"Montella, tell me you're joking."
Daniele Pradè stared at the coach, his eyes wide with disbelief. "You have to be. You're pulling my leg to see if I'm still awake, right?"
But Montella didn't blink. The youngest manager in Serie A looked as steady as a captain in a storm.
"You're insane, Vincenzo. Completely mad!" Pradè paced the length of the touchline. "Make Renzo the tactical core? Forget his age for a second—forget that he's sixteen. The boy is a rental! He's here for four months! You want to rebuild our entire offensive philosophy around a kid who's going back to England in May? What happens in August? Do we all just sit around and wait for him to send us a postcard?"
Pradè's frustration was logical. In the high-stakes world of Italian football, "Tactical Cores" are usually established in July. It takes months of grueling double-sessions to calibrate a team's movement to a single playmaker. To attempt a revolution in February—with a loanee—was practically a suicide mission.
"The focus hasn't changed, Daniele," Montella said calmly. "We still play the ground-game. We still penetrate the lines. The only difference is that now, every road leads to Renzo. He is the filter. He is the trigger."
"It's too risky," Pradè countered. "He's had two good games. Brilliant games, fine. Let him start. Let him contribute. But don't give him the keys to the city! If he leaves and we haven't built a sustainable system, we'll be back at square one by the summer."
Montella stepped closer, his voice dropping. "We are eighth, Daniele. We're fighting on three fronts: the League, the Coppa Italia, and the Europa League. Without a massive jump in quality, we fail at all three. Do you want to play it 'safe' and finish seventh? Or do you want to gamble on a genius and chase the Champions League spots? If Renzo gets us into the top four, the revenue alone pays for his replacement ten times over. He's not just a player; he's our shortcut to the top."
Pradè fell silent. As a director, he spoke the language of balance sheets and TV rights. Montella was right—the difference between 7th place and 4th place was worth tens of millions of Euros.
"If this blows up, Vincenzo, we're both packing our bags," Pradè sighed.
Montella smiled. "We've been friends for twenty years. If I'm going down, I'm taking you with me."
Liverpool, England. The Melwood Training Ground.
"Brendan, the board is restless. John Henry is starting to ask questions about the 'regression' of the squad."
Michael Edwards, Liverpool's Sporting Director, didn't sugarcoat the news as he approached Brendan Rodgers. Liverpool was languishing in 10th place in the Premier League. The "Golden Era" promised after nearly winning the title the previous year was crumbling into a mid-table nightmare.
Rodgers, looking exhausted, snapped back. "I'm doing what I can with what I have, Michael! But look at our midfield. It's paper-thin. We lack creativity, we lack vision. You can't bake a cake without flour."
Edwards adjusted his glasses, a cold glint in his eye. "Speaking of creativity, Brendan... do you remember that teenager you insisted on sending away three weeks ago? The one you said wasn't 'ready' for the professional level?"
Rodgers frowned. "The Uzumaki boy? What about him? He's playing in a youth setup in Italy, I assume."
Edwards pulled out his tablet and swiped through a series of match reports from Italy. "Not exactly. He's played twice for Fiorentina's senior team. Twenty minutes on his debut: two assists. Forty-five minutes in his second game: another two assists."
Rodgers froze. His brain processed the numbers, but his pride refused to accept them. "Four assists... in sixty-five minutes of football? In Serie A?"
"Against Genoa and Sampdoria," Edwards added, his voice dripping with "I-told-you-so" subtext. "The Italian press is already calling him the 'Oriental Rui Costa.' And from what I hear, Montella is about to make him the centerpiece of their entire team."
Rodgers stared at the tablet, the image of Renzo in a purple jersey burning into his retinas. For the first time, the pressure of the 10th-place standing felt secondary to the realization that he might have just given away the best playmaker in Europe for the price of a plane ticket.
"Four assists..." Rodgers whispered, the color draining from his face. "He's only sixteen."
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