Chapter 26
A lingering sense of finality enveloped the entire city of Verona, from the Marcantonio Bentegodi Stadium to the club's training grounds. The atmosphere was thick with uncertainty, yet a sense of perseverance remained—everywhere except in the club's offices.
Two days after Hellas Verona concluded their 42nd and final match of the Serie B season, a large group of devoted fans gathered outside the training ground, hoisting banners and pleading with the club to reconsider the departures of key players. Meanwhile, inside the office building, Giambattista Pastorello was engaged in negotiations with representatives from Chievo Verona.
After just 20 minutes of discussions, an agreement was reached: Marco Ferrante would transfer to Chievo Verona for a fee of €400,000. It was a significant move, among the highest-valued transfers in Hellas Verona's recent history. Yet, the deal was struck at a moment when Aymar Zambo had just formally dismissed his players, sending them off on vacation after a long and grueling season.
Had Aymar witnessed the scene in Pastorello's office, he would have found it nothing short of ironic.
However, despite Ferrante's departure commanding a respectable fee, the most sought-after player in Verona's squad was not the veteran striker. Instead, Mattia Cassani, the promising Italian midfielder, had caught the attention of nearly every top club in Serie A.
Inter Milan, AC Milan, AS Roma, Fiorentina, Palermo, Lazio…
The list of clubs monitoring Cassani was extensive, yet his market value remained surprisingly modest. Despite the intense interest, his estimated worth stood at just €300,000—not even surpassing Ferrante's valuation.
Many of these clubs had already initiated discreet discussions with Cassani's representatives, knowing full well that Hellas Verona was grappling with severe financial difficulties. If they could sway the player's desire, they might pressure Verona into accepting a lower transfer fee, taking advantage of the club's precarious situation.
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In the following days, Aymar sat in his office, his desk cluttered with scouting reports, tactical notes, and, most importantly, offers from clubs eager to secure his services. Eight teams had come forward—two from Serie A and six from outside Italy.
Parma and Torino were the Italian clubs that had reached out. Parma, once a giant of Italian football, still carried the prestige of its European triumphs in the 1990s. However, the club had been crippled by financial issues following the Parmalat scandal and, despite narrowly avoiding relegation, its future remained uncertain. Would he even have the resources to build a competitive squad there?
Then there was Torino, a club with deep history and a passionate following. They had barely avoided relegation from Serie A, and only two years ago, they had gone bankrupt and were still in the process of rebuilding. Stability was a concern, but the opportunity to coach in Serie A immediately was tempting.
Outside of Italy, he had six offers, each with its own appeal and risks.
Utrecht, in the Netherlands, offered financial stability and a league that encouraged attacking football. It was a club focused on developing young players, something Aymar valued, but competing with Ajax, PSV, and Feyenoord for silverware would be an uphill battle.
Saint-Étienne, in France, carried a glorious past but had spent years stuck in mid-table mediocrity. Their fanbase was demanding, expecting the club to return to its former heights, but at least they had avoided the financial chaos that plagued other clubs.
Then there was RC Lens, a club that had finished 5th in Ligue 1 and secured a spot in the UEFA Cup. They had better immediate prospects than Saint-Étienne, but expectations were high—a poor start could mean immediate pressure on him.
Real Betis, in Spain, had a passionate fanbase and the appeal of La Liga football, but the club had only just escaped relegation, finishing 16th. The squad needed a major rebuild, and with financial constraints, Aymar would have little margin for error.
Eintracht Frankfurt, in Germany, had solid infrastructure and a growing reputation, but their 14th-place finish in the Bundesliga reflected deeper problems. Would he have the time and resources to fix them?
Finally, there was Southampton, a club that had reached the Championship playoffs but failed to secure promotion. England's second tier was notoriously difficult, and though the club had a renowned youth academy, financial concerns loomed in the background. If promotion didn't come quickly, his tenure might be short-lived.
Aymar exhaled, leaning back in his chair. Every club had its advantages. Every club had its risks. He wasn't in a rush—this was his career, his future, and he would decide on his own terms. There was no need to be pressured. He would take his time, weigh his options, and choose the right path.
Just as he was lost in thought, his phone rang.
"Hello, who is this?" Aymar asked.
"You don't even recognize my voice?" came a playful response.
"You are...?" Aymar asked, frowning slightly. The number was saved in his phone under the name Francesca Bianchi, but he couldn't recall who that was or when he had saved it. The voice, however, was sweet and oddly familiar.
"Francesca Bianchi. We've met twice in Verona. Do you remember?" she said.
The mention of Verona jogged his memory. He recalled a conversation with a stunning Italian woman when he had first arrived at Hellas Verona's second team. At that time, his tactical approach hadn't been working, and most of the squad had been against him. He had met her while strolling through the city, though the details were hazy.
"Oh, it's you. How have you been?" Aymar said after a brief pause.
"I'm good, but strictly speaking, we've only met one and a half times!" Francesca replied with a teasing tone.
Aymar froze for a moment. "One and a half times?"
"Yes," she said with a light chuckle. "The first time was in Montebelluna, when you were coaching Hellas Verona's second team and playing against Calcio Montebelluna. I waved at you from the stands, but unfortunately, you didn't recognize me at the time!" She feigned disappointment in her voice.
"Oh… sorry about that," Aymar mumbled, unsure of how to respond.
Francesca laughed softly. "It's okay, but I think you should consider making it up to me by inviting me out for a meal. That way, you can properly recognize me this time!"
If anyone had been listening to this conversation, they would have been shocked. After all, this was Francesca Bianchi, one of the most beautiful women in Italy, and she was the one taking the initiative for an invitation.
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A few days later…
Francesca Bianchi was effortlessly stylish, as expected of a top model. She wore a form-fitting black halter top with an elegant plunging neckline, accentuated by a chic layered necklace with mismatched pendants that subtly caught the light. Paired with low-rise bootcut jeans, a staple of high fashion and casual wear alike, and sleek designer heels, she exuded confidence and sophistication. A tailored cropped leather jacket completed her ensemble, giving her a mix of effortless cool and understated glamour.
Her oversized sunglasses, a must-have for celebrities avoiding the public eye, covered much of her stunning features, but they only added to the aura of mystery that surrounded her. Her golden hair cascaded in soft waves, moving gracefully with every step. It was no surprise that heads turned as she walked through the streets of Milan—some men even stopped in their tracks to admire the vision before them.
Walking beside her, Aymar Zambo felt both honored and slightly uneasy. Being in the company of a woman who commanded such attention was a privilege, but enduring the envious stares of countless bystanders? That was another matter entirely.
"Is this some kind of test?" Aymar muttered, half amused, half exasperated.
Francesca let out a soft laugh, linking her arm through his. "Oh, don't look so tormented. Just ignore them, and you're free. If you spend your life worrying about what others think, you'll never enjoy yourself."
She paused for a moment before adding teasingly, "Besides, you're a public figure now too. You should be getting used to this."
Aymar shrugged. Sure, he was known in Verona, where fans recognized him on the streets, but here in Milan? His name carried no weight.
"Speaking of which, I agreed to go out with you today. So, where exactly are we going?" Aymar asked, feigning reluctance.
Francesca playfully swatted his arm. "Are you really acting like this is a chore?"
She smirked before revealing her well-planned itinerary. "First, we're heading to the Museo del Cinema. After that, lunch at the Ristorante del Museo del Novecento—Angelica says the food there is fantastic. Then, we'll visit an art gallery in the afternoon, relax with some coffee in the evening, and later, we can check out a spot for drinks."
Aymar raised an eyebrow. "You mean to say you've already mapped everything out?"
"Of course! I only have two days off, I intend to make the most of them!"
"Wait, two days? I thought it was just one?" Aymar said, taken aback.
Francesca gave him a sly smile, clearly enjoying his reaction. For some reason, she found it amusing when Aymar, usually so composed and confident, got flustered.
It made him feel more real—more approachable.
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From the early masterpieces of Italian cinema at the Museo Nazionale del Cinema in Turin, to the breathtaking works of Raphael at the Pinacoteca di Brera, to the exquisite dishes at a cozy restaurant, and finally, to a quiet afternoon at a stylish Milanese café—Aymar Zambo had spent the entire day being pulled from one cultural experience to another.
But unlike him, Francesca Bianchi showed no signs of exhaustion. She was full of energy, excitedly sharing insights about every place they visited, effortlessly drawing him into conversations about Italy's rich artistic and cinematic heritage.
Now, as they sat at a trendy café in the heart of Milan, Aymar let out a deep sigh, finally allowing himself a moment of rest.
"I swear, women are geniuses when it comes to shopping and sightseeing," he muttered under his breath.
Francesca smirked, stirring her coffee. "Oh, come on! You can't say you didn't enjoy today."
Before Aymar could respond, a tall woman approached their table, her voice carrying an unmistakable mix of surprise and mockery.
"Well, well, isn't this Francesca?"
Aymar glanced up, immediately sensing tension.
"So free to be out and about? You're lucky—I'm stuck working. I finally get a day off, and they still drag me out here to shoot a promotional campaign. It's exhausting, so unfair!" she sighed dramatically.
Aymar didn't need much time to read between the lines—this woman wasn't here for small talk. He could see Francesca's expression darken slightly, her posture shifting just enough to reveal her annoyance.
Before Aymar could intervene, the woman flipped her hair with a practiced motion, "Ah, I have to go! The photographer's calling. Bye!" she said with exaggerated enthusiasm, walking away with an unmistakable sway in her hips.
Aymar watched her leave, unimpressed.
"Who was that?" he asked, turning to Francesca.
Francesca's gaze lingered on the woman for a second before she let out a quiet sigh, a mix of contempt and resignation in her expression.
"Someone who used to call me 'sis' but now just calls me 'fat.'"
Aymar's eyes instinctively scanned Francesca's toned, flawless figure. "Fat? Seriously?"
She let out a small laugh, though there was a hint of bitterness in it.
The encounter had clearly soured the moment, and Aymar could feel the shift in her mood. He decided not to dwell on it and instead steered the conversation elsewhere. They stayed at the café for a little while longer, making light conversation until Francesca suddenly spoke up again.
"Let's go for drinks."
Aymar hesitated for a moment. He could tell she wasn't in the best mood anymore, and he knew what drinking in that state could lead to. But in the end, he simply sighed and nodded.
"Alright, let's go."
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At the corner of a lively bar in Milan's Navigli district, Aymar Zambo sat by the window, listening to the smooth, melodic tunes played by a live band. In front of him was a tall glass of Italian craft beer, its name unfamiliar to him. The drink was rich, smooth, and pure—vastly different from the beers he was used to back home.
Across from him, Francesca Bianchi gazed out the window, absentmindedly removing her sunglasses. The glow of the streetlights reflected in her eyes, creating a hazy, almost dreamlike effect. Whether it was the alcohol or the atmosphere of the evening, something in her expression seemed distant, contemplative.
"Do you have any dreams?" she suddenly asked.
Aymar was caught off guard for a moment before he smiled. "Of course. Everyone has dreams."
"And what's yours?" Francesca asked, leaning forward with interest.
Aymar took another sip of his beer. The alcohol was stronger than he expected, and after two large glasses, his head was already feeling a little light. But without hesitation, he answered, "I want to be the best football coach in the world."
Francesca laughed—an amused, genuine laugh that made Aymar frown slightly.
"What? You think that's funny?" he asked, his expression darkening just a little.
She quickly shook her head. "No, not at all! I just find it fascinating how everything you talk about always revolves around football."
Aymar thought about it for a moment. She wasn't wrong. Ever since arriving in Italy, his entire life had been consumed by football. Even his original plan of returning to Cameroon this summer to visit his parents had been postponed. Instead, he had spent all his time weighing his options, deciding which club would be the best fit for his next move. His family had to settle for phone calls instead of a visit.
Francesca studied him for a moment before speaking again.
"You're a very happy person, Aymar."
"Aren't you?" he asked in return.
She hesitated, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. The warm glow of the bar's lighting gave her already striking features an even more alluring quality.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I rarely stop to think about whether I'm happy or not. My life has always been about my career—how many jobs I have lined up, how long I can stay relevant, how I can make myself more beautiful for the cameras."
Aymar listened, watching her as she spoke. Even someone as seemingly perfect as Francesca Bianchi had her own struggles. Maybe it was the alcohol loosening her tongue, or maybe she just needed someone to confide in.
After a pause, she looked directly at him. "Do you look down on people in the entertainment industry?"
Aymar considered her question before shaking his head. "No. Not at all."
He didn't mention that, like many men, he had once admired countless famous actresses from afar, idolizing their beauty. But that was different from truly understanding their world.
Francesca smirked slightly, but her eyes held something deeper—something almost weary.
"That's because you don't know this industry," she said, swirling the last of her drink. "There are people who will do anything to stay relevant—violate their own principles, push their moral limits, betray their relationships… It's normal in this world. Almost expected."
She exhaled, leaning back in her chair.
"I used to believe I wouldn't have to follow that path. But… I was wrong."