Chapter 72: The Price-Hike Pawn
Adam Crozier didn't sleep a wink that night.
He was cursed with bad luck.
The day before, acting on a whim, he went to Cardiff to watch the League Cup final—and ended up getting caught on the stadium's jumbotron.
No need to guess—he was on the broadcast, too.
Even when leaving, he'd been extra careful.
But somehow, those damned paparazzi still sniffed him out.
He even left through a different tunnel exit—and still got cornered by a Sun reporter.
He had no choice but to give an interview.
Why did you come to watch Bayswater Chinese?
"Because I'm good friends with Yang Cheng."
Are you considering a return to English football?
"No, no. I'm very happy at Royal Mail."
Any chance you might return in the future?
"Who knows what the future holds?"
Your thoughts on the FA's performance over the past two years…?
...
After going over the interview in his head, Crozier thought, Okay, nothing too damaging.
But the whole experience had still shaken him.
He truly hadn't expected Yang Cheng to bring Bayswater Chinese this far.
And honestly? The team was impressive.
The club seemed full of potential.
Okay, maybe their debt was a bit high.
If he hadn't taken the Royal Mail job—especially not for such a high salary—Crozier might've done what Xia Qing did and thrown caution to the wind for a real challenge.
The final was on a Saturday.
With no work the next day, Crozier was still dozing when his phone rang.
Half-asleep, he grabbed it.
His secretary's syrupy voice came through the line.
"Adam, the board wants a meeting this afternoon. They'd like you to come in and explain yourself."
"Explain what?" Crozier frowned.
"You haven't seen this morning's papers?"
His heart skipped.
He knew exactly how ruthless the British tabloids could be.
And unfortunately, he was trending.
Especially with the ongoing Royal Mail strike.
Crozier leapt out of bed, not even bothering to brush his teeth, and rushed outside to grab the morning's newspaper from his gate.
He subscribed to several: The Times, The Guardian, and The Sun among them.
As expected, every front page was plastered with photos of Bayswater Chinese celebrating their historic League Cup victory.
Some even called it a "miracle."
In just one night, Bayswater Chinese had taken English football by storm.
But Crozier knew better.
It was a flash fire.
The media would feast for a few days, maybe a week.
Then? Gone.
The only way Bayswater Chinese could keep the momentum was by getting promoted to the Premier League.
If they managed that, they'd be one of next season's most talked-about teams.
Still, Crozier didn't care about them right now.
He flipped through The Sun—and there it was:
Royal Mail CEO Planning Return to Football!
Crozier's first reaction?
"Bloody hell!"
And then he read the article.
The piece included a photo of him on the jumbotron, cheering for Bayswater Chinese, along with excerpts from his post-match interview.
The Sun had, of course, woven two entirely unrelated questions and answers into one seamless narrative.
They rearranged the interview so it read like this:
Sun reporter: "Are you planning a return to football?"
Crozier: "I'm happy at Royal Mail… but who knows what the future holds?"
Worst of all, they front-loaded the article with glowing praise of Bayswater Chinese and Yang Cheng—whom Crozier had, of course, praised politely.
Add in a comment about being "good friends" with Yang Cheng…
It painted a crystal-clear picture:
Adam Crozier was plotting a return to football—and possibly with Bayswater Chinese.
Tabloid journalism. Absolutely ruthless.
...
While Yang Cheng was still riding the high of delivering the club's first national title, the headaches began pouring in.
First came an official letter from the Westminster City Council.
It was an inquiry into the status of Bayswater Stadium's construction.
The letter was filled with legal jargon and regulatory citations, but the message was clear:
"Hurry up and build your stadium—or we'll revoke your land rights."
It also reminded Bayswater Chinese that if they missed deadlines, the council had every right to repossess the land.
Yang Cheng was a little stunned when he first saw it.
"Who the hell is Westminster City Council?"
It took Xia Qing to explain.
Turns out, the stadium site is located within Westminster, one of London's 32 boroughs.
If the site had been just a little further west, it would've fallen under Kensington and Chelsea—where Stamford Bridge, Chelsea's home ground, is located.
Which also explains why redeveloping Stamford Bridge is an absolute nightmare.
To put it in real estate terms: Kensington and Chelsea is the priciest, and Westminster is right behind it—but still extremely influential.
After all, the UK Parliament itself is called the Westminster Parliament.
In London, the Greater London Authority only handles strategic, cross-borough matters.
Most day-to-day concerns—like education, social services, housing, roads, and planning—are handled by these borough councils.
Altogether, there are over 30 of them.
"Do you think renting Loftus Road pissed them off?" Yang Cheng joked.
According to Xia Qing, Loftus Road Stadium falls within Hammersmith & Fulham Borough.
That borough already has two clubs—Fulham and QPR.
Meanwhile, Westminster Borough only has one professional club.
If that's really the case… it's understandable they're getting a little anxious.
After all, renting Loftus Road means Bayswater Chinese's matchday spending, employment, and commerce are going elsewhere.
"They wouldn't go that far. Westminster is still quite wealthy," Xia Qing replied with a smile.
Yang Cheng's speculation didn't fully hold water.
"I think they're just applying pressure—trying to push us forward. I mean, the project's sitting there unfinished, and it's a bit of an eyesore."
"And don't forget—London's bidding for the Olympics."
Yang Cheng muttered to himself: It's not my damn eyesore.
But Xia Qing had a point.
Right in the heart of London, surrounded by mature infrastructure, and then—a half-built stadium looming like an abandoned carcass? Yeah, that didn't look good.
"Well, what can I do? I don't have the money," Yang Cheng said bluntly.
What, was he supposed to rob a bank?
"They're not going to take it back in the short term," Xia Qing assured him, "but if it drags on too long, then who knows."
"Then we're fine." Yang Cheng relaxed.
"Let's get the Brent Reservoir training base up and running first. In four or five years, I'll knock that whole eyesore down and build the biggest, most luxurious stadium in the world."
"With what money?" Xia Qing thought he was joking.
"I'll borrow it."
"They're raising interest rates again. Expected to hit 5% or more," she warned, pouring cold water on his dream.
But Yang Cheng only smiled, mysterious and calm, saying nothing.
Because nobody could've predicted what was coming—when the subprime mortgage crisis hit, and the eurozone debt crisis followed, the Bank of England would slash interest rates six consecutive times, all the way down to 0.5%, and keep it there for years.
When that time came, Yang Cheng would borrow like hell to build that stadium.
In his past life, Tottenham had been planning a new stadium since 2010, but delays kept pushing it back. When they finally started construction, they walked right into a rate-hike cycle.
And still, their biggest loan—over £600 million—had an interest rate of just 2.5%.
Arsenal built the Emirates at 4–5%.
So yes—low rates were coming. Just not yet.
For now, Yang Cheng's focus was clear:
Finish the training complex.
Establish the club's operational structure.
And above all—develop commercial revenue.
Once they reached the Premier League, that market would be a goldmine.
Oh, and his freeloading dad?
That front-of-shirt sponsorship had gone two years unpaid.
Once they made the Premier League?
Time to send the invoice.
Business is business—even between father and son.
…
As soon as the city council matter was dealt with, another headache came knocking.
After their shock League Cup win, a spotlight fell on Bayswater Chinese's top players.
Names like Ribéry, Aaron Lennon, Kitson, Huddlestone, and Lassana Diarra began to appear on scouts' lists across the country.
Young, talented, and already tested.
Ribéry, in particular, was being touted for a call-up to the French national team.
The Sun had even reported that Mourinho himself was interested in the flying Frenchman.
Kitson, as the club's top scorer and a homegrown striker, was naturally attracting attention too.
For the record, Jonathan Stead—once full of promise at Blackburn—had recently fallen out of favor after Souness was sacked.
His agent had already reached out, expressing Stead's desire to return.
Yang Cheng politely declined.
There was simply no room left in the squad.
And honestly? If he needed another striker, he'd look abroad.
Cheaper that way.
English players were just too expensive.
Another hot name was Tom Huddlestone.
That thunderbolt in the League Cup final had shocked the nation.
Big frame, solid defender, and pinpoint long passes—a perfect package for any English club.
So it was no surprise when, post-final, his agent Jonathan Barnett came knocking.
Same Barnett who had just wrapped up the Joe Hart to Everton deal.
Now it was Huddlestone's turn.
"I swear, every time I see you, I get the urge to commit murder," Yang Cheng greeted him, deadpan.
Barnett grinned politely, not believing it for a second.
In fact, he was quietly impressed.
Yang Cheng had flipped Joe Hart for big money, then immediately brought in Neuer.
If he could pull off the same with Huddlestone?
Barnett would have to rethink his whole evaluation of Yang Cheng and Bayswater Chinese.
"Alright, spill it," Yang said, cutting to the chase.
"Well, quite a few Premier League clubs are interested. He's still young, wages are low…"
"Chelsea?" Yang interrupted.
Barnett froze—then caught on.
Goddamn, this guy is ruthless.
"Yes!" he said without hesitation.
Even if they weren't interested?
Say they are. What's Chelsea going to do—issue a public denial?
That'd just confirm it.
Agents live by one code: stay flexible.
"We're focused on promotion," Yang Cheng said firmly. "No talks until the season ends."
Barnett nodded. He understood the message.
Yang Cheng was happy with how well Barnett played along.
This was cooperation.
And when it came to Chelsea?
Is there a better club to use as a price-hiking decoy?
"Also," Yang added, "I want you to help me with something."
Barnett's connections in English football were legendary.
One of the best in the business.
If anyone could pull this off, it was him.
First, lock down the club.
Then, if needed, Barnett could personally convince the player.
If this went well, Yang Cheng wouldn't have to worry about his flanks for years.
As for selling Huddlestone?
Yang had his reasons.
Lassana Diarra was improving fast.
Modrić was still rising.
If Huddlestone left, Yang planned to bring in a world-class midfielder—someone who would complement both Diarra and Modrić.
Come next season, Yang Cheng was going to shake the Premier League to its core.
From China—with shock and awe.
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