Football: Maxed Out The Wrong Stat

Carvajal was waiting outside the dormitory building when Mateo arrived back.

He’d been there for eleven minutes, which he knew exactly because he’d been watching his phone rather than the street. He had a habitual need to know how long things were taking — a tick developed over two decades of managing other people’s schedules — and he’d found the waiting oddly peaceful, the October cold less than he’d expected, the industrial quietness of the Schalke training complex at this hour having its own kind of calm.

When Mateo appeared from the direction of the road, Carvajal put his phone away.

”You walked back from the restaurant?”

”It’s ten minutes.”

Carvajal said nothing to this. He’d spent twenty years representing professional athletes who lived in worlds of chauffeured cars and first-class travel, and Raúl’s warning about adjusting his expectations was proving more specifically accurate than he’d anticipated.

”Come in, then,” Mateo said.

The contract was a standard, preliminary representation agreement — the kind designed to establish trust and set the ground rules before the high-stakes negotiations actually began. Carvajal had drafted it on the flight over. At the time, it had felt a bit presumptuous, like counting his chickens before they hatched, but looking at Mateo now, it just felt practical.

The terms were straightforward: a ten percent commission on all income streams managed by the agency. In exchange, Carvajal’s team would act as a shield. They would handle all direct commercial inquiries on Mateo’s behalf, ensuring that club reps, eager sponsors, and opportunistic third parties couldn’t corner him without going through the agency first. The termination clauses were standard, fair to both sides, and written in clean, uncomplicated language. Carvajal had done that on purpose; the last thing a stressed-out player needed was to feel like he was being buried in legalese.

They sat at the desk — Carvajal taking the chair, while Mateo sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward as they went through the papers section by section. Mateo didn’t rush. He read every line carefully, a habit Carvajal quietly respected. In this business, a player who didn’t read his own contracts was just waiting to get blindsided later.

”The commercial contact clause,” Mateo said, tapping a finger against the page. ”Does that include the club administration?”

”Reinhardt’s office?” Carvajal asked, looking up.

”Reinhardt, or anyone he sends to do his digging.”

”It can.” Carvajal pulled a pen from his pocket and scribbled a quick note in the margin. ”I’ll add specific language covering club-initiated commercial discussions. That way, any talks they try to start have to go through us before anything becomes official. You’ll still deal with the coaching staff directly, though. That stays the same.”

”Good,” Mateo murmured, looking relieved.

They worked through the rest of the pages without any more hitches. When it came time to sign, Mateo took his time. His signature was deliberate and unhurried — the mark of someone who had learned the hard way never to rush into a commitment.

Carvajal countersigned, the sharp click of his pen echoing in the quiet room. He folded one copy, slid it into his briefcase, and handed the other to Mateo.

”Right,” Carvajal said, leaning back. ”First order of business — I want to start vetting the commercial contacts who’ve already approached you. You mentioned two this week?”

”Keller from SportAxis, and some guy named Dean from Eurofit. Both of them showed up at Reinhardt’s office.” Mateo paused, a look of genuine exhaustion crossing his face. ”There are probably more. My phone had thirty-one missed calls when I finally turned it on yesterday. I couldn’t even bring myself to listen to the voicemails.”

Carvajal stared at him, his eyebrows shooting up. ”Thirty-one? In one day?”

Mateo offered a weak, tired smile. ”Yeah. I turned it right back off.”

”From this point forward,” Carvajal said, ”you give this number to anyone who asks for contact.” He set a business card on the desk. ”Your mobile is for people you actually want to speak to. Everything else comes to me first.”

Mateo looked at the card and found this arrangement entirely satisfactory.

”The contract situation,” Mateo said, after a brief silence. ”I want to understand my options.”

Carvajal leaned back slightly. ”Your current contract has a €500,000 buyout clause. Any club can trigger it directly — they pay Schalke, and the transfer is done regardless of whether Schalke agree. You don’t sign a new contract, you remain free to leave at that price. The clause doesn’t have an expiry date within the contract’s current term.” He paused. ”That gives you significant leverage. More than most players at your stage have.”

”I don’t want to move this season. I’ve already told Schalke that,” Mateo said, his voice flat but stubborn.

”Telling Schalke is one thing; actually protecting yourself is another,” Carvajal countered, leaning in. ”If you stay and keep playing at this level, the pressure to trigger that release clause is only going to get heavier. We’re talking big clubs. Bayern, or whoever else has the cash. They won’t just ask nicely; they’ll push.”

”I know that,” Mateo said. He looked Carvajal dead in the eye, all the hesitation gone. ”But I need this season. I’m not doing it for the club — I’m doing it for myself. For my own development. There are parts of my game I still need to build at this level before making a massive jump even makes sense.”

Carvajal just sat back and took that in, resisting the urge to push. It was honestly one of the strangest things he’d ever heard a seventeen-year-old say. Most kids that age would have their bags packed for Munich already, but Mateo was sitting there dissecting his own developmental gaps like a project manager reviewing a corporate timeline, not a teenager talking about his football career.

Carvajal quietly tucked that away, adding it to the growing mental file of who this kid actually was and exactly what kind of backing he was going to need.

”My recommendation,” Carvajal said, ”is to let the season run. Use the Champions League matches as a development stage — European competition, different tactical demands, different opponents. Let your value build on the pitch rather than in a negotiating room. By January, or the end of the season, the picture is clearer and you have maximum leverage either way.” He paused. ”The one thing I’d want to explore is whether Reinhardt’s board comes back on the image rights. Eighty percent is reasonable,” Carvajal said, tapping his knuckle against the desk. ”If they want to lock you down and take that buyout clause off the table, that’s the price of admission.”

Mateo nodded, his face setting into that stubborn look again. ”If they don’t agree to eighty, I’m not signing.”

”Then we play the waiting game.”

A quiet settled over the room. Outside, somewhere in the sprawling training complex, the low, steady hum of a groundskeeper’s tractor drifted past the window and slowly faded into the evening.

”One more thing,” Mateo said, breaking the silence. ”The brand stuff. I don’t want any sponsorship deals that are just about buying into a market.”

Carvajal looked up, curious. ”Can you be more specific?”

”I’ve had two different reps in the last week explain my commercial value by pointing at maps and talking about population demographics,” Mateo said, a hint of genuine distaste in his voice. ”I’m not interested in being signed because of a zip code. If a brand wants me because of what I do on the pitch, great. If they just want a token because of where I was born, count me out.”

Carvajal watched him for a long moment, letting the weight of that sink in. ”You realize that’s going to cut our options in half, right?”

”Good,” Mateo said flatly.

They tied up a few loose ends before finally calling it a night.

By the time Carvajal walked out of the dormitory and tracked down his rental car in the gravel lot, it was well past eight. He sat in the driver’s seat for a minute before even twisting the key, staring at the dark dashboard, just processing the last three hours. Two decades in this business had given him a pretty reliable blueprint for how young athletes ticked — you quickly figure out who’s built for the long haul and who’s going to flash and burn. Who has their head on straight, and who’s chasing the wrong things.

Mateo didn’t fit any of the usual boxes.

He drove over to Raúl’s apartment, walking into a kitchen filled with the rich, savory aroma of something sizzling in a skillet — a massive upgrade from the sterile dormitory air.

”Well?” Raúl asked, keeping his eyes on the stove.

”We signed.”

Raúl paused, turning around. ”He actually chose you over Mendes?”

”Apparently, he walked out of Mendes’s dinner early,” Carvajal said, dropping onto a kitchen chair. ”Mendes spent forty minutes pitching him a commercial empire and forgot to ask the kid what he actually wanted.”

Raúl gave a dry chuckle, turning back to his cooking. ”Yeah, that tracks.”

”He also told me he doesn’t want any sponsors who are just buying into his background. He only wants brands that care about his football.”

Raúl went quiet for a second, the spatula hovering over the pan. ”He means it, you know.”

”I know he does. That’s what threw me.” Carvajal slid his copy of the signed contract onto the table. ”He’s seventeen, Raúl. He has a clearer sense of purpose and professional boundaries than most thirty-year-olds I’ve managed.”

Raúl slid the skillet off the burner and glanced over at the paperwork. ”Just don’t let him run himself into the dirt. He thinks he’s invincible because he hasn’t hit a wall yet.”

”You think he will?”

Raúl looked at him. It was the look of a man who had watched a kid show up for a brutal five a.m. solo workout, then breeze into the official nine a.m. team session looking like he’d just had eight hours of perfect sleep, and still couldn’t fathom how it was biologically possible.

”I think,” Raúl said carefully, ”that the usual rules don’t apply to him. But I’d still sleep a lot better knowing someone is watching his back.”

Carvajal picked up the contract, folding it away, and gave a firm nod.

”That’s exactly why I’m here.”

”I think,” Raúl said carefully, ”that the normal rules don’t fully apply to him. But I’d feel better if someone was watching.”

Plz Drop Some Power Stones.

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