“Completely understand your position, coach.
But this is modern football.
Ensuring my player is treated fairly is my job.
My responsibility.
Let’s solve this like professionals.
Efficiently.
After all, we both want Luca to focus on playing his best football for you, don’t we?”
The negotiation began.
Luca sat quietly, listening to the verbal sparring.
Raiola fought for every inch.
Contract length.
Release clause.
Image rights.
Bonus structures.
He gave nothing away.
Sarri stood his ground for the club.
Stability.
Investment in development.
Squad planning.
But against an agent of Raiola’s caliber, coaching authority alone was not enough.
The back-and-forth had bite, but stayed professional.
Luca noticed that Sarri, despite his dislike of agents, conceded on several reasonable points after a fight.
It was a necessary dance.
After nearly an hour, the new terms were settled.
One: Contract length reduced from five years to three.
A compromise.
Enough time for the club to benefit from his development.
Not so long that Luca was caged.
Two: Weekly wage raised from eight thousand euros to twenty thousand.
For a seventeen-year-old with no professional appearances, that was a massive statement.
It showed how much Napoli valued him.
And how well Raiola had negotiated.
Three: Release clause.
Sarri was immovable.
Thirty million euros.
His reasoning was blunt.
“If we want to sell, we negotiate the price.
If we don’t, the number is irrelevant.
The point is Luca needs to focus on playing here.
Not on his release clause.”
Raiola argued, but Sarri would not budge.
Raiola settled for a future re-evaluation clause tied to performance and appearances.
Four: Other terms.
Playing time incentives.
Goal and assist bonuses.
Renewal priority.
All optimized.
“Pleasure doing business, Coach Sarri.”
Raiola extended his hand, smiling.
“I’m sure.”
Sarri shook it, his expression softening slightly.
He looked at Luca.
“Luca, welcome to the first team.
Someone from the club will show you around.
The full squad trains at two.
Don’t be late.
Your locker is ready.”
“Yes, coach.
Thank you.”
Luca stood, speaking with sincerity.
They stepped out of the club building.
The sun was already harsh.
Raiola let out a long breath.
He had not slept, but he was buzzing.
“How about that?
Twenty thousand a week.
Three years.
The release clause didn’t move, but with the re-evaluation clause, we’ll have leverage at renewal.
Not bad, boss?”
Luca meant it.
“Amazing, Mino.
Without you, I might have signed that five-year deal.
Thank you.”
“I told you.
It’s my job.”
Raiola grinned.
“All right.
My part is done.
The rest is up to you.
Win over that stubborn old chain-smoker on the training pitch.
I’m going to find a bed and catch a flight this afternoon.
Remember.
Anything you need, call me.”
Luca saw the blood vessels in Raiola’s eyes.
“Mino.
Really.
Rest.
Health matters more than any contract.”
Raiola blinked, looked at the boy’s earnest eyes, and nodded.
He clapped Luca hard on the back.
“I know, kid.
You too.
Go get them.
I can’t wait to see you in Napoli blue.”
He hurried to his waiting car.
The morning passed quickly with a club staffer showing Luca around.
He toured the first-team facilities.
Physio rooms.
Gym.
Training pitches.
Everything was a level above the youth academy.
After a light lunch at the training ground cafeteria, Luca arrived at the locker room at two-thirty sharp.
The room was busy.
Nearly thirty players were getting ready.
The squad had undergone significant turnover this summer.
The club leadership clearly wanted a title push.
The pain of that ambition was also visible.
Last season’s Serie A top scorer, Gonzalo Higuain, had left for bitter rivals Juventus in a record ninety-million-euro deal.
The betrayal still stung Napoli fans.
But it filled the club’s coffers.
His replacement was Polish striker Arkadiusz Milik.
Luca knew Milik would suffer a serious injury early in the season.
And that injury would inadvertently pave the way for the lethal attacking trio that would take Serie A by storm: Insigne, Mertens, and Callejón.
“Hey, kid.
Over here.”
A man with a wild mohawk waved him over.
Marek Hamsik, the captain.
The Slovakian midfield engine.
Pepe Reina stood beside him.
“Welcome to the real Napoli, Luca.”
Hamsik walked over and ruffled Luca’s hair, then began introducing him around the room.
“This is Kalidou Koulibaly.
Our rock at the back.
Don’t let the size scare you.
He’s a giant teddy bear who loves to sing.
That’s Piotr Zielinski, our little magician.
Over there is Kevin Malcuit.
Runs like a tank.”
As a homegrown Napoli product, Luca was naturally welcomed by the Italian core.
Lorenzo Insigne, José Callejón, and others showed warmth to one of their own.
But there was another power bloc in the room.
The South American contingent.
Interestingly, its current leader was an Italian.
Jorginho.
The deep-lying playmaker was born in Brazil, developed in Brazil’s academy system, but chose Italy because an Italian club had believed in him when he was struggling.
He was calm, polished, already the team’s indispensable metronome.
Luca knew he would become one of the best midfielders in the world.
Jorginho was usually surrounded by Brazilian teammates like Allan.
After greeting the Italian core, Luca walked over to Jorginho.
He knew this man was his direct competition in midfield.
“Good afternoon, Mr.
Jorginho.” Luca’s tone was respectful.
“I’ve watched a lot of your matches.
Your midfield control and tempo setting are fascinating.
I study them.”
Jorginho looked up, surprised.
The kid had sought him out.
Humble, too.
He smiled slightly.
“Hello, Luca.
No need for formalities.
Call me João.
Sarri showed us your match from Friday.
Your vision and passing choices were excellent.
Not at all like a seventeen-year-old.”
Luca smiled.
He nodded to Allan, the stocky Brazilian beside Jorginho.
Allan grinned back.
The current midfield core was Hamsik, Jorginho, and Allan.
Luca knew his role this season: rotation and backup.
Earn trust through training.
When he picked his training kit, Luca chose number sixty-six.
First-team numbers were limited.
The significant ones were taken.
And number ten belonged to the immortal legend, Diego Maradona.
Even vacant, no one dared touch it.
Sixty-six was fine.
Easy to say.
No historical baggage.
He thought of a certain highway in Liverpool.
At three in the afternoon, the first-team training pitch.
Players filtered out of the locker room.
Some laughed and joked.
Others jogged alone with headphones, seeking familiar cliques.
Luca naturally followed Hamsik and Reina, blending into the Italian group.
A sharp whistle cut through the air.
Coach Sarri, tactical board in hand, flanked by assistants, walked to the center of the pitch.
The noise died instantly.
Sarri handed the board to an assistant and scanned the squad.
“First full session of the new season.
Plenty of new faces.
I’m Maurizio Sarri.
Your coach.”
“No welcome speeches.
I’ve done my homework on every one of you.
New or returning.
I know your strengths.
I know your performances last season and your summer training reports.”
He paused.
“I don’t waste words.
On my pitch, everything is decided by training and matches.
Now.
We start with the basics.”
“Everyone.
Five laps around the pitch.
Your own pace.
Get warm.
Then dynamic stretching.
High knees, heel flicks, lateral movement, shuttle runs.
No slacking.
Injuries hurt you and waste the team’s time.”
“Assistant coaches will lead the warm-up.
Begin.”
The stars of Napoli began a systematic, rigorous warm-up.
Luca felt the difference immediately.
Every drill had purpose.
Higher intensity.
Not the casual jogging of youth football.
A professional routine designed to activate every muscle group.
He followed every step precisely, feeling his body come alive.
Forty minutes later, the warm-up ended.
Most players were sweating.
Sarri picked up his board again.
No delay.
“Warm-up done.
Now we scrimmage.
Team A, orange bibs.
Team B, blue bibs.”
He read the names quickly.
“Team A: Keeper, Reina.
Defense, Hysaj, Albiol, Koulibaly, Ghoulam.
Midfield, Hamsik, Allan, Zielinski.
Attack, Milik, Insigne, Callejón.”
Luca waited.
His name was not called.
“Team B.”
Sarri continued, voice flat.
“Keeper, Rafael.
Defense, Malcuit, Chiriches, Tonelli, Strinic.
Midfield, Jorginho, Diawara, Luca.
Attack, Mertens, Giaccherini, Rog.”
A few players were left over.
They sat on the bench.
Sarri closed his board.
“Organize yourselves.
Positions and basic combinations.
Fifteen minutes.
Then we play.
Two thirty-minute halves.”
Luca pulled on the blue bib and joined his team on their half.
Simple passing and shooting to find the feel.
Jorginho, the senior midfielder on Team B, took charge.
He looked at Luca and Diawara.
“According to the board, I’m the deep-lying playmaker.
Luca, you’re attacking mid?
Or…”
“I can play both,” Luca answered honestly.
“But I’m probably better going forward.”
Diawara spoke up.
He had some first-team experience and a competitive edge.
“I prefer attacking and driving through the middle too.
João, putting our entire attack on a seventeen-year-old…
isn’t that a bit…”
He trailed off.
The meaning was clear.
He did not trust Luca.
Luca responded immediately, tone calm.
“No problem.
I’ll focus on defensive work.
Interceptions.
Screening.
I’ll protect João and cover behind.
You and João can lead the attack.”
He kept his posture low.
New kid.
Youngest.
No need to fight.
Besides, with God’s Eye View, he could test his defensive reading.
Jorginho glanced at Luca, a flicker of approval.
Calm.
Sensible.
It was just a training match.
“Fine.
That’s the setup for now.
Luca, stay mobile.
Protect the middle.
Be aggressive defensively.
Diawara, you and I link up.
Let’s pass and find the rhythm.”
In the simple passing drill, Luca carefully controlled his weight and precision.
First-team teammates had different receiving habits, different running speeds.
He needed to adapt fast.
He felt Diawara’s passes coming in hard.
Testing him.
Luca controlled them cleanly and returned balls with perfect weight and spin.
Jorginho received them comfortably.
The whistle blew.
Fifteen minutes gone.
Team A’s striker, Milik, tapped the ball into play.
The match began.
Hamsik received in the center circle.
No extra touch.
One pass.
Out to Callejón on the right.
The ball moved like lightning.
No pauses.
No hesitation.