July 1st.
The summer transfer window opened, and the news came in waves.
The story David was watching most closely was Zhang Linpeng. The rumours linking him to Chelsea had been circulating for months, stalling repeatedly over a buy-back clause that neither side could agree on. David had asked him directly what he wanted, and the answer had been unambiguous: he wanted to go, even if the wages were lower than what he earned at home, even if it meant starting at a satellite club rather than Stamford Bridge itself.
As it turned out, the negotiations hadn't stayed stalled for long. Word was that Abramovich had taken a genuine interest in Chinese players, partly because Ivanović had been so inconsistent, and partly because the commercial rationale was now impossible to ignore. Volkswagen's numbers had made the point more eloquently than any boardroom presentation could have. David had, without quite intending to, become a reference point, proof of what a Chinese player could mean to a club's global reach.
Almost before the Zhang Linpeng story had settled, reports emerged linking Wu Lei to Augsburg and Mainz. Chinese supporters greeted each announcement with the particular mixture of excitement and disbelief that accompanies witnessing something you had been told was impossible.
Maybe the era of Chinese players in Europe is actually coming back.
The wider market was moving fast.
In Ligue 1, PSG brought in Di María from Manchester United for sixty-three million euros, a consolation signing after David had declined their approach without ceremony through Barnett. The club had prepared nearly ninety-five million euros for the pursuit, and having spent none of it, they proceeded to redirect the funds toward Stambouli, Trapp, and Cabaye in fairly rapid succession, as if spending the money on something was preferable to sitting with it.
In Serie A, Juventus, smarting from their Champions League final defeat, spent forty million on Dybala, young talent to freshen the attack, and brought in Mandžukić, Khedira, Pereira and Zaza on top of that, accumulating a summer spend of close to ninety million. Inter moved carefully and spent modestly. Milan burned through approximately eighty million.
In Germany, the headline was Özil's departure. Bayern had paid Arsenal sixty-eight million euros for him, and Ancelotti, the new manager, had also brought in Vidal from Juventus, Ulreich from Stuttgart, and Kimmich, whose arrival had been confirmed earlier. Total expenditure: close to a hundred and ten million. A significant outlay, softened somewhat by the compensation they had received from Manchester City for Guardiola's release. Without that, the summer would have been very difficult to finance, as Bayern had ended the season without a trophy, which meant prize money had been minimal.
Meanwhile, Wolfsburg had already begun spending the money they hadn't yet received. Draxler for forty-two million. Schürrle for thirty-six. Negreda for twenty-eight. Hernández for ten. Anyone watching from the outside could read the message clearly enough: the Twin Engines were leaving, and replacements needed to be found. According to Kicker's estimates, selling both David and De Bruyne would generate at least a hundred and fifty million euros in profit. An extraordinary sum, and one that gave the club remarkable freedom. The double title helped attract the calibre of player that money alone sometimes couldn't.
At Leverkusen, Son Heung-min got his move to Spurs, leaving a thirty-million transfer fee behind him.
Barcelona, fresh from the treble, moved with surprising restraint, Turan for forty-one million and Alexis Vidal for seventeen, but the transfer ban meant neither could be registered until January 2016. The management had been dealing with this particular frustration for months. It was a bit like arranging an elaborate celebration dinner, going to considerable expense and effort, and having the guest of honour inform you at the last moment that they couldn't arrive until the following year.
Enrique, for his part, spoke to the press with the confidence of a man who had just won everything available to him. Asked about the new arrivals, he was expansive. Asked about David Qin, he smiled pleasantly and said Arsenal was a fine club and that every player dreamed of Barcelona, but the front line was already well stocked.
At Real Madrid, Ancelotti had been dismissed after the trophyless season. A new manager had not yet been officially announced, but Marca and several other credible outlets were reporting that Zinedine Zidane, assistant at the senior club and currently managing the B team, would take over. Their transfer activity included Kovačić, Danilo, and Casemiro. The headline target, though, was De Gea, because Casillas was no longer performing at the level his status required, and the goalkeeping position was a genuine vulnerability. De Gea had given interviews in Spain suggesting he wanted a conversation with Van Gaal, which was about as transparent as a transfer hint could reasonably get. Madrid's dressing room was unsettled, however. Casillas was a twenty-five year veteran of the club, and Ramos, as vice-captain, was reportedly unhappy about how the situation was being handled.
In England, the market was extraordinary. Before July was even finished, the Premier League clubs had collectively spent five hundred million pounds. Manchester City, working with a budget of approximately a hundred and fifty million, made Sterling their first major signing, sixty million for the previous year's Golden Boy winner, and had also been talking to De Bruyne's agent Patrick for some time.
When David arrived in London, his phone showed a message from De Bruyne.
City. It's done.
He hadn't been surprised. Guardiola and Manchester City was, by any objective measure, the most natural destination for Kevin, a manager who would understand exactly how to use him and a squad that would give him the platform his talent deserved. David typed back a brief reply, put his phone away, and looked out of the window at the city arriving around him.
The official announcement followed shortly after.
Fabrizio Romano: Here we go! Manchester City have completed the signing of Kevin De Bruyne from Wolfsburg. Fee: €96 million. A strong candidate for the summer's record transfer.
United, having been rebuffed in their own approach to David, responded by signing Anthony Martial from Monaco for fifty million. Their supporters were, understandably, uncertain about this development. Martial was nineteen, had played fewer than fifty senior appearances, and his name was essentially unknown outside France. The general tone on supporter forums was something between bewilderment and cautious optimism: if we can't have Qin, let's hope this lad is half as good.
For context: United under Van Gaal had been signing players at the approximate rate of one per defeat across the previous campaign, bringing in Di María, Luke Shaw, Herrera, Rojo, Blind, and Falcao in various states of quality and form, none of whom had made the impact De Gea had simply by being competent every week.
Chelsea, as defending champions, moved with less urgency, Pedro, Remy, Bégović, a sensible and unfashionable set of additions, though this relative calm sat oddly with Abramovich's reputation for combustion. Mourinho was relaxed about it.
"Perhaps I should go somewhere easier," he said, with the half-smile of a man who had never once been tempted by easier. "Another country, another league, one of those nice titles that fall into your lap. But that is not who I am. I chose the hardest league in Europe to win, and I won it. I am very happy. Especially because it is my second time here, with an almost entirely different squad. A new team winning a new title."
Asked about Sir Alex Ferguson and the idea of matching his legacy, Mourinho was, to general surprise, rather gracious.
"What he built is beyond comparison. I will never win thirteen Premier League titles. I might reach thirteen league titles overall, I have eight now, and I believe I can get there, but thirteen in England? No. Not possible. That belongs to him alone."
At Spurs, Pochettino was assembling his squad with whatever Levy had made available, which was not much. Son's arrival aside, the rest of the summer business amounted to Trippier, Wimmer, and Holgate, combined for less than twenty million, which was roughly ten million more than they'd received for Paulinho's sale to Guangzhou Evergrande. The manager was, by several accounts, dealing with this situation through a combination of dark humour and sustained suppressed frustration.
Liverpool under Klopp were spending more ambitiously, Firmino for forty-one million, Clyine for seventeen, Benteke for forty-six and a half, with the clear intention of mounting a genuine title challenge. Klopp had said as much publicly, speaking about the club's potential and his belief that they could compete for the first league title since the Premier League's formation.
One article, shared extensively across football media, carried the headline: With record broadcast revenues secured, Premier League spending is set to break all records. And Arsenal haven't shown their hand yet.
Hertfordshire. The outskirts of London.
Three Toyota Alphard vans rolled quietly through leafy lanes and came to a stop outside the gates of London Colney training ground. David stepped out into the warm July morning wearing Oakley sunglasses, a brand he had signed with only a few days earlier, a small outdoor sports label that had been looking for a way into mainstream football and had come to him through Barnett's network.
He had barely taken in the thick tree line and the expanse of training pitches visible beyond the gates when a voice reached him.
"Those are nice sunglasses. Where did you get them?"
The man who said it was broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and carried the particular self-possession of someone who was very comfortable wherever he happened to be standing.
"Hello, hello! I'm Olivier. Your future teammate." Giroud, registering the slight uncertainty on David's face, extended his hand and spoke his English a fraction more slowly than usual.
"Hello. My English is fine, we can talk normally." David shook his hand. "Call me David. The sunglasses are from Oakley, they're a sponsor. I'll ask my assistant to set some aside for you."
"Actually," Giroud said, already falling into step beside him, "you don't need to introduce yourself. Everyone at Arsenal knows who you are already. Except Win."
"Win?"
"Mr. Wenger's Labrador. Got him a few weeks ago. Excellent defensive positioning, apparently. Faster than Theo Walcott, top speed forty-eight kilometres per hour. Theo maxes out at thirty-four. Significant gap."
David laughed. He had a feeling the next chapter of his career was going to be more entertaining than he had anticipated.
"Olivier, you can finish bonding with David later. I want to get him through the medical first."
A tall, white-haired man had appeared at the training ground entrance, broad across the shoulders, wearing a simple polo shirt that somehow still managed to carry the quiet elegance of someone who had never needed a suit to command a room. Wenger looked older than the photographs, and more alive.
David removed his sunglasses.
"Mr. Wenger. Good to meet you in person."
"David. I've been looking forward to this day for a while." Wenger's eyes moved briefly to the couple behind David. "Your parents, yes? Let me have Steve take care of them while we get you started. There's no need for them to wait around."
A club employee appeared with two wrapped boxes and an easy, genuine smile, and ushered David's parents toward a car with the practiced warmth of an institution that had done this many times. His mother made an encouraging gesture in his direction before the door closed.
The whole thing was handled with a smoothness that David registered quietly and appreciated. There was no fuss, no ceremony, just a club that knew exactly how to make people feel they were in the right place.
Wenger led him inside, glancing back briefly at the small cluster of photographers and individuals loitering near the perimeter with an alertness that suggested they weren't all press.
There was a running joke in football, particularly among Arsenal supporters, about the club's medical room and its mysterious capacity to consume transfer targets. The story had grown into something almost mythological: a fan who had climbed a tree to get a signal after hearing Higuaín was close to signing, only to eventually discover the Argentine had signed for Napoli and was too embarrassed to descend. The medical room's exit, it was jokingly asked, where exactly was it?
Wenger knew it was nonsense, Higuaín had never been close enough to enter any room, but the possibility of a player being approached by an intermediary mid-process was entirely real. He kept his eyes open.
The examination began with an MRI, standard procedure, particularly at a club that had learned the hard way about undisclosed injuries. Arteta had come to them with cruciate damage and had volunteered the information himself; he had still lost bargaining power and had needed to demonstrate a willingness to accept risk before the club would proceed. Even so, a fax machine malfunction at Everton had nearly derailed the deal entirely at the final moment.
Several hours later, the club doctor set the report down and looked at it for a second time.
"In all my years doing this," he said, "I don't think I've seen results quite like these."
Wenger read the figures and said nothing for a moment.
"Your body reads like someone who hasn't accumulated a full season's wear at all," the doctor continued. "It's remarkable."
"My recovery protocols are quite thorough," David said, which was true as far as it went. "Post-match physiotherapy, regular massage, consistent rest. I've been doing it methodically since I started in Germany."
Wenger looked at him over his glasses with the expression of a man who had just been given an answer he was fairly certain didn't tell the whole story, but was willing to accept it for now.
"Right," he said. "The two teams can begin the formal process. On the salary, the image rights, everything you've asked for, we'll work to accommodate. Don't worry about the image rights in particular."
"I'd like eighty percent," David said. "With the club compensating at the agreed proportion for any usage of my image."
"That's already what we had in mind." Wenger said it without theatre, as though the number were simply reasonable and there was no point in performing reluctance about it. "I can confirm that now."
For most players in top-level football, sixty percent was considered a strong position. Raúl, who had never particularly wanted commercial involvement, was the only player David was aware of who had ever held one hundred percent. He hadn't pursued it for the money; he simply disliked the whole business of endorsements. David's situation was almost the opposite.
"I think the signing can move quickly," David said.
Wenger nodded, satisfied. He had signed enough young players over the decades to know when one was genuinely ready, not just technically, but in the more important sense of knowing what they wanted and being honest about it.
"One more thing," he said, as if remembering something incidental. "I've had a few properties identified for you, in case you want to look at them before deciding. Royal Arsenal Riverside in East London is one option, quite striking along the water. Clayton near Alexandra Palace is another. South Quay Plaza at Canary Wharf if you want a city view." He paused. "If you'd prefer something quieter, Hadley Wood and Totteridge in Hertfordshire are both very pleasant. Several of our players live out that way."
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