Football: Maxed Out The Wrong Stat

Bild slapped Vardy right on the front of the sports section with a giant photograph of his marker-scribbled undershirt. Sky Sports News picked up the human-interest angle on day two, running endless segments about the factory worker from non-league whose best mate sold a retro kit just to buy him a plane ticket to Germany. A couple of English tabloids tried ringing Halifax, got a blunt ”no comment” from Jimmy’s family, and quickly moved on to the next headlines.

It was a staggering amount of media attention for a kid who had simply come off the bench and scored a debut brace. Vardy was getting recognized in local cafés, dodging dozens of missed calls from random numbers, and shutting his phone off completely just to get an hour of peace. He was suddenly being noticed, which was completely alien to him, and he was coping about as well as anyone could expect from someone who had been working factory shifts three weeks ago.

By Wednesday morning, he was standing on Mateo’s doorstep holding a plastic grocery bag full of apples from the corner shop.

Mateo opened the door and waved him inside.

”Cheers, mate,” Vardy panted as the door clicked shut, breathing like he had just sprinted three miles. He held out the bag. ”Got you these. Didn’t really know what else to bring, to be honest.”

”You didn’t have to bring anything.”

”Yeah, I did, reckon.” He set the bag down on the kitchen table. ”I’ve been at the club since six this morning. Herr Reinhardt sat me down for forty minutes giving me a massive lecture on how to talk to press. I dead set need a cup of tea and someone who isn’t gonna ask me a single bloody question.”

”Sit down. I’ll get the kettle on.”

Vardy slumped into a chair. He stared at the apples for a second, then gave the bag a gentle nudge toward the middle of the table.

”Everyone is giving me too much attention, mate,” he said quietly. ”Two interview requests. Some chat show back in England offered me money for a two-minute clip on the phone. I literally don’t even know how to say no to any of it politely.”

Mateo filled the kettle. ”How’s the club dealing with it?”

”They aren’t, really. Reinhardt told me to just say no to everyone for a bit, but nobody is actually stopping reporters from hanging around outside the grounds. And to make it worse, I’ve got some contract renewal sitting on my desk that I can’t make heads or tails of.”

”What do you mean, a contract renewal?”

Vardy let out a long, heavy sigh. ”I signed that two-year youth deal when I turned up. Basic wages, like. Nobody expected me to actually play, so nobody bothered looking at the numbers. The club shoved a new offer in front of me on Monday. I haven’t read it properly, I don’t know what half the clauses mean, and I don’t have an agent.”

Mateo turned around. Vardy’s posture had gone completely rigid. A young player who had spent his entire life not giving a single thought to legal paperwork was suddenly drowning in it.

”You need Carvajal.”

”Your agent?”

”He is the only one I trust. Plus, he is not busy right now. He only represents me and Raúl, and Raúl is practically retired. Carvajal spends most of his week trying to convince me to sign commercial deals I keep turning down.”

Vardy looked down at his hands. ”Would he even bother taking me on, though?”

”He will take you if I ask him. Do you want me to call him?”

A long silence settled over the kitchen. Then Vardy gave a single, firm nod.

”Yeah,” he said quietly. ”Please, mate.”

Carvajal arrived twenty minutes later.

Mateo had a strong feeling his agent was already in his car when the call went through. He walked through the front door carrying a leather briefcase.

Then his eyes landed on Vardy sitting at the table.

Carvajal’s entire demeanor transformed in a split second. He set his briefcase down, smoothed out his tie, and stepped forward with a warm smile to shake Vardy’s hand.

”Mr. Vardy! Carvajal. So sorry to keep you waiting, traffic through the city center was atrocious.”

Vardy’s ears flushed bright red. ”It’s... nah, sir, cheers for coming down so fast.”

”Please, sit down. Let me see what they handed you.”

Vardy handed over the folder Reinhardt had given him on Monday. Carvajal flipped it open, scanned three pages in about ninety seconds, and made a sharp, dismissive clicking noise with his tongue.

”This is just a standard youth-scale extension,” Carvajal said, shaking his head. ”Absolute boilerplate. It is practically the exact same structure they gave you when you first walked through the door.”

”Is that bad, then?”

”It is insulting,” Carvajal replied cleanly. ”You scored twice on your debut, put the club on the back page of every major paper in Westphalia, and gave them more free press in England than they have had all season. Yet this contract still pays you like a reserve player.” He snapped the folder shut. ”We will fix this immediately. I am speaking to Reinhardt this afternoon.”

Vardy blinked, scratching his neck. ”Free press?”

”They have whole columns in the sports section written about you today. Bild ran a front-page header, and Sky Sports is running your story on repeat. That kind of publicity costs hundreds of thousands to generate organically.”

”Well, it’s all down to my mate Jimmy, really,” Vardy mumbled.

Carvajal’s expression softened for a brief moment. He had sat across from hundreds of young athletes over the years, and he knew the exact difference between someone playing humble for the cameras and a young man genuinely overwhelmed by his life changing overnight.

”On you and Jimmy, then,” Carvajal smiled softly, clicking his pen. ”Sign these two pages for me. This one authorizes me to officially represent you, and this one allows me to handle negotiations with Schalke on your behalf. I will draft a formal, permanent agreement by Friday so you can review it properly with a lawyer. This is just the temporary paperwork so I can go tear Reinhardt apart today.”

Vardy signed both pages without hesitation, not even bothering to read them.

Mateo quietly poured three mugs of tea.

After Carvajal left with the folder tucked under his arm, Vardy stayed seated at the kitchen table for a long time.

He looked infinitely lighter. The tension in his shoulders had completely vanished. He was calmly eating one of the apples he had brought over, carving off neat slices with a pocketknife the way his old man had taught him back home.

”He doesn’t mess about, does he?” Vardy said.

”Not at all. He moves very fast.”

”Never had anyone go to bat for me like that before, mate.”

”Get used to it. That is the best part of having a real agent.”

Vardy chewed thoughtfully. ”How much do you reckon he’ll actually get me?”

”At least double what you are making now. Maybe triple,” Mateo said with a slight shrug. ”It depends on how brave Reinhardt feels before the summer transfer window opens. But Carvajal will push hard. He actually enjoys it. Schalke is used to having all the leverage over young players, and he loves reminding them when they do not.”

”Sounds proper ruthless.”

”That is just football business.”

Vardy considered that for a moment. ”Yeah, well, I’m never gonna be any good at that side of things.”

”You do not need to be. That is why he exists.”

Later that evening, after Vardy had gone upstairs to sleep off three days of absolute mental exhaustion, Mateo sat alone in the dim light of the living room with his phone in hand.

Carvajal had brought up the idea a few times ever since Vardy was selected for the Schalke trial.

Invest in the agency, Carvajal had suggested. I am expanding our scouting network, and I want you to take a proper financial stake in it. You have incredible instincts, whether it comes to spotting footballing talent or reading the game itself. Together, we could build something massive.

Mateo had brushed it off the first few times, making excuses about being seventeen and having enough pressure on his plate just playing football. Carvajal had dropped the subject each time with the cool patience of an agent who knew he was planting seeds rather than closing a quick deal.

Watching Vardy sit at his kitchen table earlier, terrified, grateful, and completely lost in a world he did not understand, had changed something inside Mateo.

Vardy was going to be fine because Carvajal was in his corner now. But the football world was full of kids just like Jamie: players rotting away in the seventh tier because no scout had bothered to drive out to watch them, or young talents whose whole lives hinged on whether one club happened to take a gamble on them in time.

Mateo’s knowledge stretched fifteen full years into the future. Every academy prospect who would eventually win a Ballon d’Or or lift a Champions League trophy by 2025 was, right now, either playing in a division nobody watched or sitting on a bench somewhere unknown.

An agency managed by Carvajal’s sharp legal mind and quietly guided by Mateo’s knowledge could sign those kids long before the rest of Europe even knew their names.

He stared at his phone screen for a minute, weighing the thought. Then he typed out a message to Carvajal.

Let us sit down and talk about the agency after the Valencia match. We can figure out the details then.

Three seconds later, his phone buzzed in his palm.

Consider it done. Focus on Valencia first.

Mateo smiled, locked his screen, and set the phone down on the table. Upstairs, the house was completely quiet as Vardy slept soundly.

You know what time it is! Drop those Power Stones to keep us climbing the ranks!

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