Football: Salary System - Chapter 141: What Happened to the Secret Meeting? (Patreon)

Tom Lester drove his beat-up car, keeping a safe distance behind Zayn’s Jaguar.

This was already the sixth day he had been tailing him.

As a veteran paparazzo who had spent more than a decade at The Sun, Tom was convinced that Zayn Ryder was a playboy.

He had two reasons.

First, as far as The Sun’s staff were concerned, every man was a playboy. There was no such thing as someone without dirt on them. There were only people whose dirt they had not uncovered yet.

Second, most people who became rich and famous at a young age had trouble keeping themselves under control, especially footballers.

What was it Mourinho had once said?

“Don’t idolize professional footballers. Some of them are scum!”

It was precisely because Tom believed there had to be something worth digging up on Zayn Ryder that he had accepted this assignment, which would eventually take him all the way to Germany.

Of course, the bigger reason was simply that Zayn attracted an enormous amount of attention.

Tom wanted a piece of that.

But after following him for several days, he had been left somewhat disappointed.

Zayn was almost absurdly well-behaved.

Between matches, he stayed at St. George’s Park and barely went anywhere.

The only exception came after the match against the United States, when he joined his teammates at Rooney’s farewell celebration. But probably because everyone knew the media were watching, the entire gathering had been remarkably restrained and ended early.

Tom understood that and did not let it discourage him.

Zayn was surrounded by cameras whenever he was in England, so naturally he would be more careful.

For now, Tom planned to keep following him without putting in too much effort. Once Zayn returned to Germany, that was when he could really start digging.

Far away from home and the constant scrutiny of the English media, that was when a playboy would finally show his true colors.

But as he continued following the Jaguar, Tom gradually realized something was wrong.

The Sun had been the first outlet to report on Zayn taking his family on a massive shopping spree shortly before the World Cup in Russia, so Tom knew that the Jaguar Zayn was driving belonged to his family.

His original assumption had therefore been simple.

Zayn would drive the car back to Birmingham, then fly out from there.

But now Zayn had joined the motorway, and he was not heading toward Birmingham.

The veteran paparazzo immediately became alert.

England’s Nations League match against Croatia had kicked off at two in the afternoon, which meant it was only around five now.

Dortmund’s next match was still six days away, so there was no reason for Zayn to rush back.

He had plenty of time to deal with whatever personal business he had.

“This kid... He’s not going home, and he’s not heading for the airport. So where the hell is he going?”

Tom, who had already resigned himself to finding nothing worthwhile in England, suddenly came alive.

Countless possibilities flashed through his mind.

A secret meeting with a model?

A private rendezvous with a socialite?

Maybe a television presenter?

He did not care which one.

Any of them would make a headline.

Excited, Tom closed the gap between the two cars a little.

But as one motorway sign after another flashed past, his expression changed from excitement to confusion, then from confusion to outright shock.

The kid was heading north.

Toward Manchester.

What was in Manchester?

Two of the biggest clubs in English football.

Two of the richest clubs in the Premier League.

There were still almost two months before the winter transfer window opened.

Could a club already be making contact with Zayn?

Tom felt a rush of adrenaline shoot straight to his head.

The Sun might have built its reputation on off-field scandals, but it would never turn down a major transfer exclusive.

Hell, half the time they were perfectly happy to manufacture transfer stories out of scraps of speculation.

And a player of Zayn Ryder’s stature was on an entirely different level.

Any serious development regarding his future would be explosive news across European football.

With every terrifying performance he produced on the pitch, the entire world was becoming more convinced that Dortmund could not possibly keep the hottest young star in football forever.

The only questions were when he would leave, who would buy him, and how much they would pay.

If Tom could actually photograph Zayn secretly meeting representatives from another club...

He could already see the fantasy unfolding in his head.

A promotion.

A raise.

Maybe even marrying some gorgeous heiress.

He went further.

Once he had moved up the ladder and built enough contacts in the industry, he would no longer have to spend his life chasing footballers around for tabloid gossip.

He could reinvent himself as a transfer reporter.

Just like that Italian journalist who was always shouting, “Here we go!”

Build his own social media following. Become his own brand. Stop being somebody else’s employee.

The more Tom thought about it, the more excited he became.

His palms were beginning to sweat against the steering wheel.

Then Zayn’s car left the motorway and entered West Gorton in east Manchester.

Tom almost screamed.

West Gorton!

Manchester City’s earliest predecessor had been St Mark’s West Gorton.

Hyde Road, the club’s first true home ground, had also been located in the area.

And Manchester City’s modern training complex, the City Football Academy, was less than three miles away.

Tom’s imagination instantly constructed an entire scenario.

Manchester City executives secretly invite Zayn to a private meeting.

They put an astronomical weekly salary on the table.

They begin laying the groundwork before the winter window even opens.

Tom could already picture City’s wealthy owners throwing an absurd amount of money at Dortmund in January to sign Zayn.

Still, one thing bothered him.

Manchester City had been outstanding on every front this season. They were among the favorites for both the Premier League and the Champions League and were progressing comfortably in the domestic cups as well.

Guardiola already had an incredibly strong squad.

Did they really need to spend another enormous fee on a center forward in January?

Tom quickly stopped thinking about it.

Trying to understand how oil billionaires thought was far beyond the pay grade of a tabloid paparazzo.

For people like that, spending more than £100 million on a footballer probably just meant buying two fewer islands that year.

Satisfied with his own explanation, Tom suppressed his excitement and continued following carefully.

Eventually, Zayn’s car turned onto a quiet road inside an industrial estate and stopped in front of a large gray-and-white building.

Tom frowned.

There were no upscale cafés or restaurants nearby.

No club executives in expensive suits.

Nothing that looked remotely connected to football.

This did not look like somewhere you held a secret transfer meeting.

Still, Tom parked in the shadows some distance away and expertly reached across to the passenger seat for his telephoto camera.

He removed the lens cap, zoomed in, and focused on Zayn.

Through the viewfinder, he watched Zayn step out of the car.

At that exact moment, a side door in the gray-and-white building opened.

Several men filed out.

Every one of them wore a long, heavy black wool coat. Thick pocket-watch chains hung across their waistcoats. Their leather shoes had been polished to a mirror shine, and tweed newsboy caps were pulled so low that they nearly obscured half their faces.

Every last one of them looked dangerous.

Then the men greeted Zayn enthusiastically, hugged him, and surrounded him as they escorted him inside.

“What the fuck?”

Tom instinctively shrank back in his seat.

“Why the hell did a bunch of mobsters come out to meet him?”

But professional instinct quickly took over.

He raised the camera again and began hammering the shutter.

Where were the Manchester City executives?

What happened to the secret meeting?

Tom had absolutely no idea what he was looking at.

He was, however, deeply shaken.

“Am I really in fucking Manchester right now, or did I somehow end up in Sicily?”