Building the Dream Team IV

Aymar Zambo sat back in his chair, the glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows in his hotel room in Pruszków. The past few days had been a whirlwind—negotiating for Lewandowski, securing Perišić's interest, and now plotting his next move. He wasn't just assembling a squad for the present; he was carefully selecting pieces for the future.

His mind settled on one position that needed urgent attention—the defensive midfield role. Right now, his only real option was Emanuele Torrisi, who is very talented and was with him at Hellas Verona but him alone won't suffice. If Torino wanted to compete, they needed depth in that position. That's when a name from his past life flashed into his mind.

N'Golo Kanté.

Aymar exhaled sharply. Kanté was still just a 16-year-old playing for JS Suresnes, a small amateur club in France. Nobody had noticed him yet. He wasn't in a professional academy, and in his past life, his breakthrough wouldn't come until years later. But Aymar had the luxury of knowing the future. He knew exactly what the kid would be capable of—an engine in midfield, a relentless ball-winner with an unmatched work ethic.

"If I bring him to Torino now, I can accelerate his development. He'll be Serie A-ready years ahead of schedule."

Regret flickered for a moment—he had just been in France and could have handled this earlier. But it wasn't too late. He reached for his phone and called Pippo Glaviano.

"Pippo, I need you to arrange a meeting with N'Golo Kanté's family."

There was a pause on the other end of the line before Pippo responded.

"Kanté? Who is he? Who is he playing for?"

"A small club in the Parisian suburbs, JS Suresnes. You probably haven't heard of him, but he's going to be one of the best midfielders in the world. We need to act now before anyone else realizes his potential."

Pippo let out a low whistle. "If he's that unknown, how do you expect me to get in touch with his family?"

Aymar had already anticipated this. "Contact his club directly. Ask for a meeting with his coaches and see if they can arrange a sit-down with his mother. I'll be flying to France tomorrow—you can meet me there."

"Alright, leave it to me. I hope you are right with this one like the Torrisi and the others."

Aymar chuckled. "Trust me, Pippo. This one is also special."

After ending the call, he turned his attention to the defensive reinforcements in Italy. Torino needed a long-term defensive core, and he had already identified two names that could be available if they moved quickly.

Leonardo Bonucci.

Bonucci was officially an Inter Milan player, but he had spent the previous season on loan at Treviso in Serie B. Aymar had already seen him up close—when Hellas Verona played Treviso, Bonucci had been one of the few bright spots in an otherwise struggling defense. While his team had faltered, he had shown composure on the ball, strong positioning, and the ability to play out from the back.

"He's not ready to be a leader yet, but with the right development, he could become world-class."

He knew Bonucci was set to return to Inter after his loan spell. That was his opportunity. If Torino moved early, they could convince him to leave before Inter decided what to do with him.

Salvatore Sirigu was another target. The young goalkeeper was part of Palermo's ranks, but he wasn't getting much attention yet. If Aymar could convince him that Torino was the right place for his development, they could secure a long-term option between the posts.

Aymar knew he wouldn't be able to personally handle every deal, so he made a note to hand both Bonucci and Sirigu's negotiations over to Pierino Fanna. Pierino's deep connections in Italian football would make things easier.

With his targets set, he closed his notebook and leaned back. The vision for Torino was taking shape. They won't just fight to survive in Serie A—with this team he is building , we have to finish at least in the top 10.

Tomorrow, he would fly to France to finalize things with Kanté, and from there he would return to France to began preparing for the preseason.

...

...

A few days later,

A warm summer breeze swept through the streets, carrying the rich aroma of freshly baked bread from a nearby boulangerie. The neighborhood was lively but not chaotic, filled with the everyday sounds of people chatting, cars rolling over cobblestone streets, and the occasional whistle of a bicycle speeding past.

Sitting under a large parasol outside a modest yet charming café, Aymar Zambo took in his surroundings.

He was used to being stared at, but the glances he was receiving here were different from the ones in Italy. In Verona, people were simply curious about the young African coach who had turned Hellas Verona's fortunes around. In France, however, the looks carried something else—a mix of curiosity, familiarity, and perhaps even recognition.

This part of Paris had a strong African and North African community. People weren't staring at him because he was African; they were staring because he was an African man in a suit, carrying himself like someone important. And in this neighborhood, that stood out.

Across the street, an older man, likely of Malian descent, was seated outside a barbershop, reading L'Équipe. From time to time, his eyes lifted from the paper to study Aymar, as if trying to place him.

"Coach, you realize half the people here are wondering who you are?" Pippo Glaviano chuckled as he leaned back in his chair.

Aymar smirked. "Let them wonder."

Pippo had arrived from Italy the night before to accompany him for this meeting. Aymar could handle these negotiations himself, but Pippo's presence added weight to their offer—having Torino's assistant coach present would show that this was serious business, not just some passing interest.

The waitress approached their table, her auburn hair tied up in a loose bun, with a few strands falling over her forehead. She looked to be around nineteen or twenty, her uniform slightly oversized, sleeves rolled up to her elbows as she balanced a tray with two drinks in one hand and struggled with a large parasol in the other. The umbrella was clearly too heavy for her, her arms trembling slightly under its weight, but she bit her lip and pressed forward without asking for help.

Aymar watched for a moment, noticing the stubborn determination in her expression. She was clearly trying to manage on her own, but before she could risk dropping it, he stood up and took the umbrella from her hands with ease.

"Attendez, laissez-moi." (Wait, let me.)

The waitress froze, caught off guard, her eyes darting up to him.

"Oh… merci." (Oh… thank you.)

She stepped back as Aymar effortlessly positioned the umbrella, angling it slightly to make sure the shade covered their table perfectly. She quickly set down their drinks, brushing a hand over her apron as if composing herself before nodding politely and walking back toward the restaurant.

Pippo had been watching the exchange, arms crossed, a slow smirk forming on his face.

"Impressive. You handle that thing like you've done it before. What, they teach parasol drills in Cameroon?"

Aymar smirked as he took his seat. "You think African sun is a joke? We learn to position shade like it's an art form."

Pippo chuckled. "Maybe I should've called you when my cousin's wedding tent collapsed. You'd have it back up before the vows."

Aymar shook his head, picking up his espresso. "I would've done it, but only if there was a signing bonus."

As he settled back into his seat, his gaze drifted toward the main road.

He had come here for a reason.

Ngolo Kanté.

In his past life, the football world had completely overlooked him at this stage. At 16, Kanté wasn't in a major academy. He was playing for JS Suresnes, a small youth club in the Parisian suburbs. Even French clubs had ignored him—he was too small, too quiet, too unnoticed.

But Aymar knew the truth.

This boy would go on to become one of the greatest defensive midfielders in the world—a player who would dominate midfield battles, cover more ground than anyone, and lift both the Premier League and the World Cup.

The only question was—could he convince Kanté's family to trust Torino?

JS Suresnes had put him in touch with the Kanté family, and after some back-and-forth, they had agreed to a meeting. But Aymar knew it wouldn't be easy.

Ngolo's father had passed away years ago, leaving his mother to raise him and his siblings. Aymar understood that she'd be hesitant about sending her son abroad, especially to a club that wasn't a French giant.

That's why this meeting was crucial.

Pippo glanced at his watch. "They should be here soon."

Aymar gave a small nod, his fingers tapping lightly against his cup.

Across the street, he spotted a petite woman in a headscarf, walking alongside a short but determined-looking teenager.

Ngolo Kanté and his mother had arrived.

A small-statured teenager, moving with measured steps, approached alongside a woman with quiet but firm posture. She carried herself with the natural authority of a mother fiercely protective of her son.

N'Golo Kanté walked with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, his expression neutral yet attentive. His mother, dressed neatly but simply, surveyed the surroundings with calm scrutiny.

As they reached the table, Aymar stood out of respect. He extended his hand first to Kanté's mother.

"Enchanté, madame. Merci d'être venue." (Pleasure to meet you, madam. Thank you for coming.)

She shook his hand, firm but cautious, before nodding toward her son.

"Voici N'Golo." (This is N'Golo.)

The teenager extended his hand, his grip polite yet reserved.

Aymar gestured toward the seats. "Please, sit. Can I offer you something to drink?"

Kanté's mother declined with a small shake of her head, while the boy muttered, "De l'eau, s'il vous plaît." (Water, please.)

The waitress arrived shortly, setting down their drinks with quiet efficiency. Aymar let a brief silence pass before speaking.

"You must be wondering why you're here."

Kanté nodded slightly. "A little," he admitted.

Aymar smiled. "That's a good thing. It means you think before making decisions. I like that." He leaned forward slightly, locking eyes with the young midfielder. "N'Golo, I know exactly who you are. And I know what you can become."

Kanté's mother watched closely, unreadable.

"I had my scouts watch you play," Aymar continued. "They sent me reports, footage of your matches, and I studied them carefully. What I saw was a player with remarkable anticipation, someone who sees the game before it happens. You cover every blade of grass, you recover balls no one else fights for, and you never stop running. That is not something that can be taught."

Pippo's eyebrows twitched slightly. Scouts? When did Aymar have time to send scouts to watch a 16-year-old playing in the lower divisions of France?

Pippo had been with Aymar almost everywhere last season with Hellas Verona and he don't remember him sending scouts somewhere.

"You've probably been told that you're too small for your position," Aymar continued. "That you don't fit the mold of a defensive midfielder. But that's what makes you special. You play the game with intelligence beyond your years. And I want you at Torino."

Kanté's mother finally spoke, her tone calm yet firm.

"N'est-il pas trop jeune pour aller jouer à l'étranger, dans un pays complètement différent ?" (Isn't he too young to go play in a completely foreign country?)

Aymar nodded, his expression understanding. "I completely understand, madame. And that's exactly why we must take the right steps. FIFA regulations are clear about young players moving abroad. Since N'Golo is only 16, he can only transfer if his family moves for reasons unrelated to football."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Qu'est-ce que vous voulez dire par là ?" (What do you mean by that?)

"It means Torino will help facilitate an employment opportunity for you in Italy," Aymar explained. "The club has already explored possibilities. We are prepared to assist in finding a legitimate job that will provide stability for you. This is not just about football—it's about ensuring that N'Golo has the best possible environment to develop, both as a player and as a person."

She remained silent for a moment, considering his words carefully.

"Je comprends, mais ce qu'il veut le plus, c'est de jouer et prouver son talent, que ce soit avec Torino ou un autre club. Et je sais que mon fils est très talentueux, c'est juste que la plupart des clubs sont aveugles." (I understand, but what he wants most is to play and prove his talent, whether it's with Torino or another club. And I know my son is very talented—it's just that most clubs are blind to it.)

Aymar turned to Kanté, locking eyes with the young midfielder. "And he will play. But I want to be fully transparent with you both. Because of FIFA's regulations, he will be registered with Torino's youth team. However, that does not mean he will be stuck there. He will train with the first team daily, and he will have his chances in Serie A to prove himself. He won't just be part of the youth setup—he'll be part of my plans from day one."

Kanté's mother exchanged a glance with her son. Kanté remained quiet, but a flicker of something—determination, maybe even belief—flashed in his eyes.

"Moving to a new country is not easy," Aymar continued, his voice steady but sincere. "But he won't be alone. You will be there, and the club will fully support him. The players will help him integrate, and I will personally make sure he has everything he needs to succeed."

Pippo, who had been silently observing, finally spoke, his voice carrying a weight of experience. "Madame, I've seen young players with great potential fade away because they were never given the right opportunity. Aymar doesn't just sign players—he believes in them. When he sees something special, he does everything in his power to make sure they succeed. This is a real opportunity."

A brief silence passed between mother and son. There was an unspoken exchange, a moment of reflection and decision, before she finally turned back to Aymar.

"Je sais qu'il est un peu jeune, mais il veut prouver qu'il peut le faire. Et si vous lui donnez l'opportunité, il vous le prouvera." (I know he's still young, but he wants to prove himself. And if you give him the opportunity, he will prove it to you.)

Aymar gave a firm nod. "Yes, he is young, but I have seen players his age seize their chances. Look at Cesc Fàbregas—he was 16 when he broke into Arsenal's first team, and they are a bigger club than Torino. If he could do it, so can N'Golo. I will make sure of that. And if you want that too, then Torino is where he needs to be."

A final pause—then she gave a small nod. "D'accord."

Aymar extended his hand once more. This time, Kanté grasped it firmly. His eyes no longer held uncertainty—just quiet fire, determination now given a path forward.

Aymar smiled. "My sporting director will handle the contract details," he said, rising to his feet. "But N'Golo, remember—this is your chance. You're not just joining a team. You're starting a journey. If you work hard, there's no limit to how far you can go."

Kanté gave a quiet nod.

As Aymar watched the young midfielder and his mother walk away, he exchanged a glance with Pippo.

"Scouts, huh?" Pippo finally said, a knowing smirk on his lips.

Aymar simply chuckled, finishing his espresso.

He had gotten his answer.