Contract

The next days passed in a blur. Between finishing the daily task given by the System, playing with Sakura, and spending time with his family – there wasn't really time for much else.

And so, the day of the meeting had arrived.

Ichiro stood inside Panasonic Stadium, the very heart of Gamba Osaka. The floor tiles of the reception gleamed like mirrors beneath the lights. Everything about this place felt polished, restrained, serious – like a shrine of ambition.

Ichiro adjusted the collar of his dress shirt. He'd spent nearly five minutes trying to choose what to wear – in the end he chose a pair of white suit trousers, a linen blue and white striped shirt and some brown loafers, which matched his belt.

Beside him, Gianni Lo Presti walked with effortless calm – white linen shirt tucked into slim navy trousers, shoes spotless, his signature silver gold watch catching the light. His hair was slicked back as always, and even the security guard had given him a respectful nod.

Everywhere Gianni walked in japan – especially in Suita – he carried the shadow of his past. A Gamba Osaka legend. One of the last foreign players to leave not just a mark, but a legacy.

Today, though, he was not here as a retired footballer.

He was here as Ichiro's agent. And father.

As they approached the front desk, the receptionist looked up. "Lo Presti-san?"

He's dad nodded slightly, and Ichiro could swear he saw the receptionist blush – not that it was uncommon. In all honesty, Ichiro had gotten used to the reaction people had to his dad.

This receptionist at least, managed to stay professional.

"The Academy Director and Coach Masuda is expecting you. I'll be showing you the way."

"Alright." Gianni answered.

She smiled politely, and gestured for them to follow her.

"You nervous?" Gianni asked quietly, glancing at his son as they approached the meeting room.

Ichiro hesitated, then nodded. "A little."

Gianni smiled faintly. "That's good. Means you care."

The receptionist opened the door for them, and Ichiro followed his father inside.

Waiting at the far end of the long conference table there stood two people. A middle-aged man in a tailored charcoal suit, hair graying neatly at the temples and sharp eyes behind a pair of rectangular glasses. And to his left was Coach Masuda, posture relaxed, arms crossed. His buzz-cut hair hadn't changed in years. Neither had the slight smirk on his lips.

"Lo Presti and Lo Presti," Masuda said with a grin. "The tag-team returns."

Gianni let out a warm chuckle as he stepped forward and offered a hand. "You've still got that ridiculous smirk, Masuda. I thought coaching might've beaten it out of you."

"And you're still dressing like you're in a Hugo Boss commercial."

They shook hands firmly – brotherly, old school.

Masuda turned to Ichiro.

"You've grown," he said, voice softer now. "Taller. Stronger."

"Trying to," Ichiro said with a polite bow. "It's good to see you again, Coach."

Then the man in the suit stepped forward.

"Lo Presti-san," he said, offering his hand to Gianni. "It's an honor to have you here again."

"Director Hoshihara," Gianni answered, shaking his hand. "Still keeping the academy running smoothly?"

"I try," the director said, turning to Ichiro. "Welcome back, Ichiro."

Ichiro bowed respectfully. "Thank you, sir."

Director Hoshihara motioned toward the chairs. "Please, sit – both of you. Let's talk."

The meeting, all things considered, was a clear success.

Water glasses were already filled, snacks and coffee laid out for anyone who wanted them. It was all quite pleasant.

In fact, the whole experience was quite pleasant – really pleasant.

Gamba Osaka had an impressive coaching staff, the kind of names that even made my dad nod in genuine approval, his smile giving silent confirmation.

They held five training sessions a week, each running between ninety minutes and two hours. And while the facilities didn't quite match the high-end setups Ichiro remembered from Aston Villa, they were still solid—more than respectable.

As for my role, they weren't wasting time. I'd start with the youth team immediately. If I performed to expectations, I'd get the chance to train with the senior squad.

"We're not sure how much you've improved during your time in England," the academy director said. "But if you're good enough, getting minutes with the senior team isn't out of the question. Gamba Osaka believes in giving young players a real shot. The path to the first team is short."

Gianni gave a small nod, his face unreadable. "That sounds good."

"As for expenses," the academy director continued, "we'll be covering everything. Training gear, boots, travel, meals – whatever you need, the club takes care of it. You focus on football."

Ichiro glanced at Gianni. He was still unreadable, arms folded, but he gave a small nod – approval, or maybe just acknowledgment. Either way, it was something.

"You'll be registered as a youth player for now," the director went on. "But once you turn seventeen, we plan to offer you a professional contract. That's already agreed upon internally."

He paused to let that land. It did.

"Of course," Masuda said, "that depends on how well you meet our expectations. But from what we've seen – and heard – you're on the right track."

Gianni nodded slowly. "And what exactly are the club's expectations?"

"Simple," Masuda replied, glancing toward Ichiro. "Dedication. Consistency. And the hunger to lead. You've been to England, tasted their academy system. Good. Now show us what you learned."

Hoshihara chimed in, his tone sharper. "This isn't a charity. We're not interested in your last name. We want you because you've got talent – not because your father was a legend here. But you'll have to earn it. You understand that, right?"

"I do," Ichiro said, voice steady. "I didn't come back for comfort. I came back to fight."

Masuda chuckled softly, shooting a glance at Gianni. "Kid already sounds like you."

Gianni smirked. "He's more like his mother. She's the one who told me to stop diving."

Even Hoshihara allowed a faint smile. "We've arranged for him to stay in the dorms, if he wishes. And like before, there's optional English tutoring—not that I think you'll need it."

Gianni gave a quiet nod.

Masuda turned to him. "You're still living in Ashiya, right? That's about a thirty-minute drive?"

"Yeah," Gianni replied. "The dorm might actually be the best option."

"We'll see to that then," Masuda said, taking a sip from his glass of water. "Normally you would have your medical exam now, but we're waiving it this time."

Ichiro blinked. "Wait. Really?"

Hoshihara adjusted his glasses. "We've had your physical records sent over from Aston Villa. Clean. Full season stats, health tracking, performance data. Nothing alarming."

Masuda added with a grin, "And your dad told us you've been running 10Ks in the rain every morning. You pass the eyeball test."

Ichiro laughed a little, tension bleeding from his shoulders.

"Consider it a gesture of trust," Hoshihara finished. "Don't make us regret it."

Gianni leaned back. "Good. One less thing to poke and prod him about."

Hoshihara slid a folder he had been holding over the table. Ichiro's dad opened it and read through the clauses, before turning to Ichiro and giving him a small nod

"Now as you sign," Hoshihara said, as Gianni handed a pen to Ichiro. "We'll get a photographer in here to take some pictures."

Ichiro nodded quietly as the door went up, and a young woman in a long skirt and a white dress shirt came in. A camera hanging from her neck.

The academy director beckoned for Ichiro to sign, and as he put pen to paper – a flurry of shutter clicks erupted through the room.