Bright and early, Ronaldo and Claire jogged side by side along the 10-kilometer outer loop of Waikiki Beach.
After their run, they plopped down on the sand, sipping coconut juice, a Hawaiian staple. "Not bad!" Ronaldo said. "Your stamina hasn't dropped—it's actually gotten better."
Claire, catching the insincerity in Ronaldo's tone, grabbed a handful of sand and tossed it at his head. "No need for that, man. Just say what's on your mind. You've got a match tomorrow."
Ronaldo chuckled. "Sir Alex sent me."
"I figured," Claire said. "No way you'd show up in person after just a text."
"Ferguson wanted me to check on you and gauge your reaction to the Rooney thing. Truth is, Rooney's been off his game since you left."
Claire pulled a crumpled Manchester Evening News from his pocket. Though barely legible, he handed it to Ronaldo. "It's not about concern or checking in. Old Trafford's attendance is down 20%. Without me, it's back to the way things were."
Ronaldo's face flushed. Balancing profits, reputation, and team dynamics was tricky, and no one could stay content in that mess—not even someone as big-picture as Claire.
"You know how it is," Ronaldo said. "A match only allows so many substitutions. If Ferguson puts you on the main squad, it messes with his tactics. Your stamina means you can't be a regular starter."
Claire gave Ronaldo a serious look. The message was clear: maybe it was time to play for another team. Claire's stamina might limit him, but as a core player elsewhere, he could shine.
"I get you," Claire said with a smile, slinging an arm around Ronaldo's shoulders.
After seeing Ronaldo off, Claire was hit with a wave of reflection. All his hard work at Manchester United, and still no real support from the team. Sure, he'd made the main squad a few times, but those felt more like concessions to pressure than genuine belief in him.
Taking a deep breath, Claire was interrupted by his uncle, Dennis Irwin, who grumbled from behind, "Playing football? More like navigating a social club."
"In the football world," Dennis continued, "the club owner's the king, the coach is the prime minister, and the star players are party leaders. Every new faction causes a shake-up. So, with the king's silent approval, the prime minister weighed his options and decided to bench you—a slightly flawed rising star—to cut your media exposure."
Claire laughed. "True. No team has more than a couple of big stars."
As they climbed into the nanny van, Dennis kept talking, but Claire's mood shifted. "Uncle, now that you're a councilor in Antrim, who's running Lyme Valley Stadium?"
"Caesar Travel and the FA co-manage it. They each have a board seat, and I've got veto power."
Claire nodded, understanding the FA's move. Though Dennis owned Lyme Valley Stadium, the FA controlled its operations to keep the upstart venue from disrupting English football's rhythm. Caesar Travel's stake was likely a setup for their cross-border tourism business tied to the UK Big Sale Network.
As for Manchester United? Claire would play it by ear.
---
Back home, before Claire could even step inside, Dennis pointed at John Lee Hancock lounging on their couch. "You're seriously investing in that lousy script? Twenty million dollars? You could do anything with that money!"
Claire's mind raced, recalling a flurry of details. Striding into the room, he said to Costa, who was skulking about, "Get the investment contract ready for Mr. Hancock. Oh, and register two script copyrights for me."
"???" Costa blinked.
John Lee Hancock, sitting on the couch, lit up like he'd been kissed by spring. The past two days had been rough—waiting for Claire, he'd even slept on the sofa, unwashed and unkempt. He lunged for a hug, but Claire pushed him back.
"Here's the deal," Claire said. "Change the movie's name to The Blind Side. I can't help much beyond that—you're on your own."
"Claire, thank you so much!" Hancock gushed.
Ignoring Hancock's gratitude, Claire headed to Steve Chen's room. As Costa started to follow, Hancock yanked him back.
"What's that for?" Costa snapped.
"Claire told you to prep the contract, didn't you hear?"
"I'm his manager, not his lawyer!"
"I don't care. No contract today, I'm not letting go."
Costa laughed, exasperated. Dennis, lugging a suitcase downstairs, gave Costa a knowing pat on the shoulder without a word. Passing Hancock, Dennis grinned, "Keep at it!"
"Thanks," Hancock replied.
Costa, baffled, muttered, "What's going on now?"
"Get that contract done," Hancock said. "Mess up Claire's investment, and he'll make your life hell."
Costa, out of patience with the shameless director, reluctantly called Warner Records' legal team.
---
"Tomorrow's the merger, and the day after, we're ringing the bell at Nasdaq!" Steve Chen said.
"You ring it," Claire replied, flipping through a movie script on his bed. "It'll make up for your regrets."
Steve, munching on an orange peeled by his nurse, glanced at the script. "Art films don't make money in Hollywood. Trust me."
"Who said I'm making an art film?" Claire shot back. "This is cash from the IPO. I need to make money grow. In this country, money just sitting there loses value."
Steve rolled his eyes. "Coupons! Name a price—I want that site."
Claire perked up. "Interested in what I mentioned the other day? I'm telling you, play it right, and this site could choke Amazon. Partner with their small shops, promote their products with e-coupons, and profit from their commissions. Once your traffic's big enough, you can even control a product's real-world price. Pretty badass, right?"
"Twenty million," Steve offered. "I heard you just invested in a movie and need cash."
Claire winced. He'd spent 6 million on the site two months ago, and flipping it for 14 million profit stung, especially since it could become the next American Meituan. "Twenty-five million, final offer. You know I only paid 6 million."
A deal's a deal. Claire pulled a stack of contracts from his jacket and set them on Steve's bedside table.
Steve nearly jumped out of bed. "You already had the contract ready to sell me the company? You sly dog!"
"I'm cleaning up my drunken mess," Claire said. "The merger's set, but you know Chinese companies—takes a month to sell shares. I'm selling mine too, but no buyer yet. If you've got time, ask around."
"Deal," Steve said, nonchalant despite being an angel investor who'd profit most.
Outside, Claire leaned on the second-floor railing, grinning at Hancock, who was watching Costa print the contract. "Sign it, and I'll wire the funds. Do what you need to—don't mess around."
"Where'd you get the money?" Costa asked, looking up in shock.
"Mind your business, manager. Oh, and register those two script copyrights. I'm off to New York tomorrow."
Costa fumed at Claire's hands-off attitude, but a text made him shout, "F, Claire! What'd you do now? Malcolm wants to meet me!"
The house fell eerily silent. Hancock, frowning, muttered, "Is Claire always this impulsive? This isn't the artist-manager dynamic I expected."
"He's my dad!" Costa yelled at Hancock.
Hancock, unfazed, danced around the printed contract, thrilled. Costa sighed, surrounded by eccentrics.
Back in his room, Claire didn't rest. He pored over his lavish computer setup and Bloomberg tools, hunting for clues about the subprime crisis. Investing in The Blind Side wasn't a whim. Knowing its potential, Claire saw a way to outpace dollar depreciation through movies.
Films had slow returns, but the subprime crisis would last a year. A movie timed to release during its peak could beat inflation and the dollar's drop. Even with only 30% of box office revenue after taxes, The Blind Side, Whiplash, and La La Land were guaranteed hits.
Claire marked his planner: "Cash out equity—reinvest 25 million in film production."
If Costa saw this, he'd be floored. Claire had detailed his recent earnings and mapped out every dollar's future. Glancing at the Bloomberg terminal, he flopped onto his bed. Tomorrow, he'd meet Caesar Travel's overseas division in New York. As for the Nasdaq bell-ringing? He'd let Steve have the spotlight—he hadn't rung it yet.
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American TV Series: Young Sheldon mike edition