"We’re looking to strengthen our squad for a promotion push," Croft continued, leaning forward conspiratorially. "And we’ve been admirers of your winger, Marcus Thorne, for some time. He had a decent season last year. We feel he has the pace and trickery to make an impact at the next level."
Michael’s mind instantly brought up the numbers.
[Marcus Thorne: CA 67 / PA 71].
A good, flashy player. But he was twenty-seven.
His potential was almost maxed out. He was a known quantity, a finished product.
"Marcus is a key player for us," Michael said neutrally, giving nothing away.
"Of course, of course! And we respect that," Croft said, waving a dismissive hand.
"But let’s be realistic. You’re a League One club with a new, young owner. You need funds to rebuild, to stamp your own authority on the team. And Marcus... he’s itching for a chance to play in the Championship. It would be cruel to deny him that, wouldn’t it?"
Here it was. The classic agent squeeze play.
Appeal to finance, appeal to emotion, unsettle the player.
"Blackwood is prepared to make a very generous offer to make this happen smoothly," Croft said, a triumphant gleam in his eye.
"We are willing to offer you two million pounds. Cash. Deal done today."
He sat back, a smug smile on his face, clearly expecting Michael to be overwhelmed by the figure, to snatch at the first big offer of his tenure.
Two million pounds was, for a club like Barnsley, a very significant sum.
Michael, however, felt a strange sense of calm.
The numbers gave him a shield. He knew Thorne’s exact value within his own system.
He let the silence hang in the air for a moment before giving a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. "I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr. Croft."
The smug smile on Croft’s face faltered. "I’m sorry?"
"The offer is too low," Michael said simply.
Croft let out a short, sharp laugh.
"My boy, with all due respect, you’ve been in that chair for less than twenty-four hours. Two million for a twenty-seven-year-old League One winger is more than generous. It’s a gift."
"Marcus scored ten goals and had twelve assists last season," Michael countered, his voice as level as a frozen lake. He’d had Arthur pull the key stats for every player that morning.
"He was involved in more goals than any other winger in this division. He’s in the prime of his career. Two million doesn’t buy you that kind of production, not even in this league."
Croft’s expression shifted. The condescension was replaced by a flicker of surprise. This wasn’t the naive rich kid he’d been expecting.
"He’s a valuable asset," Michael continued.
"And while I appreciate your interest, we’re not a selling club. We’re a building club. To lose a player of his quality would require a fee that not only reflects his current value, but also compensates us for the disruption his departure would cause."
He leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk.
"Our valuation of the player is three million pounds," Michael said, the number clean and firm.
Croft almost choked on his own surprise. "Three million? That’s absurd! No one will pay that!"
"Then I guess he’ll be staying here, where he is a valued member of our squad," Michael said with a calm shrug.
"I wish you and Blackwood all the best in your search for a winger."
It was a bluff, a high-stakes poker move. He was ready to let the agent walk.
The agent knew it.
Croft stood up, his face a mask of frustration.
He wasn’t used to being stonewalled, especially not by a teenager.
He walked to the window, watching the players train below. He was recalculating.
"Look," he said, turning back, his tone shifting from aggressive to persuasive.
"The lad wants the move. He knows this is his last big chance. Two-point-two million. And we’ll include a ten percent sell-on clause. That’s my final offer. Take it or leave it."
Michael considered it.
His system told him Thorne was a depreciating asset. His value would only decline from this point.
Turning £2.2 million into a player with a potential of 85 or higher was exactly the kind of smart business he had promised to build his empire on.
It was a good deal. A very good deal.
He stood up and extended his hand.
"Mr. Croft," Michael said, a cool smile on his face.
"You have a deal."
The agent shook his hand, a look of grudging respect in his eyes.
He had come here expecting to fleece a lamb and had instead found a young wolf.
As Croft left, Michael stood by the window, watching the training session.
He had just sold one of his best players. But he wasn’t sad. He was thrilled. He had just earned his club £2.2 million.
His empire wasn’t just being built on dreams and secret numbers anymore. It was being built with cold, hard cash. And he knew exactly how he was going to spend it.