"This is a tough decision," one of the fans lamented. "Can't we keep the team stable while you carry out your plans? Why do you hate Ranieri so much? Even if he's not a championship coach, he's still pretty good. He's definitely better than that Mourinho guy nobody's even heard of."
"Yeah, that Mourinho guy really doesn't inspire much confidence."
Clap, clap, clap! William clapped his hands, gathering their attention. "Who am I, guys? I'm William Devonshire, a man who became a billionaire in just nine months. Do you really think I'd waste my time managing Chelsea without being fully confident? You need to understand that the money I make in a single day could buy me a player like Zidane, and what I earn in a week could buy Chelsea outright. So, unless I make a mistake, trust me." William joked with a grin. "Talking to you guys here has already cost me millions."
"Wow," "My God," the fans exclaimed.
"This can't be real," Robert stammered, handing his camera to someone else. "Old man Swagger, punch me! Tell me this isn't real."
Bang! "Ouch!"
"You idiot, I've been wanting to hit you for a while. Now you can shut up," Swagger growled.
After exchanging glances with the others, the old man sighed. "William, the team is yours. We can't stop you from doing what you want. We just hope the team doesn't get relegated after this year."
William rolled his eyes, feeling bored and realizing that continuing to argue with these people was a waste of time. He also understood that trying to please fans all the time wouldn't lead to good results. Sometimes, firmness was necessary. There were some decisions he didn't need to discuss with the fans at all. With this in mind, William didn't hesitate. "Remember to tell the fans, if they want a new training facility and stadium, they should petition the politicians. That's it for today, gentlemen. See you later."
"What? Just like that?" Robert asked in surprise, then turned angrily to Swagger. "You old fool, why'd you talk about relegation? Now he's mad and left because of you."
"You idiot," Swagger glared at Robert. "Who the hell let him in here?"
Everyone mumbled, avoiding the question.
Robert, embarrassed, muttered, "Why are you blaming me for your mistake?"
"FK," Swagger grumbled, too frustrated to continue arguing with Robert. After a moment of silence, seeing the others confused, he explained, "Do you really think William cares about the fans? That he came out here because of our complaints, to share his plans for the team? Hell no! The only reason he's even talking to us is to make his mother, Lena, happy. William doesn't care about Chelsea. The club took his mother's attention away from him when he was a teenager. You think he joked earlier when he said Chelsea was his enemy? He wasn't joking at all."
Swagger's words left everyone stunned.
"Don't forget, he makes enough in a week to buy Chelsea. So, ask yourselves, would you rather have Lena running the team or William?" Swagger concluded.
There wasn't much to think about. Clearly, William was the better choice. After all their years of watching football, they knew full well that football is a game of money. Championships might require luck, but maintaining a championship-level team is all about money.
"I really thought William valued us more," someone said, disappointed. "Turns out he's just using us for our influence among the fans."
"But he's using us to pressure the politicians, to help get his plans approved," Robert chimed in. "Are we really going to oppose him just because of that? If he does everything he promised, I'm more than happy to be used. Think about it: what other team owner would invest hundreds of millions in a new stadium and training facility during an economic crisis? Most owners wouldn't spend a dime. Look at our current training grounds, and now imagine William's vision—200 acres for a state-of-the-art training base. Sure, there are plenty of rich owners, but in these times, no one else is willing to spend the money William is. As long as he follows through and the team doesn't drop to the relegation zone, I'm willing to wait three years. That's the least he deserves for investing this much."
The other nine fans stared at Robert, shocked. The seemingly simple-minded guy turned out to be the most clear-headed among them.
"Alright," one of them finally said. "Like Robert said, let's wait and see if William keeps his promises. Even if the team's performance stays mediocre, it won't be worse than before. But a new stadium and training base will secure our future."
"Exactly, the future."
With that, the ten fans left the conference room, smiling. As soon as they stepped outside the hotel, they were surrounded by other fans. Within no time, everything William had said was all over the lunchtime news on every TV station.
Five hundred million pounds for a new stadium, 200 acres for a training base, and a 100 million-pound transfer budget—these announcements shocked the entire country. William Devonshire had made it clear that he was serious. The public was stunned not only by the scope of his plans but also by his casual attitude toward spending such vast amounts of money. It was impossible to count how many people cursed at their TVs with an "FK" after hearing the news.
By 2 p.m., a group of over a dozen government officials from London arrived at the Four Seasons Hotel. William, who had been notified by his butler, David, was on the phone when they arrived. Since the news broke at noon, his phone hadn't stopped ringing, with calls from everyone he knew. Even Lena's phone hadn't been silent for a moment.
Seeing the government officials, William wasted no time and simply asked, "I want to rent Wembley Stadium."
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