The stadium had roared his name, the media screamed hype, and his teammates nodded in respect—but Maradona Pérez didn't let it sink too deep. That wasn't the goal. The match was won, yes. A dream debut, yes. But dreams are for sleep. He was awake now—wide awake—and he had no intention of living off one performance. The real game had just begun. While others celebrated, he was already thinking ten steps ahead. Football was only one of his arenas.
It was early morning. Madrid was still yawning under a soft sunrise, but Maradona was already at his desk. Not a football in sight. Just charts. Graphs. Numbers. A MacBook, a burner phone, a private browser, and a ruthless mind full of 2024's stock market knowledge. He scrolled through the portfolio he had built in secret using proxies and shell companies, with a trusted lawyer in the US acting as his front. It had started as a side mission. But now—now it was looking like a f***ing masterstroke.
His eyes lit up.
Apple: $140k profit
Amazon: $97k profit
Tesla: $24k profit (still early, but he knew it would explode)
Netflix: $81k profit (they were just starting to cook)
*Alibaba: minor dip, but he wasn't worried—it would soar by 2014
And then his personal favorite: Bitcoin. He hadn't gone all-in yet—too early—but he had already bought some off obscure online forums using a VPN and cash payments through intermediaries. Just 5 BTC for now. He smirked. That alone, if held, would be worth over $300,000 in ten years. That was the long play.
"They think I'm here to play football," he muttered to himself. "I'm here to build a f***ing empire."
A knock on the door pulled him out of his numbers. His phone buzzed. Private dinner. Florentino. Tonight. Don't be late.
The restaurant was hidden, exclusive, the kind of place where power moved in whispers. Florentino Pérez sat at a private table, a glass of red wine in his hand, eyes calm but focused. Maradona walked in, dressed sharp, not overdone—classy, clean, confident.
"You've made quite the entrance, niño. The whole city's talking about you." Florentino didn't waste time.
"I didn't come to talk about the city," Maradona replied, sitting down, "I came to talk about the future."
Florentino raised an eyebrow. "So young, but already thinking like a man. Good."
Dinner flowed. They spoke of football, legacy, money. But then Florentino leaned in.
"I know what you're doing. The investments. The offshore accounts."
Maradona paused for a second—but he didn't blink. "Do you want me to stop?"
Florentino chuckled. "No. I want in."
That changed things. Florentino wasn't angry. He was impressed. The boy wasn't just a golden boot—he was a golden brain.
"Real Madrid will protect you. Just be smart. If you're going to build an empire, don't make enemies too early. And don't forget who opened the door for you."
"I don't forget," Maradona replied. "I keep tabs. On everything."
Florentino smiled again, leaned back. "Good. Now let's talk about your next match."
Back in the dressing room, things weren't all love and roses. Some players loved him. Raúl had taken him under his wing, always giving him quiet advice. Cristiano Ronaldo, though arrogant himself, respected what he saw—someone who walked in like a king and played like one. "You've got bite," he had said after training. "Keep that edge. This place softens people. Don't let it soften you."
But others weren't happy. Guti, for one, didn't like how easily Maradona had slotted in, how Schuster listened to him in tactical meetings. One time, during a rondo, Guti intentionally lashed the ball too hard at him. Maradona controlled it like it was nothing and didn't even look at him—just passed it cleanly and smirked.
Later that day, in the tunnel, Guti confronted him.
"You think this is your team already? You've been here five minutes."
Maradona didn't even flinch. "If you have to ask, then maybe it never was yours."
It was quiet, sharp. Not loud, not disrespectful. But it cut deep. Guti stared him down, but said nothing. That's when the power shifted. People noticed. The team saw who had the presence. Who had the aura.
And the coaches saw it too. Schuster called him aside after training. "You're walking a tight line. You know that, right?"
"I'm not here to make friends," Maradona replied coldly. "I'm here to win. If someone can't keep up, maybe they don't belong here."
Schuster exhaled. "Reminds me of Zidane. He had that same look in his eyes. Just don't burn the room down before you light it up."
A week passed. Real Madrid was preparing for their next game. Media pressure was still hot, but the noise around Maradona had turned into admiration. He had become a mystery and a story, all in one. They didn't know about the investments. They didn't know about the system. They didn't know that while others were playing football, he was planning world domination.
That night, the system activated again. Another reward. A milestone passed: First Senior Assist and First Senior Goal contributed.
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Tight turns, feints, balance under pressure, and tempo control.
It was perfect. He smiled to himself, feeling the shift. Every piece was falling into place. His game would become more unpredictable, more elegant, more untouchable.
He stood by the mirror that night, shirtless, his body lean, sculpted from relentless work and relentless will. Azure eyes staring back with a fire that had no equal.
"Let them watch. Let them talk. Let them think it's talent." He whispered to his reflection. "They don't see the work. They don't see the plan."
He turned off the light and went to bed.
Tomorrow, the world would wake up to Maradona Pérez again. And it still wouldn't be ready