Edwards never imagined that his high-stakes meeting with club owner John Henry would take place in the team cafeteria. It wasn't in a mahogany-row office or a glass-walled boardroom; it was among the rows of empty tables at the training base.
Though it was only 9:00 AM, the hall was deserted. Ever since Jurgen Klopp took charge, the training rhythm had been tightened. The players had already finished their breakfast and moved to the pitches half an hour earlier.
By the time Edwards arrived, John Henry had been waiting for a long time. In front of him sat a modest bowl of potato and corn porridge, steaming and fragrant. Under normal circumstances, the aroma would have made Edwards' empty stomach rumble, but today, he felt too nauseous to even consider a sip.
"Sit down, Edwards. Have something to eat," Henry said casually.
"No, thank you, Mr. Henry. I ate before I arrived," Edwards replied, his voice tight.
Henry nodded, taking a slow sip of his porridge. "If I recall, your last face-to-face report was months ago. Time really flies, doesn't it?"
Edwards nodded nervously. As the head of Fenway Sports Group, John Henry sat atop a sprawling sports empire. From Liverpool in the Premier League to the Boston Red Sox and the Pittsburgh Penguins, his portfolio was vast. His philosophy was simple: delegate to professionals and let them work.
Under normal circumstances, Edwards enjoyed immense authority. But this season, he had failed. The team's transfer operations were a shambles, and the club's prestige had taken a hit. Yet the greatest error—the one that had dragged Liverpool into a media storm—was allowing Renzo Uzumaki to leave for Fiorentina on a free loan.
Henry had been scathing in private calls and video conferences, but now, sitting face-to-face, he was eerily calm. To Edwards, this was far more terrifying. The calmer Henry appeared, the more certain it was that a storm was brewing.
"Mr. Henry, since Coach Klopp arrived, the results have stabilized," Edwards began, desperate to pivot. "Two wins and a draw in the last three matches. We've climbed to seventh. The gap to the top four is closing. I believe the goal is still within reach."
Henry wiped his mouth with a napkin, looking entirely unimpressed. "That isn't a surprise. Klopp is a world-class manager. That is why I personally arranged for him to be here."
Edwards' heart sank. He had hoped to take some credit for the recovery, but Henry had reminded him with a single sentence: the Sporting Director had played no part in the manager's arrival. He was merely a bystander to the success.
Realizing his tricks were useless, Edwards lowered his head. "Mr. Henry, I realize I have made serious professional errors over the past few months."
"Edwards, do you remember what they used to serve at that window over there?" Henry interrupted, gesturing toward a closed service station in the distance.
Edwards blinked, confused by the sudden shift. "I believe... it was West African specialty food?"
"Jollof rice, okra soup, and bean cakes," Henry said precisely. "Do you remember why I had you set that up?"
"For Jordon Ibe," Edwards whispered.
Back in 2011, Liverpool had signed the seventeen-year-old Ibe. To help the boy adapt, Henry had spared no expense, even hiring specialized chefs to cook the food the boy's family loved. Henry's investment logic was absolute: once a goal is identified, you perfect every detail to ensure it succeeds.
"How long has that window been closed?" Henry asked.
"Over three months, sir. Since his transfer to Bournemouth was finalized."
"Five years," Henry sighed, a look of brief disgust crossing his scholarly face. "It was open for five years. The food was mediocre at best, but as long as the boy wanted it, it was there. Because he was an asset. But tell me, Edwards—what is Jordon Ibe worth compared to Renzo Uzumaki?"
The sweat on Edwards' forehead was now visible.
"I am a businessman," Henry continued, his voice dropping an octave. "I like players who play with their brains. Data shows that midfield commanders are the most stable assets in football—high floors, infinite ceilings. I spent five years and millions on Ibe just to break even. But now, we have a player whose value has increased fivefold in five months. A player who is the talk of Europe. And yet, I haven't even had the chance to open a kitchen for him."
"Mr. Henry, the loan error was inexcusable," Edwards stammered. "I will do everything in my power to show Renzo our high regard when he returns."
"High regard?" Henry leaned back, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. "Translate that for me. What does 'high regard' mean in your world?"
"It means... he will be a key player. He will be valued by the coaching staff," Edwards offered.
"Translate it again."
"I've spoken with Klopp. He's ready to build the entire system around Renzo. We will make him the absolute core of Liverpool!"
Henry's face twisted in a mask of cold contempt for stupidity. "You are the Sporting Director, the man in charge of the books. Why are you talking to me about tactics? High regard is not a promise of playing time. High regard is respect! High regard is treatment!"
Henry slammed a hand lightly on the table. "High regard is a top-salary contract extension! It is a signing bonus so massive it makes his hands shake when he checks his account! Which of your 'regards' actually touches a player's heart?"
Edwards was stunned. "Mr. Henry, I had planned to discuss a renewal, but the figures for a teenager—"
"Top salary!" Henry barked. "Whatever the highest wage in this squad is, that is what goes on Renzo's paper. If he is the core, he gets paid like the core. Is this even a discussion?"
For a club like Liverpool, giving a twenty-year-old the highest salary in the team was a massive risk to the wage structure. It could cause locker room jealousy or make the player impossible to sell later. But John Henry didn't care. He saw a generational asset slipping away and was ready to use a golden cage to keep him.
"I understand, Mr. Henry. I will begin the paperwork immediately."
"You'd better be fast," Henry said, returning to his porridge. "Every second you delay is a crime against this club. And if you fail to bring him back into the fold, don't bother coming back to this cafeteria."
While the storm raged in Liverpool, another was brewing in the Europa League.
Shakhtar Donetsk manager Werner stared at the scoreboard in disbelief. His team trailed 1-0 in the second leg, making the aggregate score a humiliating 5-1.
"What is happening?" Werner muttered, clutching his head. "How are they bypassing our entire midfield with single passes?"
He had spent two weeks studying Fiorentina's short-passing game. He had drilled his players to close the gaps and press the receivers. But today, the Japanese boy in the purple shirt wasn't playing short passes. He was launching 60-meter volleys that landed with the softness of a feather on the wings.
The Fiorentina he had prepared for was gone. In its place was a multi-dimensional monster led by Renzo Uzumaki, and Werner realized with a sinking heart that all his preparations had been for a ghost.
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