Footbal: Arsenal - Chapter 68: Raiola Wants to Be Kieran's Agent (Patreon)

“Hello, Kieran! My name's Mino Raiola. You can call me Mino.”

The man wore a gray suit, with his hair neatly arranged. He was generously built all over, and his round belly gave him a surprisingly friendly, harmless appearance.

The moment he saw Kieran, Raiola started to open his arms for a hug. Halfway through, he seemed to think better of it. He straightened his collar instead and offered a business card, trying to look professional.

Kieran noticed the aborted greeting. He accepted the card with a smile. “How about a proper hello?”

Before Raiola could answer, Kieran stepped forward and embraced him enthusiastically.

He discovered that the man's bulk was wonderfully soft and springy. Unable to resist, Kieran gave it a furtive little poke. Raiola had so much padding that he didn't seem to notice.

Raiola burst out laughing and hugged him back. The tension drained visibly from his shoulders.

“Of course! As you can see, I'm a big fellow. You can call me Fat Raiola if you like. A lot of my friends do.”

He was clearly doing everything he could to close the distance between them.

Kieran grinned. “All right, Fat Raiola. No need to stand on ceremony, then.”

Genuine warmth always made an impression on Kieran. Growing up on his own in his previous life had sharpened his instincts about people. He was usually good at recognizing sincerity.

He also noticed that Raiola seemed nervous, which was rather curious.

By now Kieran had learned enough about modern football to know exactly who Mino Raiola was. Before meeting him, he'd thought of him as an agent who lived permanently in the eye of a storm.

Raiola knew how to stir up newspapers, supporters, and clubs, using all that pressure to raise his clients' value and engineer transfers.

To many fans and executives, he was the worst agent in football. To many of his players, he was the best. He put their interests first, and he wasn't above attacking anyone or anything that stood in the way.

Zlatan Ibrahimović was the classic example.

The great striker had moved through Juventus, Inter Milan, Barcelona, and AC Milan before landing at the wealthy Paris Saint-Germain. Raiola had masterminded every move, and almost every transfer had been accompanied by a storm of controversy.

An agent with that history ought to have been completely unflappable.

Yet here he was, approaching Kieran with extraordinary care. It made a favorable first impression.

Even so, Kieran had initially crossed Raiola off his shortlist before considering anyone else. What Raiola did best was precisely what Kieran didn't particularly need.

The man seemed pleasant enough, but Kieran had little desire to enter into a long conversation right now. He'd come out to visit Rooney, and that plan hadn't changed.

Outside the club, supporters were gathered behind the barriers, with security keeping them clear of the entrance.

Kieran waved Raiola's business card. “I'll get in touch later, Fat Raiola. I want to say hello to the fans first.”

He headed toward the gate.

Arsenal supporters, along with people who followed Kieran personally, often waited outside the training ground for a glimpse of him.

An autograph or a photograph would make their day.

Kieran generally obliged. His signature was wonderfully easy. A quick, flamboyant flourish of LEE for most fans, or a Chinese-character signature for supporters from his father's homeland, and he was done.

The overwhelming majority of supporters were sensible.

They made space for him whether or not he stopped, and his habit of taking each autograph seriously made them even more considerate.

The occasional overexcited fan rarely got close enough to cause trouble.

Other supporters would hold the person back first, making the security staff's job much easier.

So Kieran was perfectly happy to wade into the crowd, which had practically become an extra security team.

He chatted, signed shirts and papers, and posed for photographs as usual.

Before long, though, he noticed something strange.

Today the supporters were unusually orderly. Some were even queuing without being asked. Security had swiftly separated the few people who couldn't behave themselves.

Why was everybody so organized all of a sudden?

Curious, he took a closer look. One detail stood out from the rest.

A rotund figure in a gray suit was hurrying back and forth, cheerfully directing the flow of people.

Raiola hadn't left. He'd actually started helping!

Kieran watched the agent jog around, taking his self-appointed job seriously. He felt his earlier decision to rule the man out beginning to wobble.

Meanwhile, Raiola was thoroughly enjoying his role as temporary chief of security.

Leave? Why would he leave? Kieran had said they'd talk later. He hadn't told him to go away now, had he?

Usually so sharp about other people's intentions, Raiola had decided that pretending not to understand was his best strategy.

Never before had he cared so deeply about signing a particular footballer.

He certainly wasn't alone. Given the attention Kieran was attracting, plenty of agents were desperate to represent him.

As a player, Kieran seemed to possess everything that could make a superstar.

His style was unmistakable, his ability to control the course of a match extraordinary, and his knack for astonishing the crowd almost magical.

Raiola was convinced that whenever Kieran stepped onto the pitch, spectators would find themselves watching him without even realizing it.

At times it was easy to forget that he was only sixteen. He already possessed qualities that most players in their twenties, even in their prime, could only dream of.

And beyond football, his commercial potential was plain for anyone to see.

Raiola knew that Jorge Mendes was practically wearing out Kieran's phone trying to reach him. Mendes represented Cristiano Ronaldo, Pepe, and Di María, and even handled José Mourinho's affairs.

Sometimes it seemed the man was trying to take over all of Real Madrid.

Raiola had no illusions about competing with Mendes in the sheer scale of his business network. Mendes could offer far more commercial connections.

But Raiola genuinely adored Kieran as a player, and he was convinced that no agent in football would suit the youngster better than he would.

That was why he'd got up absurdly early and arrived before everyone else, making himself the first agent Kieran had met in person.

He also knew his advantage wouldn't last. Those infuriating rivals of his would soon be coming one after another.

Sure enough, just as Raiola and Kieran had found an easy rhythm helping the supporters through the autograph line, Jorge Mendes appeared near the club.