Glory Of The Football Manager System

[Wembley. Directors’ Lounge. 19:54 BST.]

Steve had been in the same suit since the warm-up. He was at the window looking out over the empty pitch. There was nobody else in the room. The waiter who had been working the lounge had been sent away.

”Daniel.”

”Steve.”

”Two things. The first one is Ed Woodward had me on the phone at quarter past five and ten past seven.”

”All right.”

”The number on the table is sixty-two with three add-ons that could take it to seventy-four. Three-year personal terms at one hundred and eighty thousand a week.”

”That is more than Mama is on.”

”That is twenty-five thousand a week more than Mama is on. They want a meeting in London on Tuesday at three. Just me, Ed, and one of their lawyers. They want it in private. They want it before the announcement of your directorship on Wednesday because they think the directorship narrows the window. They are correct that the directorship narrows the window. They are not getting the meeting.”

”Steve.”

”No. Konaté is not for sale. Not in the summer. Not in the winter. He came in August. The club’s policy on every player we sign in the summer is no formal discussions for eighteen months minimum on offers from English clubs and twelve months minimum from outside England. That is the policy.

He has been here for eight months. We are not having the meeting because we are not having the discussion. I will tell Ed Woodward that on the phone tomorrow morning at nine and he will not hear it because Ed Woodward does not hear no the first time, and I will tell him again on Monday and on Tuesday and on Wednesday after the announcement, and after that he might hear it. Or he might not.”

”All right.”

”The second thing. The board met this morning at nine because the board meets on the morning of every Wembley match because Steve Parish is superstitious. The board has agreed that we lock the squad down before the end of the season. Everyone you want to keep for next season gets a new contract before the twentieth of May.”

”Everyone.”

”Everyone. Pope. Konaté. Mama. Aaron. Ben. Eze. Olise. Aviero. Pato if you want him for next season. Bowen if you want him for next season. Wilf already extended in March. Mili goes into the last year and we offer him the new one in July. Wayne extends. Bray’s contract gets bumped to head coach with a number that reflects what he has done this season.”

”That is twelve, fifteen new deals before May the twentieth.”

”It is fourteen. Jessica Finch already has the framework for ten of them in her office because we briefed her on Tuesday after you signed yours. She will be in your office on Monday morning at nine with the list. You sit down with each player on the list on the bus to the airport on Sunday or in the dressing room on Monday or in your office on Tuesday and you tell them what is coming. Then Jessica does the rest.”

”Mateo.”

”Mateo is a separate conversation. The option to buy in the loan agreement is twenty-five million. The board agreed on it this morning. We are paying it. We are paying it whether or not Mateo plays a minute between now and the end of May because Mateo has done what Mateo has done.

Dougie is in Madrid on Monday morning. James Rodríguez we are also paying for. Ten. Madrid want him off the wage bill and Zidane wants him gone and Jorge has been straight with us since Friday. Ten million for James and twenty-five for Mateo and the two of them stay together at this club for next season.

We are also losing Lucas Digne. Barcelona triggered the recall clause in the loan on Tuesday morning. He goes back to the Camp Nou in July. Ben Chilwell is your starting left-back next year either way, but I wanted you to know about Lucas before the press did.”

”Steve.”

”Daniel.”

”Thank you.”

”You signed the contract Tuesday and you are signing the directorship Wednesday. The fourteen new deals are because the man who is running the football club from the first of June is the man who has been doing it since August and he is going to want the players he has been doing it with. The board has agreed. I am not asking your permission. I am telling you what is happening.”

”All right.”

”Go and do the press. Tell them about the match. Do not tell them about anything else. Konaté does not exist as a transfer story this summer. The new contracts do not exist until we announce them on the morning of the Etihad. You and I do not exist as a story until Wednesday. Do the press about the match.”

”All right.”

I went to the BBC tunnel.

[Wembley. The Players’ Car Park. 21:52 BST.]

Emma was at the bus when I came out of the press room. She had a ticket from the directors’ box and a coat over her jumper and the leather jacket on under the coat. She had not come down to the pitch at the final whistle because Emma did not come down to the pitch.

”Walsh.”

”Em.”

She put her arms round me. Did not say anything for a moment.

”How is he.”

”Hamstring. Grade two. Probably four to six.”

”All right.”

”He is at the Cromwell for an MRI in the morning.”

”All right.”

”He wanted me to tell the lads to go to Lisbon for him and to Lyon for him and to beat City for him. I told them. They said they would.”

”Of course they did.”

She let go. Held my hand.

”Drive me home, Walsh.”

”All right.”

We walked to the car. The team bus had already left for the Grove because the squad were having dinner there before the bus to the airport at six in the morning for the flight to Lisbon on Monday. I had not been on the team bus to a Wembley match since the Carabao Cup Final in February. I had driven home from each one. Today I was driving Emma home.

I drove south through the city. The street lights were on. The lads at the chip shop on Holmesdale Road would be open. The cameras on the building they had filmed Spider-Man at last summer were still up.

She did not say anything for the first twenty minutes.

Then her phone rang. She looked at the screen. The screen lit her face up green.

”Izabel.”

She picked up.

”Iza.”

She listened.

I drove. I did not look at her.

”I am so sorry, Iza.”

She listened some more. I had driven through Westminster Bridge by the time she said anything else.

”All right.”

She listened.

”All right. No. I am not going to tell him tonight. He has not slept and he is driving. I will tell him when we get to the flat.”

She listened.

”I love you. Tell Mateo we love him.”

She hung up.

I did not say anything for a moment. We were on the Embankment. The lights of the South Bank were on the river.

”What was it?”

”Tomorrow.”

”Em.”

”Tomorrow, Walsh. Drive.”

”All right.”

She did not say anything else. I drove the rest of the way to Dulwich. She closed her eyes. I did not think she was sleeping but I did not press her.

She did not sleep.