Chapter 834 Iron Lady

Chapter 834: Chapter 834 Iron Lady

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[29-06-2021 | The Ivy Chelsea Garden, London | 12:45 BST]

"That, Lisa, is a question for you and your son, not for me."

She let out a slow breath through her nose, watching a black cab crawl past the terrace hedge. "Alright, keep them warm; we don’t want to close the door prematurely. But move them down the priority list. What’s the second thing?"

"The second thing is more interesting." The keyboard clicking stopped entirely. "Chelsea has resurfaced."

Lisa straightened up off the railing. "Chelsea went quiet three weeks ago. After the first offer, nothing. I assumed Tuchel had cooled on it, or Roman had decided he didn’t want to spend after failing to man City in the UCL."

"Well, actually, my sources tell me things have been quite heated in the Chelsea camp." He noted in glee, and she could imagine his wide grin ready to dish gossip. "Touchil’s team is demanding significant investments from Abramovich’s side after failing against Leverkusen in May, and they seem to have reached an understanding."

"Ok, what does that have to do with us? Don’t tell me-" She questioned, muttering towards the end as the dots seemed to connect. "What did they offer?"

"It was not so much an offer but a meeting request with you directly." He spoke with a more serious tone. "Marina Granovskaia is set to touch down in London today. She wants a meeting, and from the reactions, if it goes well, she will make you a hard-to-refuse offer."

"So when would she like to meet?" Lisa asked after understanding the ins and outs of the situation.

"She wants to meet you tonight at The Sloane Club at 9pm." He said and waited to hear her responses.

Lisa checked her watch just quarter to one, more than enough. Plus, it wouldn’t hurt to hear them out and see what they have to offer. Her son’s next move was a crucial matter, and she would prefer it to be in England.

"Tonight works," she said finally. "Confirm it. And find out who else is in her party — I want to know if Roman himself is coming, or if she’s in this alone."

"She’s likely to come solo, as she fully runs the club independently, only briefing every now and then." A pause, then the sound of a chair creaking as he leaned back. "Lisa, if Chelsea comes in hard tonight, are you prepared to walk away from the other conversations? Because I, the Iron Lady, don’t do slow-play. She’ll want an answer within the week."

"We will have to wait and see," Was her only response. "Whatever the offer, if it’s not good enough to ignore everyone else, we will keep our options open, and we won’t confirm anything until the tournament is over."

"Understood, I will try and narrow it down to the top five then," he calmly stated, not at all bothered that his workload wasn’t lessened. "By the way, we received an interesting offer. I normally wouldn’t bring this to you, but they have been quite sincere and persistent."

"Oh, do tell," she responded, genuinely curious.

~~~

[01-07-2021 | Pulkovo Airport, Saint Petersburg, Russia | 15:45 BST]

The cool Russian air greeted the German contingent, who boarded their bus following their 30-minute security check. One of the trainers had a 1kg bag of herbal tea from Bucharest, causing all the dogs to bark. Safe to say there was embarrassment all around from coaches to players and employees.

The bus pulled away from the tarmac in a slow convoy, flanked by two police outriders whose blue lights strobed lazily against the grey terminal glass. Inside, the mood was subdued, not quite sombre, exactly, but still quiet, leaving the players in their own worlds.

Near the back, Rakim sat next to Wirtz, aptly watching the latter’s phone, which displayed a swarm of chats from his school friends. "Yo, I have people from kindergarten texting me," He whispered, showing him an IG text from a girl named Maya. "I haven’t talked to some of these people ever."

"Yeah, you should probably just ignore girls texting you all together," Rakim advised, pulling out his own phone, which was muted on every social media site.

"Huh, why?" Florian asked, seeming genuinely curious.

"Oh, you have a lot to learn, my friend," Rakim responded, patting him on the shoulder with a shake of his head. "In my experience, even suspicion is a crime."

He laughed it off, shoving his phone back into his pocket. "You sound like my dad. He used to say the same thing before every away trip."

"Smart man," Rakim said, leaning his head back against the seat rest. Outside, the world beyond the airport perimeter rolled past, the city of the saint coming into view. "Just don’t go doing something you will regret, plus shouldn’t you be focusing on Spain? They have a great team."

Florian stared at him for a second before slowly raising an eyebrow. "You’re telling me to focus?"

"Yes."

"You?"

"Correct."

"The guy who tried a rabona from outside the box in a knockout game?"

Rakim turned his head. "It went in."

"That’s not the point."

"I feel like that’s exactly the point." he stopped snapping his fingers and pointed them at him. "I saw, I shot, I conquered."

Florian snorted, earning a glance from Goretzka two rows ahead. "You know, I was actually going to ask how you even thought of doing that."

"I didn’t."

"What?"

"I didn’t think about it; it just happened." Rakim shrugged. "The ball came to me, Sommer was cheating forward, and I knew I would score if I just placed the ball up there."

Florian stared at him. "I know my life is dope, because I do dope shit."

Florian stared at him for two full seconds, his face crumpling by the second. "What the fuck does that even mean?"

Rakim’s expression remained completely serious. "It means exactly what it sounds like."

"No, it doesn’t."

"It does if you’re enlightened."

"You’re an idiot."

"An idiot who scores a lot of goals, plus I’m handsome"

Florian opened his mouth, twitching, reconsidering whatever argument had been forming, then slumped deeper into his seat. "I hate that you can keep saying that."

Rakim smiled lazily, knowing he would annoy him more. "Score more goals."

"Against Spain?"

"Preferably not our own goal."

"Great advice."

"I should charge you."

From the row ahead, Goretzka finally twisted around in his seat. "Can both of you shut up for five minutes?"

Neither answered, and Goretzka narrowed his eyes at them before turning back around. Rakim waited for about three seconds before saying. "He’s jealous." Florian immediately covered his mouth to stop himself from laughing.

A rolled-up training itinerary came flying over the seat, and Rakim reacted on instinct, swatting it sideways squarely onto Florian’s forehead. "Ow," he exclaimed, but Goretzka couldn’t care less, and Rakim avoided eye contact.

"Five minutes!" the man barked from the seat ahead, all the while his seatmate, Can, slept soundly. That finally brought him silence, as Rakim turned toward the window.

Saint Petersburg unfolded beyond the tinted glass in fragments: wide roads darkened by recent rain, pale apartment blocks, old stone buildings interrupted by flashes of gold from distant church domes. The sky was brighter than it had been in Bucharest, though heavy clouds still hung over the city, bringing a gloomy mood.

Still, the former capital looked beautiful, and Rakim could understand why millions shed blood to build it, conquer it, and possess it. For all that history, though, the city seemed almost indifferent to their arrival. People continued crossing roads beneath umbrellas as Trams rattled along their tracks. A cyclist in a yellow jacket shot past the convoy without so much as turning his head, while somewhere farther down the avenue, a delivery driver wrestled with the back of a van.

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TO BE CONTINUED...