Chapter 9
1347 Words
The roar of victory slowly faded into the night at the Bernabéu.
But Julian’s war had only just begun.
The following morning, a call from the club’s headquarters shattered the silence of his office.
On the other end was Jorge Valdano, the general manager, his voice strictly businesslike, stripped of all warmth.
“Mr. Julian, the president would like to see you.”
“Now.”
No reason. No room for refusal.
Julian’s hand tightened around the receiver, the muscles in his fingers going rigid.
A summons from the president.
It meant stepping out of the shadows, into the open, and facing the pinnacle of the club’s power.
A restless surge swelled in his chest, his heartbeat skipping its rhythm.
Half an hour later, Julian was standing outside the office of Real Madrid’s president.
This was the very heart of the Bernabéu.
The heavy mahogany doors gleamed with polished brass handles, faintly reflecting his tense silhouette.
Instinctively, he raised a hand to adjust his collar—only to stop midway.
He was wearing a tailored navy casual suit, paired with a simple white T-shirt. No collar to fix.
The outfit lacked formality, and in this hall of power, thick with history, it left him looking slightly underdressed.
Suppressing the unfamiliar tightness in his chest, he pressed a hand against the door and pushed.
It opened without a sound.
A wave of Cuban cigars and high-grade leather polish rushed to meet him—so thick it felt like a declaration of power.
Luxury spoke from every detail of the office.
Through the vast floor-to-ceiling windows stretched the meticulously trimmed training pitches, green like flawless emerald.
Sunlight spilled across the polished floor, where specks of dust floated and swirled quietly in the beams.
The walls held no modern art.
Instead, they were lined with black-and-white photographs in golden frames.
Di Stéfano. Puskás. Gento…
Every face was a monument to suffocating glory, silently watching each newcomer who stepped inside.
And beneath their gaze stood a man in a silver-gray tailored suit, his back to Julian, hands clasped behind him.
Florentino Pérez.
The tycoon who had built the Galácticos with his own hands.
He turned slowly, a businessman’s smile on his face—warm, polished, yet sharp beneath the surface.
“Julian.”
His voice was calm, carrying the ease of a man long accustomed to power.
“Congratulations on delivering an important victory.”
Florentino walked forward and extended his hand.
His palm was warm and dry, the grip brief and measured—an exact balance of welcome and distance. Julian, aware of the faint sweat in his own hand, fought to keep his expression steady.
“Sit.”
Florentino gestured toward a leather sofa opposite the desk, its price obvious at a glance.
Julian obeyed, sinking into the cushions, but his spine remained taut, like a spring ready to uncoil.
Florentino returned to his seat, fingers interlaced atop the gleaming mahogany desk.
“A practical victory,” he began again, his tone shifting.
“But, Julian, you must understand—this is Real Madrid.”
His gaze swept across the legends on the wall, his voice laced with unshakable pride.
“Winning is only the foundation.
The fans don’t come to the Bernabéu just for results.
They come for art, for brilliance, for performances that drive them mad with joy.”
Florentino’s eyes settled back on Julian, the smile still there but now edged with steel.
“Your tactics in the last match… effective, yes.
But not dazzling.
That is not Real Madrid’s football.”
The pressure closed in like the cigar smoke filling the room—silent, invisible, but tightening around every breath.
Julian’s fingers tapped once against the sofa arm, almost unconsciously.
To argue philosophy with the president would be folly.
Instead, he looked at Florentino calmly, opened his briefcase, and drew out a file.
Rising to his feet, he placed it on the desk before the president.
His movement was steady, without hesitation.
Florentino’s brow twitched, almost imperceptibly.
He had expected rebuttals, or nervous excuses.
But not this.
A printed report.
The cover bore a stark black title:
“Risk Assessment of Physical Breakdown in the Next Three Weeks & Preventive Training Plan for Real Madrid.”
Florentino’s eyes lingered on the title for two seconds before he looked back up at Julian—reevaluating him—then opened to the first page.
No long speeches.
Only the coldest, most direct charts and figures.
Zidane: fatigue accumulation curve, red, rising sharply. Highlighted number: 87.4%. Prediction: hamstring injury risk under continued match load in the next 21 days—62.5%.
Roberto Carlos: weekly sprint distance exceeding threshold by 18%. Achilles tendon at critical load. Predicted risk of acute tendinitis—68.2%.
David Beckham: microcirculation damage in right ankle, recovery speed 23% below normal. Predicted recurrence of chronic sprain—71.0%.
…
One legendary name after another, each followed by probabilities calculated to two decimal places.
Warning lines in red, scarring the white pages with their severity.
Florentino’s page-turning slowed.
Silence settled over the office, broken only by the soft rasp of paper.
Julian’s heartbeat, paradoxically, was calm.
Numbers do not lie.
Florentino, as a businessman, might not grasp data models.
But he understood balance sheets.
And each name in that report represented an asset worth tens of millions—sometimes hundreds of millions—of euros.
This wasn’t a football debate.
It was about asset depreciation.
Julian stood quietly, waiting, until Florentino closed the report.
Then he spoke, his voice low but clear.
“President, I cannot conjure art out of thin air.
But I can guarantee that your assets will not spend the decisive stage of the season lying in hospital beds because of preventable losses.”
He made no demands—just stated a fact Florentino could not ignore.
“So, what do you need?”
The president finally spoke, pushing the file aside. His body leaned back into the wide leather chair, eyes sharp.
The moment of truth.
Julian pressed his tension deep into his chest.
“I don’t want transfer rights. I don’t want a higher salary.”
His voice was steady, unyielding.
“What I need is access.
Full authority over Valdebebas’s training facilities, recovery center, and medical data.
I need to integrate all the players’ physical information and establish a unified system of monitoring, rotation, and recovery.
Only then can I ensure that we reach the final moment of the season with a healthy squad.”
Florentino studied the young man before him.
He did not reply immediately.
But the gaze—the lofty scrutiny—slowly shifted into something else.
A new kind of recognition, touched with gravity.
This was not a lucky coach riding a single victory.
This was someone aiming deeper.
He hadn’t asked for the powers most managers craved.
Instead, he sought the dullest, most overlooked levers—training and medical control.
Florentino’s fingers drummed lightly on the mahogany desk.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Each beat landing like a hammer against Julian’s chest.
Finally, the drumming ceased.
“I’ll consider it.”
Neither yes nor no.
But as Julian turned to leave, he felt it.
The look following him no longer marked him as a “fortunate young man.”
It was the gaze reserved for a professional wielding a singular tool.
…
The next day, on the training ground, Julian was noting down warm-up data when his phone buzzed.
An email from Valdano.
Short. Direct.
“By order of the president’s office, Mr. Julian Alvarez is hereby granted temporary authority over Area A of the Valdebebas training complex, including facilities and data related to physical recovery and medical analysis.”
Temporary.
A word he had expected.
Julian looked at the screen, the faintest curve tugging at his lips.
He locked the phone, face expressionless, and lifted his gaze to the field—where the club’s priceless stars were running.
One tactical victory had now been converted into his first piece of capital.
Granted by the very core of power.
Temporary, yes.
But the c***k had been opened.
- Writer
