CHAPTER 437: FORMULA 1 COCKTAIL PARTY

"What’s wrong?" Richard tried to ask Marina, but he sounded odd, his words slurring slightly as he looked at her.

"No... it’s just that..." Marina hesitated, then blinked at him. "Are you drunk?"

"...What?"

"I mean... are you forgetting who our opponent was in the quarter-finals of the Champions League yesterday? Richard, I mean it—are you drunk? Rivaldo is already at Barcelona!"

Richard froze.

SLAP!

His hand shot to his forehead as if to physically erase the rookie mistake he had just made. With a deep sigh, he let the frustration go. Perhaps it was time to let go of the dream of reuniting the Trio R at Manchester City.

"I guess I’m just too tired right now. Probably need a holiday," he admitted, his voice heavy.

Marina nodded sympathetically. "Yes, you’re right. You definitely need a holiday."

Richard let out a breath, realizing he had been overthinking football—and life—a bit too much.

After the U-17 match ended, Richard immediately picked up his father and others, and they went straight to the airport to fly to Switzerland.

"Hey Richard," his father suddenly called.

"What’s wrong, Dad?"

"Take a look at this," his father said as he handed him a newspaper he had been reading.

Curious, Richard looked at it. The news was about the Super League meeting he had attended—the once-secret meeting had now been leaked to the media.

Sure enough, upon hearing about Europe’s top clubs plotting a rebellion, UEFA immediately contacted the owners of those clubs. However, since they had pre-formed alliances and shared a common stance, UEFA was left with no options.

Richard expected that UEFA would begin drafting revisions to the Champions League rules for the next season. It was impossible to make changes for the 98/99 season due to lack of time. He noted the club owners who attended the meeting yesterday; for now, they had probably pressured UEFA to secure more income and profit.

Unknown to them, UEFA would take a shortcut. The Champions League schedule after this became bizarre—more matches, more broadcasting income, and higher bonuses—but it put the elite clubs in a quagmire, as they could never juggle multiple competitions effectively. The end result of these poorly managed multiple campaigns was likely to be disastrous.

"Forget it," Richard shook his head, returning the newspaper to his father.

After a taxing season managing Manchester City and grappling with the complexities of the football world, Richard decided to take a well-deserved break. Switzerland, with its serene landscapes and rich cultural tapestry, seemed like the perfect retreat.

After arriving at Zurich International Airport, they noticed that the terminal had undergone significant expansion in celebration of its 50th anniversary. Leaving the airport, they went straight to their hotel, dropped off their luggage, and immediately set out to attend the World Rowing Cup III held at Rotsee.

The atmosphere at Rotsee was lively—cheers, camera flashes, and the rhythmic splash of oars cutting through the calm water. Richard found himself genuinely enjoying the moment, letting the stress of recent weeks fade away.

Then—RING!

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Glancing at the caller ID, he saw the name miss Heysen.

"Richard," Her voice came through, slightly distorted by the noise around him. "UEFA just faxed an official summons. It looks like they’re calling a meeting about the Super League situation."

Of course, Richard ignored the summons. In fact, he was the one who had leaked the agenda to Lennart in the first place—so why bother attending an invitation whose outcome he already knew?

He briefly explained the situation to her. Once the call ended, he exhaled softly and slipped the phone back toward his pocket.

RING~

The device buzzed again. Richard glanced at the screen—this time, it was Marina Granovskaia.

He answered the call immediately. "What’s wrong?"

If Marina was calling him directly, it had to be something serious. During his holiday, Richard had already delegated all transfer-related matters to her. As long as it didn’t involve the players he had personally blocked from being sold, she had full authority to manage negotiations as she saw fit.

For her to call now meant only one thing—something unexpected had come up.

"Richard," Marina’s voice came through, steady but laced with concern. "Just now, Joan came to see me—he says he wants to leave."

Richard straightened up, his relaxed posture instantly fading. "Leave? What do you mean, leave?"

Wasn’t he practically a first-choice player last season? Yes, Zambrotta was injured, but his minutes were consistent—he started almost every game. Why the sudden urge to leave?

"He... said he can’t handle the weather," Marina admitted softly.

Only after hearing Marina’s explanation did Richard fall silent.

Capdevila’s reasons for wanting to leave weren’t about competition or playing time—it was life itself in Manchester.

Outside of football, he found little joy. The grey skies, the cold drizzle, the unfamiliar rhythm of the city—it all wore him down. He missed the warmth of Spain, the sunlight, the easy laughter of home.

Richard couldn’t really argue. In fact, he understood it all too well. And when Marina mentioned that Capdevila’s desired destination was Deportivo La Coruña—not the glamorous Real Madrid or Barcelona, both of whom had shown interest—it made sense. If his goal had been prestige, Madrid would’ve been the obvious choice. But everyone knew dethroning Roberto Carlos was a fool’s dream. No, this wasn’t about ambition. It was about belonging.

Richard tapped his fingers lightly against his thigh, lost in thought for a moment.

"What about Martin?" he finally asked. "What’s his take on it?"

Marina’s voice came calmly through the line. "I already spoke to him. He said it can’t be helped. If a player truly can’t adapt—especially to the weather and lifestyle—then forcing him to stay will only make things worse. Martin understands that."

Richard exhaled slowly. His premonition had been right.

In this transfer window, La Liga clubs were flush with cash—an aftershock of the broadcasting rights war that had flooded the league with new money. Teams were eager to strengthen their squads while the tide was high.

But Richard knew it wouldn’t last. Once Real Madrid and Barcelona began selling their TV rights independently, the smaller clubs’ revenues would nosedive, and this brief golden age of spending would come to an abrupt end.

Deportivo La Coruña was among the most aggressive clubs in the transfer market this summer. Their ambition was clear—they had appointed Javier Irureta as manager, signaling a new era, and wasted no time reinforcing the squad with a series of sharp signings.

Pauleta, the prolific striker from Salamanca; Pablo and Romero, two solid domestic talents; and now, potentially, Capdevila—all were part of a well-calculated plan. Deportivo wasn’t just buying players; they were building a foundation.

If Irureta could blend these personalities and styles into a cohesive unit, Richard thought, this team might not only challenge Spain’s giants—but even redefine the balance of power in La Liga altogether. Of course, he knew such dominance would only last for a few years.

"Reject it," Richard said after a brief moment of thought, his tone calm but firm. "Instead, arrange a loan deal. Give him a year—let him clear his head, get used to playing back home. If he still wants to leave after that, we’ll talk again. Also, hold off on finalizing his transfer to Deportivo for now. I don’t believe they’re the only ones interested in his signature."

After finishing his call with Marina, Richard continued his holiday with his parents.

Throughout the journey, Richard, along with his father and mother, took time to immerse themselves in Switzerland’s natural beauty. They hiked in the Swiss Alps, visited tranquil lakes, and indulged in the country’s peaceful solitude, using the experience to recharge.

After a few days enjoying their holiday, Richard and his parents were ready to return home. They were packing their bags and preparing for the flight when suddenly his phone rang again.

Richard glanced at the caller ID and was surprised to see Vince McMahon’s name flashing on the screen. Without hesitation, he picked up.

"Hello, Vince?" he answered.

"Richard, I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time. I’ve been waiting to speak with you."

Richard’s brow furrowed. "I’m actually just about to head back home from Switzerland. Is this urgent?"

"Where are you heading after this?"

"After this, I’m probably going to London first, to drop off my parents. Then I’ll head to Manchester," Richard replied, glancing at his watch.

"Then let’s meet up in London first. I’ll text you the address."

"You’re in London?"

"Yeah, what a coincidence—I just came back from Cambridge. Well, I have some business to take care of there."

Richard and Vince McMahon had always maintained close contact, especially since Richard owned 30% of WWF (PPV). Vince held him in high regard and thought highly of him.

This respect grew even more after Richard shared ideas to make WWF storylines edgier, more adult-oriented, and focused on the rise of antihero characters. This combination drew significant mainstream media attention, helping make 1998 one of the most influential years in professional wrestling history.

Since then, Vince McMahon placed high expectations on Richard’s input, even though he was not a full investor in WWF. His opinions and creative insights had become highly valued, shaping the direction of the company.

After finishing the phone call, his mother came over, a hint of concern in her eyes. "Is there something urgent?

Richard just smiled softly and shook his head. "No, it’s nothing," he said, keeping his tone light.

After arriving in London, Richard spent a day settling in, catching up on messages, and resting from the long journey. The next morning, he set off promptly to the address Vince McMahon had sent him.

When he arrived, Richard was momentarily speechless.

The location had been transformed into an elegant venue, filled with the soft glow of chandeliers and the quiet hum of conversation. It turned out to be a promotional cocktail party hosted by F1 in London, complete with displays of cars, banners, and media personnel capturing every angle.

The moment Richard stepped inside, Vince McMahon approached him with a broad, welcoming smile.

"Richard! Glad you could make it," Vince said, extending his hand warmly.

Richard shook his hand, still taking in the surroundings. "I... wasn’t expecting all this," he admitted.

Vince chuckled and nudged Richard lightly. "You know, tonight isn’t just about the glitz—it’s about connections, opportunities, and some important discussions. By the way, let me introduce you to someone."

At that moment, a short, elderly man with silver hair approached Richard and extended his hand.

"Bernie Ecclestone. I am... it’s a pleasure to see you here,"

Richard found himself momentarily silent at the introduction. He knew exactly who this man was—who wouldn’t?

Bernie Ecclestone was the commercial head of Formula 1, the legendary figure whose influence shaped the entire sport. Not only that, he was the chief of Formula One Management (FOM), controlling nearly every aspect of the business side of F1: broadcasting rights, marketing, sponsorships, race scheduling.

Why is he looking for him?