Brenda, the club secretary, who looked like she might faint from the sheer, overwhelming absurdity of it all, just fanned herself with a stack of post-match paperwork.
"Well," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.
"That's... that's rather a lot of zeroes, isn't it, Mr. Leon?"
Laurence Stewart just smiled, a polite, professional smile that held the quiet confidence of a man used to getting what he wanted.
"Chelsea believes in investing in potential, Mr. Leon," he said smoothly.
"And we see immense potential in young Mr. Carter. We believe, under the right guidance," he added, with a subtle but unmistakable emphasis, "he could become a truly world-class defender."
Leon finally found his voice, though it came out as a slightly strangled squeak.
"He's... he's eighteen. He was released by Everton six months ago. He's playing against teams whose star striker is a plumber."
"Indeed," Stewart nodded, completely unfazed.
