"Is nothing going to happen?"
Inside a luxury hotel near the national training center, two men sat across from each other in a private suite.
One was Charles Grant, head of the Olympic football delegation. The other, Martin Sinclair, was the editor-in-chief of World Football Weekly—a man with deep ties to the National Football Association.
Their relationship was symbiotic: political favors exchanged for media leverage. Sinclair was often seen as the unofficial mouthpiece of the FA.
In this system, the so-called team leader wasn't just a ceremonial title. In fact, in this country's national football hierarchy, the team leader often held more real power than even the head coach—especially if the coach was a foreign hire.
Officially, this was explained away as: "Local staff understand domestic players better."
But in reality? It was a rigged system.
Player selection wasn't about merit—it was about influence, favors, and bribes. And Charles Grant, like many before him, was a gatekeeper to the Olympic team.
That's why when Coach Blazevic made his request to include Alessandro Dybala in the squad through media pressure, Charles wasn't pleased. He felt his authority was being challenged.
So he responded in kind—with silence and a price tag.
If Dybala paid, he'd be accepted. Just another "obedient" player under control. But if he resisted…
Then he'd be shut out completely.
After all, Charles didn't want any wildcards on the team—players who might challenge the status quo or, worse, threaten his authority. What would a team leader do if even the assistant coaches had more influence?
But Alessandro had no idea that refusing the bribe had thrown him into the middle of a quiet war—a tug-of-war between corrupt domestic staff and the powerless foreign coaches.
Back in the suite, Charles scoffed.
"Don't worry. That kid may have a little money, but he's just new money—rich from a land buyout or something. He won't make any real waves."
Martin Sinclair smirked. "Yeah. Let's teach him a little lesson. Put him in his place."
In fact, most players gave Charles a little "tribute" the first time they joined the team—usually offered without being asked.
If Dybala had quietly paid up, Charles wouldn't have made a fuss. But now? He was blacklisted.
Would that ruin the kid's career?
Would the country lose a midfielder with world-class potential?
Charles didn't care.
Olympic results? National pride?
Not his concern. He wasn't the coach.
If the team played poorly, they'd just sack the manager and throw him to the wolves. Problem solved.
Right then, Charles's phone buzzed.
"Heh. The boy's calling to beg," he chuckled, lifting it to his ear.
Martin grinned. "As he should. After crossing you, did he think he could play pro ball in this country again?"
Charles gave a knowing smirk and answered the call.
"Mr. Grant," Alessandro's voice was cold, angry. "What's the meaning of this?"
But Charles was no fool. He knew better than to say anything risky over the phone—especially now that recording calls was so easy.
"Alessandro, I suggest you stop making waves and learn your place," he replied coolly, then hung up.
Across the city, Alessandro lowered his phone, jaw tight.
The bastard was careful. He was hoping to catch him in the act, maybe get some kind of audio evidence.
But now?
If Charles wanted to play dirty, Alessandro could play dirtier.
He pulled up another number and hit call.
"Yo, cousin. I've got something you'll want."
On the other end, a girl's voice snapped: "You've ignored my calls for days. What's going on with this envelope thing?"
"I'll explain in person. I'm coming to you now."
Alessandro jumped into a taxi, heading across the city.
He ignored the dozens of missed calls still flooding his phone. It didn't matter.
Soon, the whole truth would be out.
---
In a modern office in downtown Southport, Alessandro sat across from a sharp-eyed woman in a ponytail and sleek black blazer.
His cousin, Sophia Reed, was a sports journalist at South Nation Daily. Though she didn't normally cover football, what Alessandro had brought her was too big to ignore.
On her screen, the secretly recorded video played. It showed Charles Grant clearly discussing the pay-to-play scheme.
Sophia stared at the screen in shock. "You… you realize how big this is?"
"I know," Alessandro said calmly. "But did I have a choice?"
Sophia slowly nodded. Without this footage, his name would've been ruined. No team would touch him.
"I've heard whispers about bribes before," she muttered. "But this… this is the first time I've actually seen it."
She rubbed her temples, then turned to him seriously.
"If this video gets released, you won't just bring down Grant. You'll be going up against the people who protect him. The top brass."
Charles Grant didn't act alone. Someone put him in that position. If he dared to openly sell spots on the national team, it was because he had cover from the inside.
And if that network was threatened…
Then Alessandro would be blacklisted across every professional team in the country. No one would sign a player who dared to challenge the system.
Alessandro didn't flinch.
"If they're offended, so be it. I don't care anymore."
He clenched his fists, eyes burning with defiance.
"You want to screw me over?"
"Then let's see who gets burned."
---