Football System: Touchline God
Chapter 50: Charity Gala II

Chapter 50: Charity Gala II

"And I’m talking to the other half," Gideon said. He leaned in closer. "The Marrowgates are strong, yes. But they’re not gods. Every club that struggles under their oppression is a crack in their armor. You’ve seen your numbers. One bad season and you’re selling players. Partner with me, and we change the game."

Strathmore’s pride warred with his fear. Gideon could see it in his eyes. The man wanted to say no. Wanted to stay loyal to the old ways. But the old ways were killing his club.

Strathmore nodded but his shoulders were tense, still a little hesitant.

His shaky hand reached for another drink from a silver tray. The waiter moved past like a ghost in white gloves.

Gideon watched the man’s fingers shake with a light smile on his face.

Strathmore turned toward the tall windows. Rain hit the glass in soft taps. Each drop caught the light from the chandelier. Outside, the storm was getting worse.

Behind them, young nobles laughed too loud. They raised their glasses high. Someone was making a toast about virtual sports. About easy money and quick wins.

"Fools," Gideon thought. They think the game is about luck.

Strathmore’s shoulders sagged. He looked older than his fifty-five years. The lines around his eyes were deeper. His gray hair was thinner.

"What do you make of the NextGen League?" Strathmore suddenly asked, changing the topic. His voice was tired. "Two months away now."

Gideon raised one eyebrow. "Your Colts aren’t looking sharp this year."

Strathmore’s jaw went tight. A muscle twitched in his cheek. His knuckles went white around his glass. ’That wasn’t even the question.’

"They’re fifth in Youth League B," he said through gritted teeth. "There’re two games left. Still time to turn it around."

"Sure," Gideon said. His tone was light. Almost bored. "Meanwhile, my Ashford Stars are second in Youth League C. With the next two wins in the bag, qualification is guaranteed. We’re flying high."

Silence stretched between them like a wire ready to snap.

Strathmore stared at his reflection in the window. Rain kept falling. The glass kept shaking.

"But you already knew that," Gideon added. His smile was small and sharp.

Strathmore turned around. Really looked at him now. His eyes were hard but hurt. "So this is it then? You rise up, I fade away?"

"No, Reginald." Gideon stepped closer. Close enough to see the anxiety in his eyes. "This is where I pull you up with me."

Strathmore’s eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"Your Colts have good players. Raw talent even. But they’re coached like it’s still fifty years ago. Poor nutrition. Old training methods. My academy director could fix all that."

Gideon’s voice dropped to a whisper. "You let us handle your next intake. Share facilities. Swap resources. We boost both teams."

"And in return?" Strathmore’s voice was careful. Suspicious.

"You support our motion in the Regional Football Council. The one about streaming revenue. Make it based on performance, not on family names."

Strathmore’s eyes went wide. "That would destroy Stormgate United’s advantage of qualifying for the Royal Championship Playoffs."

"Exactly."

The word hung in the air like smoke. Heavy and dangerous.

Strathmore ran his hand through his thinning hair. His fingers left tracks in the gray strands. "If I say yes, I need promises. Real ones. The Marrowgate’s have ears everywhere. One wrong move and I’m frozen out of youth recruitment."

"I already have two scouts in the Midlands," Gideon said. He took a slow sip of his drink. The amber liquid burned warm. "Marrowgate’s favorite recruiter retired last month. We’re in position."

Strathmore didn’t answer. But he didn’t walk away either.

His eyes went back to the window. To the rain. To the darkness beyond.

Gideon didn’t push, nor did he press further. Sometimes the best hunters knew when to wait.

Instead, he turned his gaze across the room.

There. Near the chocolate fountain. A stocky man with dark hair slicked back like oil. He stood surrounded by three young coaches in cheap suits. Their ties were crooked. Their shoes were scuffed.

Lord Halford Briarley. Owner of Linton Vale FC. A 4th division team that lost more games than they won. A club known for scandals, not trophies.

But Briarley had land. A new top-line training facility. And a dangerous need to prove himself.

A perfect prey.

Gideon excused himself with a small nod. Strathmore barely noticed. The man was still staring at the rain, deep in thought.

Gideon walked across the marble floor. His footsteps were quiet but sure. People moved out of his way without thinking. Like water parting for a ship.

"Lord Briarley," Gideon said as he slid into the circle. His voice was smooth as silk. "Didn’t expect to see you here tonight. Thought you only showed up when the wine was free."

One of the young coaches stifled his laughter. Then quickly looked away when Briarley glared at him.

Briarley chuckled. His voice was rough like gravel. "Well, even us poor lords need fresh suits once in a while."

His suit was indeed new. But it was cheap. The kind you bought off the rack at a department store. The kind that said you were trying too hard.

"Still working that deal with the Eastern Freight boys?" Gideon asked.

Briarley’s face fell. "Fell through. Too many middlemen. Not enough return."

"Shame," Gideon said. But his tone said he wasn’t surprised. "Maybe it’s time you stopped selling and started building."

Briarley looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"I’m opening new logistics routes through Doncaster. Big money. Steady contracts." Gideon paused, letting it sink in. "If you offer training access to my younger players, we use your Vale grounds as a shared hub."

Briarley’s eyes lit up. "Go on."

"You earn steady rent. Good exposure. I route some of my academy reserves kids to your bench for match experience. Everyone wins."

"And the catch?" Briarley asked. But his voice was eager. Hungry even.

"When the time comes, you vote against the Marrowgates’ territorial control clause over the northern mining sector. And you back me for Regional Oversight Committee next spring."

Briarley’s eyebrows shot up like rockets. "That committee seat’s promised to Lord Calloway."

"Unofficially promised," Gideon corrected. His smile was cold. "And promises break."

Briarley scratched his chin. Stubble rasped against his fingers. "Let me think about it."

"Don’t think too long," Gideon said. He finished his drink and set the glass on a passing tray. "Promotion’s good. But power decides who gets the ladder in the first place."

Briarley nodded slowly. His eyes were calculating now. Weighing risks against rewards.

Gideon could see the wheels turning. The man was desperate. Desperate men made the best allies. And the worst enemies.

But right now, Briarley was useful.

"I’ll be in touch," Briarley said finally.

"I know you will," Gideon replied.

He walked away, leaving Briarley with his cheap-suited coaches.

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