Chapter 193: The Second Deal

Carvajal showed up at the apartment three days after the Leverkusen match carrying a leather folder and wearing an unusually wide grin, which almost always meant a ridiculous amount of money was on the table.

He dropped into the kitchen chair across from Mateo without waiting to be asked, tossing the folder onto the wooden tabletop.

“You,” Carvajal said, pointing a finger, “have moved way up in the world since that soft-drink commercial. Remember how hard I had to fight to squeeze extra cash out of those people?”

Mateo leaned back against the counter, folding his arms. “You told me back then it was the greatest deal of your entire life.”

“Well, it was, at the time,” Carvajal said with a laugh. He pushed the folder across the table. “This one makes it look like pocket change. Go on, take a look.”

Mateo opened the file, glanced at the crest embossed on the heavy stationery, and then checked the figure typed neatly underneath. He slowly closed the folder and set it down.

“They build cars for billionaires and royal families,” Mateo said, looking at him skeptically. “Why on earth do they want a teenager playing football in the Ruhr Valley?”

“Because that same teenager just tore Inter Milan apart on television,” Carvajal said, grinning across the table. “Look, two months ago, they wouldn’t have bothered with us. But after that solo run against Dortmund and the show in Milan, their executives jumped at the chance. They get a rising star on the cheap before you move to a top club and the price triples.”

Carvajal tapped his knuckles on the folder.

“Their first offer was embarrassing. I laughed, told them no, and let them stew on it. Then we put four past Inter at the San Siro, and they called back with this number. Three-year global ambassador deal. And that doesn’t even count the custom build.”

Mateo frowned slightly. “What custom build?”

“They’re building one specifically for you,” Carvajal said, lowering his voice with quiet excitement. “A black luxury saloon with your name engraved on the chassis plate. That was the sweetener. The car alone costs more than half our bench, so at least look pleased when the cameras are on you.”

Mateo stared at the numbers again. It was the sort of money that felt abstract, just a long string of zeroes on a white page. A year ago, he was bunking in an academy dorm and hand-washing his only training kit in the bathroom sink.

“Raúl warned me about these commercial things,” Mateo said quietly. “He told me to stay grounded and not let corporate sponsors turn me into someone I’m not. Are we sticking to the same rules?”

“Completely,” Carvajal said, leaning in. “You just turn up, look sharp, and leave the negotiations to me. The shoot is in Goodwood, England. We fly in, get the shots done, and fly straight back out. I made that clear to them from the start. We have a league title to win and a semi-final coming up, so I’m not letting a car shoot touch your training schedule.”

The trip went exactly as promised: fast, efficient, and packed tight.

They boarded a private morning flight to England. Carvajal barely touched his seatbelt before his phone was out, working the lines over the English Channel. By the time the wheels touched down on the tarmac, he had managed to slip another clause into the paperwork.

“A performance kicker,” Carvajal said, tucking his phone back into his coat with an unmistakable grin. “If you pick up a major individual prize within the next three years, the annual payout doubles. The Ballon d’Or, that sort of bracket.”

Mateo raised an eyebrow. “You really think I’m winning the Ballon d’Or in three years?”

“I think their executives think it’s impossible, so they signed off without blinking,” Carvajal said with a quick shrug. “Costs us nothing to ask, Mateo. That’s the game. You push for a clause they think is fantasy, and if you actually pull it off down the line, we look like geniuses.”

At the headquarters in Goodwood, the executives greeted Mateo with warm handshakes and rehearsed compliments. He played along politely, signed the remaining paperwork, and posed for a round of photos beside the dark saloon. Up close, the hand-stitched leather and gleaming grille were undeniably impressive, built entirely for pure prestige.

The shoot took up the afternoon in a quiet studio bay. Stand by the door, look toward the light, Keep a relaxed hand on the driver’s door as if you drive it every day. A high-fashion model had been hired to sit in the passenger seat, looking effortless. She and Mateo exchanged a quick, polite nod between them, the director called for quiet and from there it was strictly business.

Mateo handled the cameras far better than he had during his first commercial gig. He remembered how to hold his posture, didn’t shift his feet during resets, and gave the production crew clean takes. The director wrapped the shoot two hours ahead of schedule.

They caught an evening flight back to Germany.

Carvajal nodded off, snoring quietly with the black folder resting safely on his lap. Mateo stayed awake in his seat, watching the tiny clusters of city lights pass below in the dark.

The money was nice to look at, but it didn’t hold his attention for long.

His mind was already on Friday’s draw. Four teams left in Europe, and over in Nyon, a quick roll of the plastic balls would decide who stood between Schalke and a final at Wembley.

Mateo thought about the European powerhouses waiting in that draw, teams built with hundreds of millions of euros, and felt the familiar competitive fire burn inside his chest.

Commercial shoots and luxury cars were just outside noise. The football on the pitch was what actually mattered.

He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.

Let’s see who they pull out of that bowl for us, he thought. Whoever it is, we’ll be ready.