Football: Maxed Out The Wrong Stat

Farfán spotted Mateo coming back from Reinhardt's office and crossed the training ground to meet him.

"Well?" Farfán asked, wiping sweat from his forehead. "You changing the contract or what?"

"No."

Raúl, who'd just finished a rondo drill nearby, jogged over when he saw them huddling up. He caught the tail end of the answer, his expression sharpening.

"Good," Raúl said, crossing his arms. "With everything going on right now, don't tie yourself down long-term. Especially not while they're this desperate."

"Wasn't planning to," Mateo said. "The image rights are a separate fight anyway. I told Reinhardt eighty-twenty in my favor. He said he'd take it to the board."

Raúl raised an eyebrow — that specific look of a veteran recalculating a kid's leverage on the fly. "Eighty? That's bold."

"Given where things stand? It's fair."

"Yeah," Raúl nodded, a small smirk appearing. "Actually, yeah it is."

Farfán just shook his head, looking at Mateo with the slight irritation of an older teammate watching a kid handle a high-stakes meeting with way too much composure.

"The real problem," Farfán said, gesturing with his water bottle, "is that you're doing all this heavy lifting yourself. Sponsors, the club, scouts, agents blowing up your phone directly. You're gonna burn out."

"I know."

"You seriously still don't have representation?" Raúl asked.

"No. To be honest, I don't even know where to start. I'm not from here—I have no clue who's legit and who's just a shark."

Raúl thought about it for a second, looking out over the pitch. "I know a few guys. The good ones, and the ones to avoid like the plague. Let me make some calls for you."

"Man, I'd really appreciate that."

Farfán looked between the two of them. "I'd offer you my guy, but honestly? He's out of his depth here. He manages my schedule just fine, but that's about it. It'd be like introducing you to a guy who's never negotiated anything bigger than a squad number bonus." He shrugged. "Raúl's actually got the right connections."

"I appreciate it either way, guys," Mateo said, tapping Farfán on the shoulder. "Seriously."

Raúl was already thinking ahead, visible in the way his eyes had drifted slightly off the conversation. A seventeen-year-old with this profile and a €500,000 buyout clause was going to attract serious agent interest with or without Raúl's involvement — the kind of attention that arrived whether invited or not, the moment word got out that the player had no representation. Better to direct that attention toward someone who would actually serve the player's interests than let it arrive as chaos.

"Give me the afternoon," Raúl said.

Magath called training early — Champions League preparation took priority over a full domestic-intensity session, and he wanted bodies fresh rather than depleted two days before a European away match that would test the squad in ways the Bundesliga hadn't yet.

Hughes Yves led a recovery session: light movement, stretching, nothing that would tax anyone unnecessarily. Magath watched from the side with his arms folded, occasionally calling out a correction, mostly observing.

When it ended,

Farfán fell into step beside Mateo as they headed toward the tunnel.

"Dinner tonight?" Farfán asked. "Nothing crazy. I'll cook."

"I need to look at some tape on my defensive positioning," Mateo replied, squinting into the sun. "Per Kluge said my recovery runs are still too direct. I need to angle them better to cut off the passing lanes."

Farfán stopped and just looked at him for a second. It was the exact face an older player makes when they realize they're going to be having this same soul-crushing conversation with a rookie for the next ten years.

"You do know you're allowed to eat a meal without immediately watching film after, right?" Farfán said, half-laughing.

"I'll eat. Just not tonight."

Farfán let it drop. He'd learned quickly that when it came to Mateo's schedule, there was no arguing.

As they walked out toward the car park, Farfán couldn't help but shake his head. It was freaky, honestly. The kid trained constantly, barely rested, and yet he looked just as sharp in week six as he did on day one of pre-season. No heavy legs. No dark circles under his eyes. No general wear and tear.

Farfán's own fitness had actually skyrocketed since Mateo arrived—the kid's insane work ethic had basically shamed him into staying late, and his lungs felt better for it—but there was just no comparing the two of them. Farfán's body felt every single mile. Mateo's body just seemed to absorb the punishment and ask for more.

He decided not to overthink it. Eleven years in this game had taught Farfán that some guys were just built different. Trying to make sense of the freaks of nature usually just gave you a headache; it was better to just be glad the kid was on his team.

Raúl made three calls that afternoon.

The first was to Carvajal, his own agent of nearly twenty years — a relationship that had outlasted two clubs, several contract renegotiations, and the slow transition from Raúl being the most coveted player in Spain to Raúl being a respected veteran finishing his career somewhere unglamorous but meaningful. Carvajal had never been the flashiest name in the business. He'd built his small agency around a handful of relationships rather than a roster of superstars, and his loyalty to Raúl across the lean years of that arrangement said something Raúl had always respected.

The moment Raúl mentioned a seventeen-year-old Schalke midfielder needing representation, Carvajal's voice changed entirely.

"I'm coming today," Carvajal said.

"You haven't even asked what he's like."

"I watched the Bremen match, Raúl. I know what he's like."

Raúl smiled slightly and hung up.

The second call was less straightforward — an old contact whose number he had to dig for, a connection two football generations removed from his current circle. It produced nothing useful, and he moved on.

The third call he made somewhat reluctantly, dialling a number he'd had for years but rarely used.

"Raúl!" Cristiano Ronaldo's voice, immediately recognisable, carrying the easy warmth of someone who genuinely liked the person on the other end of the line despite their infrequent contact. "I saw the hat-trick! Look at you. I should be the one calling you."

"Don't worry about it. Raúl laughed, leaning back. "Listen, I actually need a favor."

"Go on."

"Give me Mendes's number.. The actual one, not his office or his assistants."

A pause, then a laugh. "You're not switching agents at thirty-three, are you?"

"No, it's not for me. It's for a kid over here."

"The Bundesliga kid? The one racking up all those assists?"

"That's the one."

"I haven't caught a full game yet, but five assists in two matches? People are talking about him even over here," Cristiano said. His tone shifted a bit, moving from polite catching-up to genuine, sharp curiosity. "Yeah, I'll send you the number. Tell your young friend good luck. He's going to need it if Mendes actually takes a liking to him."

"That's exactly what I'm worried about."

Cristiano laughed again, promising to text the contact over within the hour before hanging up.

Raúl tossed his phone onto the table and looked out at the empty training pitch. The October afternoon was fading fast, and one by one, the massive floodlights were beginning to hum to life, casting long shadows across the grass.

Two agents were now aware of Mateo's situation. One of them he trusted completely. The other he trusted to be extremely good at his job, which was a different thing entirely.

He'd let Mateo decide which mattered more.

Plz Drop Some Power Stones.

For Advance/Early Chapters:

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