Michael stared at the blue screen, his heart doing a wild, chaotic drum solo against his ribs.
The glowing profile on his laptop screen was so absurd, so world-breaking, that he had to read it three times just to be sure he wasn't hallucinating.
[Name: Raphael Santos]
[Age: 17]
[Club: Clube Atlético Piranhas (Brazilian Third Tier)]
[CA: 48 / PA: 93]
[Buyout Clause: £250,000]
The number was almost comically low.
A Current Ability of 48 meant he was, right now, objectively terrible by professional standards. He'd be lucky to get a game in Barnsley's Under-18s.
He was a stiff breeze away from being knocked over. He was, as Arthur would say, "a project."
But ninety-three. It was a potential that eclipsed everyone. It was higher than Danny Fletcher's, higher than Jamie's, higher than anyone Michael had ever seen. It was the kind of number that represented a player who could one day lift the World Cup, a player who could define a generation.
And he was available for the price of a small house in Barnsley.
Michael didn't even stop to think.
He grabbed his keys, bolted from his flat, and sped to the training ground, his sensible Audi complaining at being driven like a Lamborghini
It was barely 7:30 AM, but he knew Arthur would be there.
He was right. Arthur was the only person on the grounds, standing in the center circle of the main pitch with a mug of coffee, the steam rising in the cool morning air. He was arranging a complex pattern of cones, his mind already deep in tactical preparation.
"Arthur!" Michael yelled, jogging onto the pristine grass, waving his phone like a madman. "You have to see this. Now."
Arthur looked up, his expression one of weary patience. "Good morning, Chairman. Did we forget to pay a bill? Are the gates locked? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I have!" Michael said, his voice buzzing with a manic energy. "The ghost of football future! Look!"
He shoved his phone into Arthur's hand, the blue-tinted system screen visible only to him, but the player profile he'd screenshotted was clear.
Arthur put his coffee down and squinted at the tiny screen.
"Raphael Santos," Arthur read, his voice flat. "
Clube Atlético... Piranhas? In the Brazilian third tier? Michael, what am I looking at?"
"You're looking at our next transfer target," Michael said, unable to keep the grin off his face.
Arthur sighed, the long-suffering sigh of a man who was trying to run a professional football club while his boss was playing a video game.
"A 17-year-old from the Brazilian third tier. Let me guess, you think he's the next Pelé."
"Better, actually!!"
Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Michael, let's be realistic. Look at this data. He's physically weak, he's a boy. He'll get snapped in half in League One. He's an even bigger gamble than Jamie was."
He handed the phone back, his gaze turning serious.
"And that's before we even get to the real nightmare: the work permit. He's a 17-year-old, non-EU player from a non-league, with no youth international caps. The home office will laugh at our application. We'll sign him, and he'll never be allowed to set foot in the country. It's a waste of money."
Michael had been waiting for this. The wall of logic. The wall of "the real world." And he was ready to smash right through it.
"This," Michael said, his voice dropping, his own conviction hardening, "is why we sold Marcus Thorne. We didn't sell him to buy a safe, 28-year-old journeyman. We sold him to free up the cash to do exactly this. To make the impossible gamble. We trust the numbers."
He looked his manager square in the eye. "I am activating his release clause. Today. Before some scout from Porto or Ajax stumbles across him by accident. Your job is to make him a footballer. My job is to find him."
Arthur stared at him for a long moment, seeing the iron-clad, unshakeable faith in his young boss's eyes. He let out a long breath, a small, wry smile playing on his lips.
"You're going to give me an ulcer, you know that, right? Go on. Buy your ghost. Just don't blame me when I have to hide him in the laundry room from the immigration officers."
An hour later, Michael was back in his office, his heart hammering.
He was acting as his own transfer department. He found the official email address for Clube Atlético Piranhas. He drafted a formal, legally-vetted email, informing them that Barnsley FC was activating the £300,000 release clause for their player, Raphael Santos.
He hit 'Send.'
Then, he went to the club's online banking portal and initiated a wire transfer for the full amount to the Brazilian club's account. It was done. All of it. In ten minutes. The world's press knew nothing.
The giants of the game were sleeping. He imagined some poor administrator in a small, remote Brazilian town, checking his email, seeing the alert, and thinking it was the most elaborate scam in human history... right until he checked the bank account.
The thought made Michael laugh out loud.
The rest of the day was spent in a blur of logistics. He spoke to the club's lawyers, who confirmed the work permit would be "exceptionally difficult" but "not impossible." They would file for an 'Exceptional Talent' visa, a long shot, but one made more believable by the fact that Barnsley was now a club on the rise.
Late that afternoon, Arthur walked into his office, a single sheet of paper in his hand.
It was the international transfer confirmation.
"It's done," Arthur said, shaking his head. "The kid arrives next week to sign the papers and sort out his visa application. I've been watching some video clips of him. He's… small. And tricky. And he falls over a lot." He tossed the paper onto Michael's desk.
"I hope you know what you're doing."
They were just about to start discussing where the kid would even live when the office door burst open so hard it slammed against the wall, making both of them jump.
It was Steve, the assistant manager. He was pale, completely stunned, and holding his phone out in front of him as if it were a venomous snake.
"Boss… Gaffer…" Steve stammered, his eyes wide.
"You… you need to see this. You need to see this right now."
"Steve? What is it?" Arthur asked, his voice sharp. "What's wrong?"
"The draw," Steve said, his voice barely a whisper.
"The Carabao Cup draw… it just happened!"