"Do you still want him representing you?" she asked.
In his first life, that question had started an argument.
He had accused her of interfering with the most important opportunity of his life and reminded her that the agent had paid for his travel to two trials when she could not afford the train fares. He had spoken about club directors, scouts and opportunities as though knowing important people made the man trustworthy.
His mother had tried to explain that she disliked the urgency surrounding every decision. She hated how he spoke over her whenever she questioned a clause and how every favour returned later as something Rafael supposedly owed him.
Rafael had refused to listen.
He could still remember the look on her face the final time she warned him, years before her death. By then, he had renewed the representation agreement twice and given Bell Sports Management control over nearly every commercial decision surrounding his career.
Rafael lowered his eyes.
"Stay with me during the meeting."
"Of course I’m staying." She frowned. "You’re seventeen. The agreement needs my signature too."
He nodded.
His mother touched his arm. "Rafael, what is happening?"
"I’ll explain after."
She did not look satisfied, but voices shifted in the sitting room as their guest moved in his chair.
Rafael followed her inside.
Adrian Bell sat comfortably on the cream-coloured sofa with one ankle resting across his opposite knee. He wore a tailored navy suit, polished brown shoes and a silver watch that caught the morning light whenever he moved his hand.
A leather folder lay open on the coffee table.
Three sets of documents waited inside.
The sight of them dried Rafael’s mouth.
Bell rose with a broad smile and extended his hand.
"There he is. England’s future superstar."
Rafael looked at the offered hand without taking it.
Bell’s smile tightened briefly before he turned the movement into an adjustment of his jacket.
"Big morning," he continued. "You were excellent again at the weekend. Two goals, and I’m told the second finish had half the scouts behind the goal asking for your name."
Rafael remembered the match.
He also remembered that Bell had later claimed his performance attracted attention from three Premier League clubs. Years afterward, Rafael discovered that only one scout had requested information, and Bell had demanded a private payment before agreeing to arrange a conversation.
Bell gestured toward the sofa. "Sit down. Let’s start turning all that talent into a proper career."
Rafael remained beside his mother.
Bell glanced at her. "Mrs Morales."
"Mr Bell."
That was all the attention he gave her before turning back to Rafael.
"I’ve had more calls this week," Bell said. "Championship clubs are watching, and there’s interest higher up too. Nothing formal yet, but that’s why we need to move now. Once this agreement is signed, I can start working properly on your behalf."
He turned the folder toward Rafael and tapped the first page.
The representation agreement carried Bell’s company logo across the top. Beneath it were clauses covering exclusivity, service fees and a two-year term. The second document authorised Bell Sports Management to negotiate commercial opportunities, while the third confirmed that Rafael had decided not to obtain independent legal advice.
Bell moved quickly past all three.
"This is standard," he said. "We’ll deal with transfers, sponsorships, media work and everything else that distracts players from football. You focus on scoring goals, while I make sure the right people are watching."
His finger moved toward the bottom of the page.
"Initial there, sign here, and your mother signs beneath you."
Rafael did not sit.
He looked at the line where his younger signature had appeared in the scanned document, then closed the folder and pushed it across the table.
"I’m not interested."
Bell’s smile remained in place.
For several seconds, he appeared to be waiting for Rafael to laugh.
When Rafael did not, Bell looked toward his mother. "Has someone been speaking to you?"
"This is my son’s decision," she answered.
Bell returned his attention to Rafael. His voice remained friendly, although some of its warmth had disappeared.
"Nerves are normal. Every young player feels them before making things official, but signing with me does not mean losing control."
Rafael’s fingers curled against his palm.
Bell leaned forward. "Remember who paid for the journey to your first trial. I introduced you to people at the academy, and I persuaded scouts to come when you were playing on pitches nobody cared about."
He pushed the folder toward Rafael again.
"Don’t destroy a professional career over childish fear."
The leather scraped across the table.
Rafael stared at Bell’s manicured hand resting on top of the agreement.
He saw false investment statements arriving through the post. He remembered transfer enquiries Bell had never told him about and commercial payments disappearing into companies Rafael had never heard of.
He remembered the overseas clinic’s email.
The deposit.
His daughter becoming too sick to travel.
Rafael struck the folder away.
It hit the floor and opened, scattering pages across the carpet.
His mother flinched. "Rafael."
"You stole from me."
Bell stared at him.
Rafael’s hands had begun shaking, and every breath stopped short of filling his lungs.
"You took my endorsement money and charged my company for work you never did. You sent me false investment statements and stopped me from speaking to independent lawyers."
"What are you talking about?"
"You hid transfer enquiries because clubs wouldn’t pay you extra commission, then told me nobody wanted me. You drained everything through management charges while I was raising money for my daughter."
The last word left his mouth louder than he intended.
Silence swallowed the room.
His mother stood motionless beside him.
Bell’s confusion appeared genuine.
"What money?" he asked. "You haven’t earned anything yet."
The question forced Rafael back into the sitting room.
The agreement lay untouched on the carpet. His mother was staring at him as though she no longer recognised her own son, while Bell watched him with the careful expression people used around someone unstable.
None of it had happened.
There was no commercial income to steal, no transfer enquiry to hide and no daughter requiring treatment.
Not yet.
Rafael’s anger drained from his face, leaving him cold and unsteady.
"I dreamed it," he said.
Bell blinked. "What?"
"I had a dream that I signed with you. You controlled my career, stole everything I earned and ruined every opportunity I had."
His mother looked between them.
Rafael swallowed. "I know how it sounds, but I’m not signing."
Bell laughed once, although no humour reached his eyes.
"A nightmare? This is what all this is about?"
He bent down, gathered the scattered documents and brushed imaginary dust from the folder.
"Fine. We forget the outburst. You calm down, eat something, and then we discuss this like adults."
Bell tucked the papers back into place and reached for Rafael’s arm.
Rafael stepped away and moved beside his mother.
The anger that had carried him through the accusation was gone. Without it, he looked seventeen again: frightened, exhausted and desperate for the one person in the room he trusted.
He faced his mother.
"Please, Mum. Send him away."
She did not understand his accusations or the impossible future behind them, but her eyes settled on his trembling hands and the tears still drying against his cheeks.
She took the folder from Bell.
"Mrs Morales—"
She closed it and returned it to him.
"The meeting is finished."
Bell’s face hardened. "You need to think carefully. I have already invested time and money into Rafael."
"Helping us did not purchase my son’s signature."
She crossed the room and opened the front door.
A cool morning breeze entered the house, carrying the distant sound of traffic and children shouting somewhere along the street.
The System appeared at the edge of Rafael’s vision.
[Mission Completed: Decide on Your Football Future.]
[Decision Registered: Agency Contract Rejected.]
Bell rose slowly and placed the folder inside his briefcase.
"You filled his head with this nonsense," he told Rafael’s mother. "Clubs will not take a difficult seventeen-year-old seriously without someone opening doors for him."
She kept one hand on the door. "Leave."
Bell lifted the briefcase and walked into the hallway. The friendly smile had vanished completely, leaving his face tight with anger.
He stopped beside Rafael.
When neither Rafael nor his mother called him back, Bell looked directly into Rafael’s eyes.
"Ungrateful little bastard. When you end up with nothing, don’t come crawling back to me."