Michael Sterling sat in his office, which currently looked like the command center of a chaotic military operation. There were empty coffee cups stacked in a pyramid on his desk. There were maps taped to the walls. There were three different phones laid out in front of him.

Arthur Milton was speeding down the M1 motorway toward London to find the Angry Reject, Isaiah King. That left Michael alone at the Sterling Era Training Complex to handle the international business.

He checked the time. It was 2:00 PM in Barnsley.

That meant it was 10:00 AM in Montevideo, Uruguay.

And it was 10:00 PM in Tokyo, Japan.

Michael cracked his knuckles. He looked at the empty leather chair in the corner of the room. His Dad, Steve Sterling, had been the king of the deal. Steve could sell sand to a desert. He could sell ice to a polar bear. Michael took a deep breath. He had to channel his inner Shark.

He picked up the first phone.

"Right," Michael whispered to himself. "Let us go to South America."

He dialed the number for the Director of Football at Danubio FC.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

Finally, a voice answered. It was loud, gravelly, and sounded like the man was smoking a cigar while eating gravel.

"Hola? Quien habla?"

Michael hurriedly tapped his translation app. "Hello! This is Michael Sterling. From Barnsley Football Club. In England."

There was a pause. Then a laugh. A deep, belly shaking laugh.

"Barnsley? The team with the red shirts? My nephew plays FIFA. He says you are... how do you say... terrible?"

Michael forced a smile, even though the man could not see him. "We are improving! We are fifth in the Championship. We just beat Newcastle United."

"Newcastle? Rich club. Good. So, Mr. Sterling. Why are you calling me? You want to buy my stadium? My car? My wife?"

"I want to buy Diego Nunez," Michael said, cutting to the chase.

The line went silent. The laughter stopped abruptly.

"El Toro?" the Director asked, his voice dropping an octave. "The Bull? He is eighteen. He is in my reserves. Nobody knows him."

"I know him," Michael said confidently. "I know he is strong. I know he never loses his balance. And I know he has an Italian passport."

"You have good spies," the Director grunted. "But Diego is special. He is the future of Danubio. I cannot sell him. Unless..."

"Unless?"

"Unless the price is spectacular."

Michael looked at the System valuation on his laptop screen. £250,000.

"I will offer you one hundred and fifty thousand pounds," Michael said.

"You are insulting me!" the Director roared. "You are spitting on my ancestors! One hundred and fifty? For El Toro? He is worth a million!"

"He has played three games for your reserve team," Michael countered calmly. "He has two yellow cards. He is aggressive. Nobody else is calling you for him. One hundred and seventy five."

"No, no, no. You English. You think money fixes everything. Diego needs love. He needs passion. Five hundred thousand. And a friendly match. We want to play in England."

Michael laughed. "Three hundred thousand. No friendly match. But we will put a sell on clause. If we sell him to Manchester City for fifty million in five years, you get twenty percent."

The line went quiet again. Michael could practically hear the gears turning in the Director's head. A twenty percent sell on clause for a player with [PA 89] was a winning lottery ticket.

"Twenty five percent," the Director bargained. "And three hundred thousand cash. Upfront. No installments."

Michael grinned. He leaned back in his chair. "Deal."

"Good," the Director said. "You are a shark, Mr. Sterling. I like sharks. I will tell Diego to pack his bags. He will eat your English strikers for breakfast."

"I hope so," Michael said. "Ciao."

He hung up.

One down.

Michael pumped his fist in the air. He had just signed a future world class defender for the price of a studio apartment in London.

He took a sip of cold coffee. He didn't have time to celebrate. He had to cross the world.

He picked up the second phone. Japan.

He dialed the number for the Tokyo Verdy Youth Director.

This call was different. There was no shouting. There was no haggling over ancestors.

"Moshi moshi," a polite, soft voice answered.

"Good evening," Michael said, trying to sound respectful. "This is Michael Sterling. Manager of Barnsley FC."

"Ah, Sterling san," the voice replied. "We received your email. You are interested in Sato Kenji."

"Yes," Michael said. "We believe he has great potential. We want to bring him to England in January."

"Kenji is... very disciplined," the Director said carefully. "He runs twenty kilometers in training. He never complains. But he is young. He has never left Tokyo. England is... very far away."

"We will look after him," Michael promised. "We have a family atmosphere here. My mother will cook for him. She is French, but her cooking is excellent."

"French cooking is acceptable," the Director said thoughtfully. "But Kenji is essential to our youth team structure. The fee..."

"Fifty thousand pounds," Michael said gently. "Plus performance bonuses. If he plays twenty games, we pay another twenty thousand."

"Money is not the priority," the Director said. "The priority is Kenji's honor. Will he play? Or will he sit on the bench?"

"He will play," Michael said. "We have a midfielder... Kai Sora. He is a genius, but he is lazy. We need Kenji to run for him. Kenji will be the engine of our team."

There was a soft chuckle on the other end. "Ah. You need a battery. Kenji is a very good battery. Very well, Sterling san. If Kenji agrees, we will not stand in his way. We want him to show the world the Japanese spirit."

"Arigato," Michael said, bowing in his chair even though nobody could see him. "Thank you."

Two down.

Michael let out a long breath. He had secured the Bull and the Engine.

His phone buzzed. It was a FaceTime request.

From Arthur Milton.

Michael tapped the green button.

The screen filled with Arthur's face. He looked stressed. He was sitting in what looked like a Nando's restaurant. The background noise was loud.

"Boss," Arthur rasped. "I am in North London. I found him."

"Isaiah King?" Michael asked. "How is it going?"

Arthur turned the phone camera around.

Sitting opposite Arthur was a boy. He looked younger than sixteen. He was small, skinny, and wearing a black hoodie pulled up over his dreadlocks. He was slumped in the booth, picking at a plate of spicy wings with a plastic fork. He looked angry at the chicken. He looked angry at the table. He looked angry at the world.

"He won't talk to me," Arthur shouted over the noise of the restaurant. "I told him we beat Newcastle. I told him about the project. He just keeps eating the wings."

Michael frowned. "Put me on speaker, Arthur. Put the phone on the table."

Arthur did as he was told. The phone clattered onto the sticky wooden table. The camera was now pointing up at Isaiah King's chin.

"Isaiah," Michael said, his voice loud and clear coming out of the phone speaker.

The boy stopped chewing. He didn't look down. He just stared straight ahead.

"I heard Arsenal let you go," Michael said.

Isaiah's jaw tightened. He dropped the fork. "So?" the boy mumbled. His voice was quiet but sharp. "You calling to laugh too?"

"No," Michael said. "I am calling because Arsenal are idiots."

Isaiah looked down at the phone for the first time. His eyes were dark and intense. "What did you say?"

"I said they are idiots," Michael repeated. "They looked at you and they saw a small kid with an attitude. They looked at a ruler. They didn't look at the football."

"I am small," Isaiah spat. "That is facts."

"Lionel Messi is small," Michael said. "Maradona was small. Being small just means you are closer to the ground. It means you can turn faster than the giants. It means they can't catch you."

Isaiah snorted. "You talk a lot for a guy on a phone. Who even are you? Barnsley? That is in the North, right? It is cold. It is boring."

"It is freezing," Michael admitted. "And yeah, it is not London. We don't have fancy shops. We don't have skyscrapers."

"So why would I come?"

"Because we have Kai Sora," Michael said.

Isaiah blinked. "The Bouncer? The guy who nutmegged the Sunderland player without looking?"

"Yeah," Michael said. "Everyone said Kai was too lazy. They said he didn't care. We let him play. Now he is the best midfielder in the league. We have Danny Fletcher. Everyone said he was a choker. Now he is the Prince."

Michael paused.

"We collect the rejects, Isaiah. We collect the ones people gave up on. And we make the big clubs regret it. You want to prove Arsenal wrong? You want to make them sick every time they see you score on Match of the Day?"

Isaiah was silent. He looked at Arthur, then back at the phone.

"You promise I play?" Isaiah asked. "Not in the Under 18s. In the real team. In the stadium."

"If you are good enough, you are old enough," Michael said. "But I warn you. Our center back is called The Butcher. If you try to nutmeg him in training, he might eat you."

For the first time, a tiny smirk appeared on Isaiah's face. It was a dangerous, arrogant smirk.

"Let him try," Isaiah said. "I am fast. Nobody catches me."

He looked at Arthur.

"Yo, old man," Isaiah said, picking up a chicken wing. "You got the contract?"

Arthur looked at the phone, his eyes wide. "He wants the contract, Boss."

"Give it to him," Michael laughed. "Welcome to the Dynasty, Isaiah."

The screen went black as Arthur ended the call.

Michael slumped back in his chair. The adrenaline crash hit him all at once.

He had done it.

He had spent the System Points. He had spent the money.

Diego Nunez. The anchor.

Kenji Sato. The battery.

Isaiah King. The spark.

Three players from three different continents. Three players who were completely different, yet exactly the same. They were hungry. They were talented. And they were now his.

January was three months away.

Until then, he had to survive the Championship with his current squad. He had to keep winning with Mateo's swollen eye and Higgins' tired legs.

But help was coming.

Michael looked at the map of the world on his wall. He picked up a red marker pen.

He drew a circle around Uruguay.

He drew a circle around Japan.

He drew a circle around London.

Then he drew lines connecting all three circles to a tiny dot in the middle of England.

Barnsley.

"The world is coming to Yorkshire," Michael whispered, a satisfied grin spreading across his face.

He stood up and grabbed his coat. He needed to go home. He needed to tell his Mom to buy extra rice for Kenji and extra steak for Diego.

And maybe, just maybe, he needed to buy a helmet for Isaiah King. Because if he really did try to nutmeg Higgins, things were going to get very interesting at the Sterling Era Training Complex.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.