Chapter 92: First Setback

Argentina has long been a pipeline into European football, Italy especially, given the shared ancestry running through so many Argentine surnames, but England’s own version of that pathway runs through a different bottleneck entirely: work permits.

A non-EU player without enough senior international caps or a high enough FIFA ranking simply doesn’t clear the paperwork, whatever his actual ability.

South America remained a genuinely rich hunting ground, and Saint would have happily signed two or three more names out of it this summer if the system allowed. Instead, he found himself stuck working around exactly the kind of bureaucratic wall that had nothing to do with talent and everything to do with red tape.

Part of why Salerno specifically had appealed to Saint was his Italian passport, inherited through family, which meant no work permit complications whatsoever, since EU nationality sidestepped the whole issue cleanly.

With Salerno’s deal done, Villa had completed thirteen signings for the summer. Against that total, though, the number of players heading the other way looked genuinely alarming.

Right as the Salerno deal cleared, four more players left the club: Okoro, a promising young forward named Pete Nash, veteran squad player Alan Pine, and rotation option Danny Gorman.

Together, those four brought in two million, eight hundred thousand pounds. Okoro had been Ventham’s first-choice striker, unspectacular but genuinely effective at Championship level; Nash had shown real flashes off the bench, and Gorman had quietly done his job without complaint whenever called upon, which was exactly why those three accounted for most of that fee between them.

With their exits, Villa’s total departures for the summer had climbed to an eye-watering eighteen players, bringing in a combined sixteen million, nine hundred thousand pounds across the window so far.

Looking over the full transfer report together, both Saint and Sallow found themselves genuinely stunned, the original ten-million budget hadn’t just held up. It had actually grown by a further two million, one hundred thousand pounds.

Fourteen million, eight hundred thousand pounds, that was the combined value of the thirteen players Saint had brought in, and only two of those deals had cost more than a million apiece: Vacek at five and a half million, and Tomlin at six and a half million.

Of the remaining eleven, four had arrived completely free, Barzley, Pryce, Teale, and Reyes. Of the other seven, Osei had come as part of the Delgado deal, and Faraday, Gamble, Crist, and Salerno had all cost under a million pounds apiece combined.

Run the full numbers, and Villa still had twelve million, one hundred thousand pounds of transfer funds sitting untouched.

"We need to keep strengthening," Saint said, decisive as ever.

"Agreed." Sallow didn’t push back this time, the balance sheet in front of him made the case on its own.

Saint’s mind was already working through the possibilities. Plenty of names still sat on his wish list, but he had to weigh every single one against Villa’s actual squad needs and the lingering headache of work-permit eligibility.

"Lee, what’s your read on Marcus Fini, from Wigan’s squad last season?" While Saint turned the question over in his head, Sallow ventured a suggestion of his own, somewhat carefully.

Sallow had spent most of this window getting shot down, every name he’d floated so far had been politely but firmly rejected by Saint without exception.

"Hm? He’s fine. Bring him in as squad depth if you think it’s worth it." Saint nodded.

"Oh.. right, alright then..." Sallow stopped mid-sentence, genuinely thrown. "Wait. You’re actually agreeing? To one I suggested?"

"Derek, what exactly do you think I’ve been doing all summer, blocking you purely out of spite?" Saint said it with a hint of humour, though there was a genuine point underneath it: every rejection so far had been about fit, never about whose idea it was.

"No.. I know you’re doing this for the club. I just think we’ve genuinely disagreed on a few calls, nothing more than that," Sallow said, shaking his head.

"Ha.. fair enough. Anyway, I’ve already decided who I actually want next." Saint moved straight past the moment without dwelling on it.

A Dutch winger, still only in his early twenties, currently plying his trade at PSV Eindhoven. In another life, paired alongside Rocher on opposite flanks, the two of them would go on to form one of the most feared wide partnerships European football had ever produced.

"Trouble is, PSV just won the league and the domestic cup both last season," Saint said, working through the problem out loud. "Which means Champions League football waiting for him there next season."

For any ambitious young player, European football’s biggest stage holds an almost gravitational pull, and that alone made this particular pursuit considerably harder than most. ℯℯ𝘭.

"Derek, put in an offer to PSV. Start at five million and see where it goes." In the end, Saint decided it was worth the attempt regardless.

Sallow made the call, pleased enough with the instruction, PSV, less so. The response came back blunt: not for sale, full stop.

Nothing in football is genuinely "not for sale"; that phrase almost always translates to "your offer isn’t close to what would actually move us." So the back-and-forth continued.

Seven million. ’Our core player, not available.’

Nine million. ’Still central to our plans next season.’

Ten million. Villa’s final word on the matter.

Faced with that kind of persistence, PSV finally relented, agreeing, at least, to let Villa approach the player directly. What came back from that conversation was a bucket of cold water regardless.

"He doesn’t want to leave the Netherlands right now." That was the message relayed through his agent.

Despite that answer, Saint pushed for a direct conversation anyway, and came away with the same disappointing result. The player genuinely had no interest in a move this summer.

"Might actually be love, this one," Saint muttered, equal parts amused and exasperated. As it turned out, the winger wanted to wait until his girlfriend finished her own studies before even entertaining a transfer anywhere.

Saint felt genuine regret over that one. Sallow, by contrast, was quietly relieved, ten million pounds for a single player was a genuinely terrifying number by his standards; in all his years running Villa’s football operations, he’d never once sanctioned a fee that size.

Missing out on the Dutch winger stung, but Sallow had already moved on to finalising Fini’s deal in the meantime. Wigan had been reluctant to sell at first, league restructuring meant they genuinely needed experienced bodies for a play-off push, but once Villa’s offer reached nine hundred thousand pounds, combined with the player’s own clear desire to test himself in the Premier League, Wigan finally relented.

In Saint’s own assessment, Fini’s signing was purely about depth, injuries are an unavoidable part of any season, and a versatile player comfortable on either flank was exactly the kind of squad insurance worth having.

Villa’s business wasn’t finished yet, either. The wing specifically still needed strengthening, at minimum, one more genuinely good option was still missing from the squad.