Ethan studied David Morton with mild curiosity as the man sat across from him.
Today, David looked more energetic than Ethan had ever seen him. His hair was slicked back with a thick layer of hairspray, stiff like pine needles, the sheen on his scalp betraying how much gel had been used.
The surroundings were equally pretentious — a high-end bar, quiet and dimly lit. Soft classical music hummed in the background, and the only other sounds came from the occasional murmur of well-dressed patrons and the muted footsteps of the waitstaff in polished leather shoes.
There was no chaotic warmth here — none of the banter, the shouting over football matches on pub TVs, the smell of fried food mixed with spilled lager — nothing like the classic English pub.
This place reeked of wealth. And Ethan wasn't impressed.
He glanced at the glass of red wine in front of him, sighing inwardly. He would've much preferred a good bottle of baijiu, or at least a strong whiskey.
"You're doing well for yourself, David…" he muttered, lifting the wine and taking a reluctant sip.
David Morton beamed. "Made a little off some recent investments," he said, sounding far too smug for someone who had only recently stopped living off his family name.
Ethan raised an eyebrow. It was 2009 — the global financial crisis had just ravaged the markets. Most people were cutting losses, not making gains. If David had managed to make money in this climate, maybe he wasn't just another clueless trust-fund kid after all.
He swirled his wine slowly, his thoughts drifting. Should he consider investing too?
The idea didn't appeal much — he wasn't exactly into stocks or bonds. But he did know a thing or two about the tech world. Companies like Google and Amazon were already giants, but others were on the rise.
"Have you heard of Facebook, David?"
David nodded. "Yeah, they're doing well, aren't they? I think I read somewhere they passed 100 million users."
Ethan nodded thoughtfully. "I'm pretty optimistic about them. You might want to look into it — could be a big one."
David gave him a skeptical look, clearly struggling to take financial advice from a football manager — and a Chinese one at that. When it came to football tactics, David Morton would defer to Ethan without question. But finance? That was his turf now.
He waved the topic off and raised his glass again. "Well, cheers to you — knocking Chelsea out of the FA Cup, that's no small feat."
Ethan clinked glasses with him, though he still didn't enjoy the wine.
"Is that kid, Adam White, really as good as the media says?" David asked, leaning in with curiosity.
Ethan smirked. "If he keeps up the form he showed against Chelsea, he could be England's answer to Arjen Robben."
Of course, Ethan wasn't about to mention that Adam's blistering performance had been enhanced by a card effect — something supernatural, something no one else would understand.
David's eyes gleamed. "How much do you reckon he's worth right now?"
Ethan thought for a moment. "If we're talking current market value, maybe five million pounds tops."
"In this market?" David raised his brows. "Five million seems low, considering what he did against Chelsea."
"Think about it," Ethan replied. "He's playing in the Championship. One great game doesn't rewrite the scouting reports. Even if he's got world-class potential, big clubs will still hesitate — they've been burned before by young talent that didn't pan out. Talent alone isn't enough. Injuries, attitude, pressure — they all play a part. Right now, Adam's still a project."
David leaned back, digesting the information.
Ethan looked at him seriously. "If he develops the right way, sure, he could be the next big thing. But until then, he's a semi-finished product. A rough diamond — promising, but unpolished."
David nodded slowly, the fire of a businessman already lighting behind his eyes.
He was clearly thinking about how to turn that diamond into profit.
"I hear the English media are calling him a genius—comparing him to Messi, even."
"You actually believe the English media?"
"I'd sooner believe everyone on Wall Street is honest."
The two men laughed, drawing irritated glances from the well-dressed patrons nearby. It was a moment of carefree levity that seemed out of place—and out of character. The kind of laughter that, once, had been pure, but now carried a trace of cynicism.
The truth behind David Morton's casual question—"How much do you think Adam is worth?"—was all too clear to Ethan now.
Running a professional football club, even a League One side, was no small financial burden. For David Morton, the young club owner who had inherited his late father's debts alongside the team, every penny counted. Luton Town's current income came mainly from matchday tickets, a modest share of cup prize money, and a slice of the broadcasting rights. But compared to the potential profits from player transfers, those were crumbs.
David might have scoffed that Adam White was worth only £5 million, but deep down, he believed the lad was worth at least double that. Ten million pounds—an amount that once took his father a year to earn—now dangled in front of him like bait.
It was no wonder he was tempted.
"If he keeps developing," David said, "Give it another season or two and the big clubs will be lining up with blank cheques."
"He's not worth that much yet," Ethan replied cautiously, choosing his words with care.
Ethan didn't see his players as assets to flip for profit. Building a team took everything—time, trust, belief. And this squad, mostly young and hungry, had real potential. If they stayed together, he truly believed they could climb all the way to the Premier League—and maybe even hold their own there.
Constant turnover in the starting XI destroys cohesion. For Ethan, continuity was key. But he also knew his priorities didn't always align with the owner's.
"Oh, and... Chelsea refused to give us our share of the ticket revenue from the FA Cup third round," Ethan added grimly.
David's smile disappeared.
That match alone brought in hundreds of thousands in gate receipts. Under FA Cup rules, home teams must split ticket revenue 50-50 with the visitors. But as a tradition, big Premier League clubs often let lower-league teams keep the full amount as a goodwill gesture.
Not this time.
Chelsea, whether it was Scolari or Abramovich calling the shots, refused to part with a single penny. They weren't about to give anything to a manager like Ethan, who had ruffled feathers and stirred bad blood in the lead-up to the match.
David shot Ethan a bitter look.
Had he not antagonized Chelsea so thoroughly, Luton might have walked away with a much-needed financial boost.
Ethan stepped out of the bar into the damp evening, wrapped in a thick black coat. Six months ago, David Morton was just another heir to a bankrupt estate. Now, he was the owner of the most promising team in League One.
If he sold off all the first-team regulars, he'd net upwards of £20 million—in liquid cash. That alone would multiply his personal assets tenfold.
Ethan didn't blame him for being tempted. Who wouldn't be?
But as the manager, his loyalty lay with the team he'd built with sweat and belief. These weren't just names on a spreadsheet—they were players he'd mentored, molded, and trusted.
He looked up at the grey sky as drizzle continued to fall, soaking the streets of Luton. He didn't bother with an umbrella.
He was used to the rain by now.