He followed me into the office, and I gestured for him to sit. He did, perching on the edge of the chair like he was ready to bolt at any moment.
"Relax," I said, trying to put him at ease. "You're here because I think you're talented. I watched you in the Millwall match. You were the best player on the pitch by a mile. Different level."
He blinked, clearly surprised. "Millwall didn't think so."
"Millwall are idiots," I said bluntly. "They wanted you to be a physical workhorse. That's not your game. Your game is technical, intelligent, and creative. You see passes that other players don't see. You can dribble in tight spaces. You make everyone around you better. That's what I want."
He nodded slowly, and I saw something shift in his expression. Hope, maybe. Or belief.
