Football Dynasty-Chapter 30: Football Agent

Richard grinned and jogged toward the vehicle. The second he slid into the passenger seat, Eric pointed a finger at him.

"If you so much as blink at Ashley the wrong way, I'll make sure you regret ever being born."

Richard buckled his seatbelt. "Noted."

Eric grumbled as he started the engine, still muttering curses under his breath. This was going to be a nightmare, he could already feel it.

Richard was thrilled with this outcome. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that his relationship with Shearer and Le Tissier felt less like a coach and player dynamic and more like that of a player and an agent.

Originally, he had never even considered becoming a football agent, but his meeting with Eric just now had just changed his mind.

Yes, it was the 1980s, and it was still too early to call football agents what they would become in the future.

He didn't know much about the profession. Even as a former player, the landscape of football negotiations in this era was vastly different.

Handshake deals, and under-the-table payments were common. With no strict licensing system, anyone could claim to be an agent, which led to rampant tapping up of players and the infamous bungs—bribes given to managers or club officials to push through transfers.

This was precisely why he had always handled negotiations himself when he was still as a player. Even then, it was only about salary, securing bonuses, and determining the contract duration—just the most basic aspects.

'But this works in my favor,' Richard thought to himself.

Less regulation for players was probably a nightmare for them, but for someone like him—who wasn't a player—this chaotic system presented an opportunity.

And considering he was, arguably, one of the biggest shareholders in Manchester City, he could very well carve out a dual role for himself.

'I can sign the best players before they become stars, and by the time regulations tighten, I'll have already built strong relationships with them. My name will be well-known by then—and that can only be good for City in the long run.'

Eric, who was driving, glanced over and saw Richard grinning and chuckling to himself like a madman. A chill ran down his spine.

"This man is crazy... Monster, monster."

And just as he was processing that thought—BAM! The car jolted as they nearly crashed into the curb.

"GODDAMN It!" Richard yelped, clutching the dashboard. "Do you even realize I haven't fulfilled my promise to meet Ashley yet?! Are you trying to kill me before I get the chance?!"

Eric scoffed, gripping the wheel. "Then shut up and stop acting like a lunatic in my car!"

He threw Richard a suspicious side-eye. "And listen, I'll say this once—I like women! So if you even think of trying anything funny, I'll personally be the first to kick you out of this car, understand?!"

Richard blinked. "What the hell are you even talking about?!"

The journey from Manchester to Newcastle was long, and despite their constant bickering, silence eventually settled between them.

At first, Richard was still glaring at Eric for nearly getting them killed, while Eric kept side-eyeing Richard like he was some kind of lunatic.

But after an hour on the road, their mutual irritation began to fade. Because, in the end, they shared the same passion—or at least, the undeniable charm of football was enough to mend the cracks left by their rough first impressions.

Eric tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes still fixed on the road. "You really can't go back to playing football?"

Richard sighed, leaning back in his seat. "Unless I fancy dying before I hit thirty, yeah, I'd better stop."

Eric shot him a sideways glance, his expression softening—just a little. "So how the hell did you end up involved with Manchester City?"

Richard chuckled, staring out the window at the passing sky. "Now that... is a ridiculous story."

Eric smirked. "Alright, you've got my attention. Spill it."

And so, Richard did—recounting the absurd wager, the unexpected twist, and how, before he even realized it, he was tangled up in something far bigger than he'd ever planned.

Eric listened intently at first, but soon, his signature raspy cackle filled the car. "You absolute nutter! Monster, monster! You're telling me you basically bluffed your way into running a club?!"

"Well, who would've thought the chairman himself would put his shares on the line instead of money?"

Eric shook his head, still laughing. "You know what? I actually know Swales. Before he joined City, he was the chairman of the Northern Premier League. And after that? He was on the board at Altrincham FC—ended up managing them part-time too. Hell of a run, 35-game winning streak. Only ended in the FA Cup third round away."

Richard, however, was more interested in something else. "Hey, by the way, care to tell me why you became a football agent instead? I heard you used to work with musicians—Sex Pistols, T. Rex... Why the sudden career shift?"

Eric glanced at Richard before turning his focus back to the road. "Why? You? Interested in becoming a football agent? Didn't you just say you weren't?"

Richard waved a hand dismissively. "I never said I wasn't interested. I just hadn't thought about it before. But after meeting yo—"

"Oh, for the love of God, don't say something cliché like 'inspired me or something' or I swear, I'll pull over and toss you out right now."

Richard laughed. "Haha, don't worry. Just curious, though—why the switch? You had rockstars, punk legends—why trade that for a bunch of lads kicking a ball around?"

Eric shot him a glare before returning his attention to the road. "Bloody hell. I've worked with Frank Sinatra, Cliff Richard, Paul McCartney, and the Bay City Rollers. I even knew Marc Bolan since we were teenagers—hell, we even appeared on Top of the Pops together!"

"Yes, yes, you're the greatest," Richard said, impatiently. "Now, just get to the point." He was already exhausted by Eric's endless boasting.

Eric scowled at him. "First, you bluff your way into running a football club, and now you want to dip your toes into agency work? You don't even know the half of it."

Still, even as he cursed, he continued, "No fancy license, no official rules—agents are the bad guys. Clubs don't like us. Managers barely tolerate us. And players? Half of them don't even understand what we do. Oh, bloody monster, monsters!"

Richard agreed. Football agents at this point weren't formally recognized, and many players still relied on family members or personal connections to handle their contracts and transfers.

The Bosman ruling had yet to be introduced, meaning clubs held far more power over players, and contracts didn't offer the same freedom they would in later years. It was essentially a primitive retain-and-transfer system.

"But then, why?"

That was exactly what Richard had been wondering as well. Why was Eric still in the football business when he had once been a music promoter, rubbing shoulders with rock legends?

"People are complicated," Eric muttered, his voice unusually quiet. "The more you interact with them, the more you get attached."

Richard frowned at this.

Eric exhaled sharply. "I don't like how things are right now. Agents were supposed to continue their original purpose—promoting the internationalization of the sport and the players they represent. Instead, all these shady dealings are just making things worse. More people suffer because of it."

Richard glanced at him, surprised by the sudden seriousness. But before he could say anything, Eric shook his head as if brushing off the thought.

"Alright, enough of that," Eric said, gripping the steering wheel. "We're here."

Finally, they arrived at St. James' Park.

Richard had seen football stadiums before, of course, but something about St. James' Park felt... different.

Massive. Majestic. Intimidating.

"You look like a kid seeing Disneyland for the first time," Eric snorted as he stepped out of the car.

Richard shrugged but didn't deny it. After all, this was the first stadium in England to reach a capacity of 60,000, making it known as "once the largest stadium in England."

So, of course, every time he came here, he had to savor the nostalgic vibes.

"Come on, assistant," Eric teased, smirking. "Try not to embarrass me. Just nod, shake hands, and don't say anything stupid."

"Yes, sir!" Richard rolled his eyes and followed him inside.

As always, meetings were supposed to be held in the meeting room.

The Newcastle representatives were already seated, waiting for them—tailored suits, confident smiles, firm handshakes—a room full of men who lived and breathed negotiations.

One of them stood as they entered, extending a hand toward Eric. "Eric, always a pleasure."

Eric shook it firmly. "Likewise." With a casual gesture, he motioned to Richard. "My assistant, no need to pay him any mind."

Everyone ignored him, and Richard simply gave his best businesslike nod as he shook hands. Throughout the entire meeting, he did not say a single word.

The client, Dave Beasant, was a key figure in Wimbledon's famous "long ball" style of play. His ability to launch the ball deep into opposition territory made him a valuable asset, and Newcastle wanted him.

But there was a problem.

Newcastle was willing to pay £800,000, while Wimbledon wouldn't budge from £900,000. A considerable gap, and one that would require some skillful negotiation to close.

"So," one of the Newcastle representatives began, leaning forward, "let's get to it. We're interested in Dave Beasant. Our offer stands at £800,000."

"But Wimbledon is firm on £900,000—you see the gap, don't you, gentlemen?"

The Newcastle officials exchanged glances, unimpressed. "We're not going above £800,000."

"Lads, come on. I don't know much about football, yeah? But even I ain't blind. Beasant ain't just some goalie—he's a bloody cannon. You're getting a bloke who can boot the ball halfway up the pitch and turn defense into attack in seconds. That's Wimbledon's whole game, innit? You really telling me that ain't worth a bit more?"

One of the Newcastle representatives sighed, rubbing his temples. "We're not disputing his quality, Eric. But £900,000 is steep. £800,000 is already a fair offer."

Eric snorted. "Fair? Mate, come off it. You lot are just trying to nick him on the cheap. Not to mention his style—he ain't afraid to move out of the area and upfield before kicking the ball. Even his free kicks are top-notch. You're getting two players for the price of one! You telling me that ain't worth an extra push? £900,000. Final offer."

The Newcastle executives exchanged glances, clearly reluctant. "Alright," one of them said. "£825,000. Final offer."

"£890,000," Eric replied.

"£830,000," Newcastle countered.

"£880,000," Eric shot back.

Finally, unwilling to prolong the negotiation any further, the Newcastle vice president at the time made one last offer: "£860,000. Deal or no deal?"

Eric clapped his hands together, grinning. "Now we're talking! But I'll tell you what—let's meet in the middle. £855,000, and we shake hands right now. No more back and forth, no more time wasted. Done deal. But I have one requirement. How about it?"

Everyone was taken aback. 'He had just lowered the deal, right? What the hell?'

Well, actually, Wimbledon themselves had already informed him of the lowest price they were willing to accept, which was set at £850,000. The other £5,000 was just a bonus.

"W-what requirement?" one of the young executives stammered, clearly caught off guard. This was the first time he had seen a negotiation take such an unexpected turn.

The most uptodate nove𝙡s are published on frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓.

Eric leaned forward, his expression serious. "This player's great, and I want bonuses—£9,000 per goal. And if he scores 10? An extra £100,000."

Silence fell over the room.

That was a massive figure—unexpected, even by negotiation standards. Even Richard was solemn when he heard it. But instead, the Newcastle executives exchanged glances... and then nodded.

One of them even smiled amiably. "Our pleasure, Eric."

Eric blinked. Wait. They agreed to it? Just like that? For once, even he was momentarily stunned.

The deal was sealed—Dave Beasant was moving from Wimbledon to Newcastle United for £855,000.

Outside St. James' Park, Eric exhaled deeply, letting the cool air wash over him after the intense negotiations.

This—this was his weapon. His edge. Just like how he had landed Gary Lineker his first-ever boot deal.

He was the first to secure goal and appearance bonuses in player contracts. A pioneer. And today? Today was just another reminder of why he did it better than anyone else.

Glancing at Richard, who hadn't uttered a single word since the meeting—his expression a mix of awe and utter bewilderment—Eric felt a swell of pride.

"So, Assistant, how was it?" he asked smugly. "Think you've learned a thing or two about negotiation?"

"..."

Richard remained silent, his brows furrowed in deep thought. He was thinking. Hard.

He racked his brain, trying to make sense of something, but the answer refused to come. Helplessly, he turned to Eric.

"Eric."

"What?"

"Eric, do you know what position Beasant plays?"

Eric frowned. "Course I do. Why?"

'You're lying,'

"He's a goalkeeper."

"..."

Eric's face froze. His breath hitched. Then—

"Bloody hell. Monster, monsters!"

"You just negotiated a goal bonus for a goalkeeper."