office in a hurry.

"I’m packing my bags at home," she said straightaway. "I’m flying to France this afternoon. Karen and I have made some contacts who want to build stable partnerships in South America. We’re planning a larger expansion there, and I’ve already reached out to an agency. Do you have any advice?"

Richard paused, thinking for a moment before responding. When it came to business, he never wasted words.

"The transfer system in South America is vastly different from Europe’s," he said. "Since you’re going to collaborate, I suggest keeping a low profile. Agencies over there handle player ownership in ways that make transfers far more complicated. If you’re planning to bring players to Europe, you’ll want to avoid unnecessary legal disputes."

Marina nodded, already aware of how tangled things could get in South America.

In Europe, player ownership resides solely with clubs. But in South America, ownership can lie with agents, agencies, or even third-party investors. That means European teams often have to negotiate not just with clubs, but also with middlemen holding economic rights to the players.

And the Bosman ruling? It doesn’t apply outside of Europe!

At least for now. That’s what makes South America such a complex—but potentially lucrative—market. In places like Brazil or Argentina, buying out a promising player’s rights for a few thousand pounds is common. And if that player breaks through in Europe, the resale value can skyrocket—yielding profits ten, even a hundred times the original investment.

Risky? Absolutely. But for those who understand the system, the rewards can be extraordinary.

Marina nodded, then suddenly remembered something. "By the way, remember that name you asked me to look into? I’ve finally tracked him down. I have to say, I’m curious—five years ago, this kid was just four. What made you think he was special?"

Richard responded casually, "You have your networks, I have mine." He paused, glanced at her, and added, "And remind me again—who was it?"

He assumed it was just another name on the list—until Marina said the words that stopped him cold.

"The boy from Newell’s Old Boys. The Argentine kid—"

Richard’s expression changed instantly. He sat up straighter, alert.

Marina noticed but didn’t comment. She simply handed him the file.

His fingers trembled slightly as he took it. Sitting down, he opened the document. In the top-left corner of the first page was a photo.

A nine-year-old boy. Lionel Andrés Messi.

The profile gave a short overview of his background—family, playing history, current team.

As Richard read, he asked, without looking up, "How did you find him?"

"I’ve got hundreds of external scouts across South America—over thirty just in Argentina," Marina explained. "Their job is to collect data from every youth team, no matter how small. The rest of the time, they scout local tournaments, school games—anywhere with a football. One of them found this boy in a small community team in Rosario. Everything matched—name, age, skill set. Based on your reaction, I assume he’s the one."

Richard nodded slowly, his eyes still on the page. "It’s him."

Thank God the boy wasn’t hidden in some remote village. Rosario, being Argentina’s second-largest city, at least gave them a chance. Thinking about it now, even Barcelona’s scouts might have missed him if he’d grown up further off the grid.

As Richard flipped to the next page, his brow furrowed.

"They’re not planning to come to Europe?"

Marina nodded.

"My contacts say his family expects him to keep playing locally in Rosario. There’s no plan to move—yet. And also..."

Richard looked up. "Hmm?"

"I heard Barcelona’s scouts are interested in him too. Word is, they’ve already sent a few people to keep an eye on him."

Richard didn’t say anything. He just stared at the page in front of him, silent.

For now, it’s a race.