Milan, Italy — Navigli District.
From the outside, it was as picturesque as a postcard. The Navigli District, with its gentle canals reflecting the soft afternoon sun, cobblestone streets lined with cafes spilling over with locals and tourists, was a perfect canvas of Milanese charm. The high-rise apartments that towered just beyond the waterways shimmered under the sky, their balconies adorned with lush vines and flowers that lazily danced in the breeze.
But on the 11th floor of one of those elegant buildings, the tranquility ended.
Inside, it was chaos—the kind of organized madness only a high-functioning newsroom could birth. Laptops were open on every available surface, their screens flashing with transfer alerts, breaking news, and hastily written drafts. Sheets of paper floated in the air like birds startled from a nest, as interns scrambled to pick them up, only to be sent running again with new instructions. The stark contrast between the peaceful Navigli below and the warzone-like atmosphere inside was palpable. Here, in this cramped space where the hum of coffee machines fought against the constant shrill of phones ringing, transfer season had turned into a battlefield.
"United just confirmed Sancho is their first priority! But Dortmund aren't budging. Our source says they're holding out for nothing less than eighty-five million pounds But they just told united its 100 million!"
The shout came from the far side of the room, a young man with a headset clamped around his neck, his voice cutting through the noise. He didn't look up from his screen, already typing furiously as he updated the team chat.
In the eye of this storm stood her—the woman who ran this chaos like a general on the frontlines. Sharp eyes, slender figure, her fitted black blazer barely wrinkling despite the frenzy. She was not one to be ignored.
"Confirm that immediately!" she barked, turning sharply. Her voice was a whip-crack. Heads swivelled. "I want to know if United are willing to match that price tag. Also Contact our people in Manchester—tell them the actual price tag Dortmund can go down too but in return they should offer up at least a full promotional feature for at least two players if they give us the first bite at this. Make sure its exclusive. That should help us with the prem areas we have been losing grounds there already for a bit."
The newsroom scrambled, phones dialing, emails firing. The tension only grew thicker.
"Mendes was spotted in Manchester last week!" another voice called out, this time from the corner, holding a phone to his ear. "And we're getting whispers that Cristiano and the Juventus board are butting heads. Mendes' team is claiming he spoke with City."
A ripple of murmurs coursed through the room. That name—Cristiano Ronaldo—always sent a jolt through any newsroom.
The woman's gaze narrowed, her mind already moving ten steps ahead. "We don't take Mendes' word at face value," she said coolly, yet firm. "Our contacts in City are denying any talks. Sly as he is, Mendes knows how to create smoke even when there's no fire. We're not running with this until it's airtight."
"But—" another journalist protested, voice rising over the noise, "If we hesitate, we'll be left behind. Sky, Marca, ESPN even Ornstein—they're already digging into this City-Ronaldo angle. What if we miss it?"
The woman's eyes snapped to him, sharp as blades. She cut him off instantly.
"It's better to be reliable than fast," she said, each word dropping like a stone. "The boss said something is fishy about this Ronaldo story. Until we know for sure, we don't touch it. Understood?"
Silence. No one dared argue further.
She straightened, flipping through a pile of reports as her mind refocused. "Speaking of City, Aguero's departure is practically confirmed by summer. We need to figure out his next destination. And more importantly, who City's targeting as his replacement. If it's not Ronaldo, who is it?"
Another voice answered, this time from near the whiteboard crammed with names and transfer lines. "For Aguero, we're hearing talks with Barcelona. But their entire sporting division is in flux. There's chatter of a new sporting director coming in, which is making it hard to get a solid read. His agent is also speaking with Paris Saint-Germain."
The woman's eyes flickered. For a brief second, as people bustled past her, she stood still—thinking.
"Paris, huh?" she muttered to herself, the gears turning visibly in her head. "PSG's already in talks with Enrique, aren't they?"
"Yes," someone replied quickly. "But he's told them he wouldn't join until after the Euros. He's fully committed to Spain till then."
She crossed her arms, pacing slightly. "Aguero doesn't fit Enrique's profile. If he's going to PSG, that's not Enrique's doing. Focus our channels on Barca, then. If Aguero's move is happening, it'll be through them. Get our lines there clean. I want solid info from their side before the week ends."
The room was already moving again, people taking orders, channels being activated, sources being messaged.
She glanced at her watch, muttering under her breath. "This thing's about to get messy."
Then, her eyes hardened as she took a breath. "I'll go talk to the boss. He'll know what to do next."
"Haaland's father just landed in Madrid! Someone confirm if he is going there for a meeting and if so which club is hosting him, NOW!" a voice exploded through the room, slicing the air sharper than any ringtone.
"Alaba's verbal agreement is done, but I won't tweet it until the signatures are there. Triple check the clause with his lawyer — I don't want another Mbappé situation on my head!" barked another from a desk surrounded by three open laptops.
"Speaking of Mbappe they are talks that Florentino is massively pushing for him again this summer even talks of offering 200 million for him "
"Chelsea are briefing about Haaland, but Lukaku is their backup! We need Inter contacts NOW or we'll be left behind!"
Every inch of the apartment was alive with this energy. Agents' calls, encrypted group chats, contractual whispers — news that hadn't even hit the public yet. In this loft, stories were born, shaped, and in some cases, buried. They knew when a club was interested in a player before the player's own agent did. Leaks? They didn't wait for leaks. They manufactured them.
For Elena Russo, this was just another Tuesday.
She moved through the chaos like a shadow—unfazed, untouchable—papers in hand that held the private numbers of people who could make a hundred million disappear with a phone call. The rising hum around her didn't earn even a twitch of her brow.
Her path took her past the Whiteboard War Zone, a massive chart that mapped out the future of world football. Haaland's name was dead center, underlined thrice in red, with arrows branching out toward Chelsea, Madrid, Barcelona — and beneath those, spiderweb connections to minor players: agents, financial advisors, lawyers. A visual symphony of chess moves only a few minds in the world could play.
A nearby table was strewn with contract drafts for Alaba, Depay, Wijnaldum, each one viciously stamped "Pending". Screenshots of WhatsApp group chats filled open laptop screens, displaying cryptic texts from club directors and agents.
"Dinner in Milan?"
"Flight to London booked. Details after signature."
"Director wants to chat after Sunday."
Each message was code, and in this place, code was gospel.
A well-worn notebook rested on another table, pages littered with scribbled "Here We Go" drafts, some half-completed, others with bold underlines, all waiting for a confirmation that could drop in seconds—or not at all.
None of it fazed Elena.
Her target was at the back of the room, a white door, slightly ajar yet somehow still radiating the energy of a locked vault. She approached, pausing only to knock twice, out of courtesy, not expectation. As she thought, there was no reply.
Elena didn't wait.
With a slow exhale, she pushed the door open and stepped inside, her heel landing squarely on a crumpled piece of paper. She didn't even glance down.
The room was a stark contrast to the organized chaos outside. Here, it was pure entropy. Laptops were stacked on chairs, wires tangled like spaghetti, and discarded papers blanketed the floor. The dim light flickered intermittently, adding to the war-room intensity of it all.
And in the center of it stood the man himself — orchestrating five conversations at once, like a general directing a battle he refused to lose.
Fabrizio Romano.
His eyes, bloodshot and sunken, were locked onto the multiple screens before him. He had a phone to his ear, an AirPod in the other, two more phones on loudspeaker balanced on the cluttered desk, and a laptop microphone catching his voice as he simultaneously responded to a Zoom call. His dark shirt was wrinkled, his tie discarded somewhere into the abyss of the paper-strewn floor.
This was the cost of being the undisputed Number One journalist in world football.
Four hours of sleep—if lucky. A diet made up of energy drinks, instant noodles, and a rotating selection of sugar-filled protein bars. His life had become an endless marathon of breaking stories before the world even knew they were stories.
But today, Fabrizio Romano looked like a man clinging to his empire by the skin of his teeth.
"You've been telling me the same thing for over THREE WEEKS now!" he roared, his voice crashing through the room like a battering ram. The veins in his neck strained as he paced the limited space. "I need to know where Mateo King is going. WHO his agent is talking to. Juventus, City, PSG — there's something fishy going on in Barcelona and you're telling me you can't get a single solid lead?"
On speaker, a frazzled voice echoed back. "Boss, it's not easy. Mateo's agent has locked us out completely. He's not taking calls, not responding to anyone. And the team is not any better, Barca's entire inner circle is in survival mode. There's no reliable leak right now. It's airtight. I'm literally in Spain, parked outside his agent's Restaurant or rather home, trying to get anything — but it's impossible."
Fabrizio's nostrils flared. He stopped pacing for the first time, his fingers rapping against the desk like war drums.
"Corner him with incentives," Fabrizio snapped, slicing through the excuses. "Tell him award season is coming. Offer him five—no, scratch that—six puff pieces. Front-page exclusives. Highlight reels. I don't care. We'll run a goddamn Netflix docuseries on Mateo King if that's what it takes. Get into his good graces. I want him believing we're the only voice that matters in football media."
His voice dropped to a dangerous, calm whisper, which was far more terrifying than the earlier shouts.
"Mateo King is the hottest name in the world right now. Every club executive is desperate to know his next move. Every manager, every fan forum, every bloody sponsor. We can't afford to be left out of this. If you can't crack the contract negotiations, then find out who's trying to. I want every agent, middleman, intern, bus driver — if they've said Mateo's name in the last week, I want them on our radar by TONIGHT."
There was a pause on the line, as if the man on the other end had forgotten how to breathe.
"Okay, boss, I'll—"
"Make sure you get this done." Fabrizio cut him off mid-sentence, his thumb jabbing the red button with a finality that echoed through the room.
He didn't even notice Elena, standing silently by the door, papers still in hand, watching him.
Fabrizio let out a long, weary sigh as he slumped back in his chair, his shoulders sinking as if the entire weight of European football was crushing down on him. His eyes wandered across the cluttered desk until they landed on a faint, irregular blood stain—a blotch of red marring the corner of a high-priority document.
His heart jumped.
Not out of concern for his health—he was far past caring about that—but for the files beneath the stain. He instinctively grabbed a tissue, his fingers trembling slightly, and began dabbing at the corner, as if sheer willpower could undo the damage.
"Shit—no, no, no..." he muttered, trying to save the papers, as though smudged ink would be the end of everything. But as he reached further across the table, his vision blurred. The world tilted, sharp and sudden. A dizzy wave coursed through his body. His legs buckled, knees softening beneath him, and for a terrifying moment, gravity took control.
"Boss!"
Elena's voice sliced through the room, sharp and immediate.
She was at his side in seconds, catching him before his body could fully give way. Fabrizio's weight sagged into the chair, half-collapsed, his breath ragged. His hand still clung to the tissue like it was more important than the air he was struggling to breathe.
"The files..." he croaked, still fixated on the desk, as though the papers were slipping through his grasp.
But before he could say another word, Elena leaned in, her voice sharp yet soft, "None of this will matter if you don't take care of yourself, Fabrizio."
She pulled away, briskly moving across the room, grabbing a fresh packet of tissues from a shelf cluttered with old press passes and unopened mail. She returned, kneeling beside him, gently pressing the tissues against his bleeding nose, her fingers firm, practiced. Fabrizio tilted his head back, trying to minimize the flow, but his eyes were far from rested.
Elena exhaled slowly, her patience battling frustration. "You need to rest. Seriously, boss, it's been nearly two days. You haven't even blinked since Monday."
She stood up, dusting her hands, already half-turned towards the door. "I'm getting you something to help—"
"Something fishy is going on."
She froze. The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp. Elena turned back, her hand still on the doorframe.
There he was, Fabrizio Romano, hunched yet defiant, a crimson tissue balled in his fist, the faint stain still smeared on his upper lip, his eyes sharp despite their exhaustion. His gaze was fixed, but not at her — it was somewhere deeper, somewhere beneath the surface of all the noise.
"The whole Mateo situation. No, the whole Barça situation... there's something there we're missing," he murmured, his voice laced with conviction. His fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the armrest as his mind raced ahead. "Aguero's silence. Mateo's delayed contract. The fact that Laporta and the board are playing hide-and-seek with us..."
He trailed off, but his brain hadn't stopped. His jaw clenched.
"Mateo King is one of the hottest thing in world football right now with him being practically free he is even more wanted than Mbappé or Halland right now. Every big club should be throwing themselves to tie him down. Barça should have had him signed, paraded, and locked with a billion-euro clause by now. Yet it's been weeks, Elena. Weeks. Nothing. No announcements, no leaks, no briefings. That's not negligence. That's deliberate."
Elena, leaning against the door now, folded her arms and countered, "Maybe they're waiting for the right timing. You know how these things go, Fab. Sponsors, media rollouts, maybe even—"
"No." Fabrizio's tone sliced through her reasoning.
Elena's words halted mid-air. Fabrizio slowly leaned forward, a grimace of pain flashing across his face as he reached towards the desk, pushing aside scattered files and energy drink cans. His fingers found a photo, a mock-up chart they'd printed earlier that week, splayed out with faces and connections.
He tapped the paper with conviction. Laporta. Deco. Mateo's agent. Andrew King. And right in the center — Mateo King himself.
"There's something here," Fabrizio said, his voice low, simmering. "Something big. I can feel it in my gut. Bigger than a transfer saga. Bigger than a simple contract dispute. It's crawling under all of this noise, Elena. My instincts have never been wrong about these things."
It was that gut — that journalist's sixth sense — which had made him the number one voice in football media. The reason he stood alone at the top. But this time, it wasn't just a gut feeling. This was different. He could feel it like a cold weight in his stomach. There was a massive story buried in this Mateo King silence, and he was going to be the one to drag it into the light.
As if the universe itself heard his determination, the door behind Elena burst open.
"Marco!" Elena shouted, startled as a young man skidded into the room, nearly colliding with her.
He was panting, breathless, phone in hand, his face red as he sucked in air between his words.
"Marco, what the hell are you doing?! He needs to rest!" she snapped, shoving him back, but Marco wasn't listening. His wide eyes were locked on Fabrizio as if he had just seen a ghost.
"Boss... Boss, you need to hear this," Marco gasped, shoving the phone towards him, hand trembling. "Deco's on the line. Himself. He's calling himself—he's calling himself Barça's new Sporting Director."
Fabrizio's eyes narrowed, blood forgotten, tissue dropping from his hand.
Both he and Elena were frozen.
But Marco wasn't done.
"And... and he just said—" Marco's breath hitched, his voice cracking as he forced the words out:
"—Barcelona has agreed terms with Mateo King."
A/N
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