Football singularity

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[12/11/2019, Location: Upscale Restaurant on the Upper East Side, NY]

Oliver Burke leaned back in his chair, the hum of the upscale restaurant's air conditioning drowning out the muted jazz playing over the speakers. The place was posh—Upper East Side kind of posh. Oliver hated it. He'd have preferred some quiet pub on the west side with working-class men.

Despite being hugely successful he still missed the nights after work where he hit the pubs of London after a days of hard work. once he started taking his role as an agent visiting those places became a rare occasion because bastards like them liked to flaunt their wealth, their power. It was all part of the dance.

After all they spent years being at the bottom of their industry, enduring all types of treatments, so now that they were in a position of power, they can't help but flex it and see what happens. That is why executives in Hollywood feel the need to test the boundary of morality, or Catholic priests feel the need to cuddle with underage boys. Idle and lazy power is the worst kind that exists in this world, as the moment a man gets comfortable in their position, they cease to strive for more and starts testing what they can get away with.

Across the table, Jason Hart swirled his whiskey, eyes gleaming with predatory interest. Beside him, Joe, the chubby executive with enough money to support two families, seven mistresses, and a gambling habit that could bankrupt a small nation, chewed furiously on his steak like he had a personal vendetta against the cow. Greg, the third man at the table, sat stiffly, his gaze never quite meeting Oliver's, shame lurking in his eyes.

He had been tasked with facilitating this deal with Oliver as part of their plan to teach Rakim a lesson and exact some personal revenge. Jason Heart was simply trying to punish a player who had made him look bad in front of the company board. After all, what good is he as the head of scouting when he can't properly assess an asset prospect and manages to fumble them?

An asset that is what Rakim was in his eyes, not just him, but any celebrity/athlete he scouts for the company to work with are all considered assets. They are a means to an end to put food on the table and add a few zeros to his bank account. So, the fact that Rakim managed to bounce back so exponentially following his shooting is a blemish in his stellar record that he can't tolerate.

As for Joe, this was simply about business to him; in his mind, the money Rakim was generating for Apex should have been his. Correspondingly, every time he beats or embarrasses a prominent Niki athlete on the pitch, it hurts the brand, inadvertently hurting his wallet. That is why he jumped at the chance to play kingmaker with Jason by promoting Matteo using adverts, media campaigns and subtle guidance of talk shows covering the tournament.

This was a means to drive the narrative of that head-to-head propping Matteo while dragging Rakim to the ring. Because even if Rakim didn't respond, if the whole world started to compare the two, added to the juicy history brought about by Oliver and the national team, set up the perfect stage for an epic clash. Hollywood couldn't have written a better script even if Chris Terrio and David S. Goyer were given a second chance at the convoluted and equally confusing clash of man vs alien.

Unlike Lex, who was just starting the pot, Joe was actually backing one of the two horses in the race, but he forgot an important fact. No matter how much effort one puts in to promote a PPV, it is the winner who takes all, and in this case, the fact that Rakim overcame Team USA, he did just that. He did so unapologetically, barely acknowledging the conflict as he went on with business as usual.

"So let me get this straight," Joe snapped, stabbing his knife into the meat. "We pour millions into this kid Matteo, branding him as the next great American striker, and he chokes against Germany? Against that Rakim Rex kid, of all people?"

Oliver's jaw clenched, but his smile remained cool. "Matteo scored 4 goals against Germany, the team you decided to back losing is on you, my guy did his thing. Two of those were absolute stunners—an overhead kick that made international headlines and an acrobatic aerial heel flick straight out of an anime. Not to mention a goal tally of 11 in the tournament, just one below that Haland kid."

"Yeah, and for what?" Joe barked, slamming his fork down with enough force to clatter against the plate. "To make the highlight reels while his team loses? Do you know how much we spent on promoting him? On making him the American golden boy? And he gets punked by that brat who thinks he's untouchable?"

"Face it, Oliver." Jason leaned in, voice smooth and vicious. "Your kid was meant to make a statement, and he did. Just not the one we wanted. Rakim stole the show. Again."

Oliver's eyes narrowed. "And that's your problem. You spent more time trying to engineer a narrative with a set return in an even more volatile game. Now we had an agreement, I fulfilled my end of the bargain it's time to make good on yours."

"That's all well and good, Oliver," Greg muttered, his eyes lowered to the table like he was trying to disappear. "But Rakim's the one everyone remembers. And you know what's worse? Every single one of those moments you're so proud of came because your boy was trying to one-up him. That's not making a star we at NIKI want to create."

"Haha, this is the funniest thing I've heard in my life," Oliver burst out laughing upon hearing that man's words not bothering to hold back in the slightest. "The acrobatic goal against Mexico? That overhead kick against France? People haven't forgotten, and more importantly, brands and teams won't forget. You built the wrong narrative, that's on you. But Matteo's name is buzzing now. You don't get to pin your incompetence on him."

Jason's lips curled into a cold smile. "That's cute, Oliver. Real cute. But NIKI doesn't pay for potential. We pay for results. And the results say Rakim made Matteo look like an amateur. You should be grateful we're even considering keeping Matteo on board."

Oliver slammed his hand on the table, making the glasses rattle. "You think you can just cut him loose because of one game? News flash—thanks to your obsession with Rakim, my Matteo is now a brand. A young icon. Top three hottest strikers under 20 in the world. You can either capitalize on that or look like idiots when he gets snapped up by Adedas."

The mention of Adedas made Joe visibly twitch, and Jason's smile finally faltered. Greg looked like he wanted to sink into his chair. Oliver continued, pressing his advantage. "That's right. Other brands have been sniffing around, and they see what Matteo can become. You cut him loose, and they'll pick up the pieces. You'll look like the morons who not only lost one young phenom but two in the span of 2 years."

Silence settled over the table; the tension so thick it was suffocating. Jason glanced at Joe, who gave a curt nod before replying. "We're not making a decision yet. We'll see how things pan out after the tournament. But don't expect a final payment until we get some results. Prove Matteo's worth the risk."

Oliver sneered, grabbing his coat and throwing it over his shoulder. "Keep your money. Matteo's worth more than these peanuts, his contract with you runs at the need of the year If you want to extend this corporation, you're going to need to dig deep because anything other than wow won't cut it." He left without another word, his footsteps heavy and deliberate as he pushed through the restaurant doors. Inside, the three men exchanged uneasy glances, each realizing that Oliver might just be right.

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To Be Continued...