"Mendes has been talking to them," Freedman said. "Championship money, but it's serious. They're not going away. If we don't move today, they might."
That was the detail that focused everything. Wolves. A Championship club. The idea of Rúben Neves, the youngest captain in Champions League history, spending his prime years in the Championship was almost offensive to me.
But Mendes was a pragmatist, and if the numbers were right and the project was compelling enough, he would take it. We couldn't let it get to that point. "Go back in at thirteen," I said. "Tell them it's our final offer. Tell them we've got another target lined up and we're going to move on him this afternoon if they don't accept. Make them believe it."
"And have we got another target lined up?" Freedman asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"No," I said. "But they don't know that." I looked at my watch. The next session was starting in ten minutes. "I've got to go. Call me the second you hear anything."
