Glory Of The Football Manager System-Chapter 378: The New Signings II

"I have a Europa League qualifier in six days," I said.

"I know," she said. "Use it. Show me how you’re developing your players, not just your team. Send me the report after the game."

The call ended. I sat back in my chair and looked at the note on my pad. She was right. It was a blind spot. And it was one I needed to fix.

After the afternoon session, Freedman appeared in my office doorway. He was holding a single sheet of paper. He didn’t say anything. He just walked in, closed the door behind him, and placed the paper on the desk in front of me.

I looked at it. It was a scouting report. A single name at the top.

Serge Gnabry.

I read it. Twenty-two years old. Werder Bremen. Winger. The report was concise and brutal. Former Arsenal academy product, sold to Bremen for a pittance after a disastrous loan spell at West Brom where he had been publicly written off as not being good enough.

He had gone to Germany and quietly, systematically, rebuilt his career. He was now, according to the report, one of the most dangerous wide forwards in the Bundesliga. Direct, two-footed, explosive, with a low centre of gravity and a ferocious shot. He could play on the left, on the right, or as a number ten. He was a nightmare for defenders.

At the bottom of the report was a single line, highlighted in yellow: Release Clause: £5,000,000.

I looked up at Freedman. He was watching me, his expression unreadable.

"Five million," I said.

"It’s clean," he said. "No negotiation, no add-ons, no sell-on clause. We pay the five million, we talk to the player. That’s it."

I pulled up the System’s scouting report on my tablet. It confirmed every word Freedman had said, and added one more, crucial detail.

> System Assessment: [Serge Gnabry]

> Strengths: Pace, dribbling, finishing, two-footedness.

> Weaknesses: Occasional defensive lapses.

> Potential: High. Potential to become world-class.

I slid the tablet across the desk to Freedman. He glanced at it and nodded, as if he had already known what it would say.

"He’s the cover for Zaha," I said. "He’s the depth on the left wing we don’t have. He’s a twenty-two-year-old with a world-class ceiling and a five-million-pound release clause in a market where average players are going for twenty."

"I know," Freedman said.

"Trigger it," I said. "Now. Before someone else does."

Freedman nodded. "The papers will take a few days to sort out," he said. "He won’t be registered in time for the first leg against Brøndby."

"I don’t care," I said. "I want him in the squad for the second leg. I want him in the building. I want him on the training pitch. Trigger the clause."

He turned and walked out of the office without another word. I sat back in my chair and stared at the name on the sheet of paper. Serge Gnabry. It was a gamble. But it was a gamble I was more than willing to take.

Late that afternoon, I walked up to Steve Parish’s office on the top floor of the main building. He was on the phone, pacing back and forth in front of the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the training pitches. He saw me, held up a finger, and finished his call.

"Danny," he said, his voice warm. "Good to have you back. How was Singapore?"

"Productive," I said. "We got a lot of good work done."

We talked for a few minutes about the tour, about the new signings, about the general mood around the club. Then the conversation turned to the Brøndby game.

"First European away game in a long time," Parish said, a note of genuine excitement in his voice. "It’s a big moment for the club."

"It is," I said. "And I’ve been thinking about the fans."

He listened, his expression attentive.

"This is a historic moment," I said. "The first European away game in modern history. The fans who have followed this club through the years in the Championship, through the administration, through everything they deserve to be there. They’re the ones who have earned this, as much as the players."

"I agree," he said.

"I was thinking," I said, the idea forming as I spoke, "that I would be happy to personally cover the cost of the tickets and the transport for a few hundred of them. The die-hards. The ones who go to every away game, no matter what. A gesture. A thank you."

Parish was silent for a long moment. He looked at me, then he looked out the window at the training pitches below. He leaned forward, his hands on his desk.

"A few hundred?" he said, his voice quiet.

I nodded.

"Danny," he said, and there was a new, sharp intensity in his eyes. "This is Crystal Palace Football Club’s first European away game in modern history. We are not doing this by halves."

By the time I walked out of his office twenty minutes later, the club had committed to covering the full cost of flights from Gatwick, hotel accommodation in Copenhagen, and match tickets for five thousand Crystal Palace fans in a stadium that held twenty-eight thousand. I walked back down the corridor in a state of mild shock, wondering exactly how a quiet, personal gesture had just turned into a full-scale airlift.

The System pinged in the back of my mind. I barely registered it.

> System Notification: [Club Action]

> Action: Subsidised fan travel for Brøndby (A)

> Impact: Squad Morale +15%. Fan Engagement: Maximum.

I got into my car in the car park and just sat there for a minute, the engine off, the quiet of the late afternoon settling around me. Then I pulled out my phone and called Emma.

She picked up on the second ring.

"Hey," she said, her voice warm and familiar.

"You’re not going to believe what I’ve just done," I said.

I told her. She was silent for a moment. Then she started to laugh. A full, genuine, unrestrained laugh that went on for about thirty seconds.

"Five thousand people," she said, when she finally stopped.

"Five thousand," I said.

"Danny Walsh from Moss Side," she said, "is flying five thousand people to Denmark."

"When you say it like that," I said, "it sounds irresponsible."

"It is irresponsible," she said. "It’s also the most you thing you have ever done." A pause. "I’m proud of you, you know."

I sat in the car park and listened to the city hum around me. The evening light was fading over the training ground, the last of the groundstaff heading home. In six days, five thousand Palace fans would be in Copenhagen. In six days, the real season would begin.

"I’ll be home in an hour," I said.

"I’ll keep dinner warm," she said.

I started the engine.