Chapter 122: I Should Beat You Up!

"Today is the official contract signing day. After the medical, you'll be joining the first team." The youth academy director led the young Fabregas toward the office building. For youth coaches like them, even though they had only trained Fabregas for a year, they unanimously believed that with his talent, Fabregas was destined for great success at Arsenal. This was truly the seedling of a midfield maestro! Fabregas obediently followed the academy director, his eyes gleaming with excitement. Having come from La Masia, Fabregas hadn't managed to stand out among the many prodigies there. At La Masia, everything revolved around Messi. And in his position, Xavi and Iniesta were like towering mountains suppressing his rise. Seeking opportunity, he ventured to England. Now, he finally had his chance. At just 17, Fabregas was about to join Arsenal's first team. How could he not feel thrilled and overjoyed? Led by the academy director, Fabregas entered the office building and headed straight to the head coach's office. "Professor! I've brought Cesc to sign the contract." The academy director knocked on the door. There was no response. "Professor?" He knocked harder several times. Finally, there was a sound from inside. With a rustling noise, the office door opened. Thick smoke poured out, stinging their eyes. Both the academy director and Fabregas instinctively covered their mouths and noses. Through the smoke, they saw Arsène Wenger — usually so composed — looking utterly disheveled. His eyes were bloodshot, hair messy, shirt collar open, face weary, but his eyes burned with excitement. "What time is it?" Wenger asked in a daze. "Ten in the morning, Professor," replied the academy director, still covering his nose. The smell of smoke from Wenger was overwhelming. Wenger immediately turned and rushed back into the office. Baffled, the academy director and Fabregas exchanged glances and followed him in. The office was an utter mess. The TV was on, displaying static colors. Below it, a video player had half-ejected a tape. The floor and sofa were littered with crumpled paper balls. The ashtray on the coffee table was overflowing with cigarette butts, some still smoldering and releasing wisps of smoke. Wenger was known for being tidy and organized. Seeing him in such disarray was shocking. Under their puzzled gazes, Wenger frantically searched his desk and finally found his phone buried in a pile of papers. He immediately dialed a number. As he waited for the call to connect, he paced back and forth, legs twitching, brows furrowed, clearly agitated. The call went through. "Where are you!?" Wenger barked. At London Heathrow Airport, Davor Šuker paused, confused. "I'm at the airport." "Where are you going?" "To Spain." "What for?!" Wenger's tone was harsh and accusatory. Šuker grew annoyed. What business is it of yours where I go? As he was about to hang up— "Wait!" In a rare moment of panic, Wenger shouted, his voice commanding. Then he quickly softened. "Davor, let's talk. If it's not convenient for you, I'll come to you." Now Šuker was truly puzzled. "Professor, what is it that you want?" "Šuker!" Wenger said earnestly. "Not you—it's the other Šuker. About him. I still have many questions. You were right—I should have watched that tape. But why the hell was there only one match? You should've brought more!" "Come back, Davor! Let's sit down and talk calmly!" He paused, gritted his teeth, and added, "Don't make me come to Spain and drag you back!" Šuker: "... I'll turn back. Are you at the club?" Wenger finally relaxed. "Yes! I'll wait for you!" He hung up and slumped against his desk, completely exhausted. Wenger looked weakly at the academy director and Fabregas. "I've got something urgent to handle. Today, I'm only doing one thing," he said, effectively dismissing them. The academy director nodded immediately. Though he was curious what could make Wenger lose his composure like that, he still led a baffled Fabregas out. When Šuker returned to Wenger's office— Wenger was cleaned up and greeted him with a warm smile. "Sit down." "Coffee?" he offered. Šuker: "Professor, let's get straight to the point." Wenger sat opposite him, smiling. "Alright. Let's talk—properly—about this Šuker matter." A week later, Šuker arrived in Zagreb. "Did Arsenal agree?" Zvonimir Boban asked eagerly. "More than agree. The old man's desperate." Remembering how Wenger wanted the deal badly but tried to maintain dignity made Šuker chuckle. "The Professor wants to seal the deal in the winter window, but I think it's better to wait until summer." He sighed. "But... he's not too interested in Luka." "That's fine. Just because they're close doesn't mean they have to always play together. Different clubs might be better for them." "Let's focus on sealing Šuker's deal first." Šuker exhaled in relief. Boban added, "Now it's time to talk with Bešić." Šuker: "Let's go, to the training ground." In Dinamo Zagreb's head coach office— "When I first got there, the old man wouldn't even look at me. He thought I was trying to force a problem onto him!" Šuker recounted dramatically. "I got so mad, I was ready to head to Spain, and then he frantically called me. You should've seen it — the elegant Frenchman panicking! Hahaha!" Boban said nothing, watching Bešić. Bešić, meanwhile, stared at the documents in his hands, ignoring them. Things were tense. Boban glanced at Šuker. Šuker joked, "Hey buddy, I helped you big time. How will you thank me?" Bešić didn't even look up. "I should beat you up!" Šuker laughed. "Are you serious?" Bang!!! Bešić slammed the table and stood up, furious. "Bullshit!! You bastard! What are you gloating about?! Selling my player behind my back and showing off?!" The atmosphere froze. Šuker stared blankly—his childhood friend had never been this mad. "You..." "Davor Šuker!" Bešić pointed at him. "You've always been the golden boy—top player, star of the team. You've always looked down on me!" "I haven't!" Šuker stammered. "Haven't?!" Bešić sneered. "You two made plans to sell my player right in front of me. Did you ask for my permission? Think about my feelings? Seek my input?" "When Boban teased you about silencing the coach, he was warning you—to shut up!" Boban stayed silent. Šuker was stunned. "I'M the head coach here! Only I have the right to decide who leaves or stays! Not you!" Bešić stormed from behind the desk and shoved Šuker onto the sofa. "I brought them in, gave them resources, helped them grow! I bet my future on them! And now that they're blossoming, you want to pick the fruit? Get lost! Not happening!" "But Wenger and Arsenal—" "I don't care about Wenger or Arsenal!" Bešić shouted, eyes red. "No way! I won't let them go!" Šuker was triggered. "They must go! Staying here won't help them grow!" "Get out! I said they're not leaving!" "You selfish bastard! They're Croatia's future, and you're holding them back!" "I don't care about the future! I want results now!" "You son of a—!" Šuker looked ready to throw punches. Boban quickly stepped in. "Both of you, calm down! This isn't a final decision—it's just a discussion!" Šuker turned, "It's not! They must transfer!" Bešić snapped, "They're not leaving!" "Quiet!" Boban hissed. "If this leaks, it'll hurt all of you!" "Cool off, then talk later. That's enough for today." He dragged Šuker out. "Did you see that ugly mug?! That guy's always been narrow-minded, jealous of my talent!" Šuker fumed outside. Boban said quietly, "Šuker, calm down. We did mess this up." "We did it for Šuker and Luka—" Boban interrupted, "But did you ever consider how Bešić feels?" "If you were the coach, and I negotiated behind your back to transfer your star players, how would you feel?" Šuker froze. "I just..." "I know," Boban sighed. "You mean well—you want what's best for them. But this isn't the way." Šuker pointed at him. "But you agreed too!" "I thought you'd already talked to him!" Boban snapped. "Turns out you were poaching your own team!" "So now what?" Šuker asked. "What about Wenger—?" "Stall him," Boban groaned. "Drag it out till the summer window." "What if Bešić still says no?" "Then keep stalling." Boban sighed. "If Wenger really wants him, he'll wait. But there's one more important point." "What?" "We've talked about this over and over—but do they know? We need to respect their wishes."