The opposing head coach looked like he was constipated, and their team had just become champions without a trophy. Still, this might be the most recognition the Interstellar Club had received in over a year.
For Kane, it felt like a light had finally pierced through the gloom that had hung over his life for years.
Mordick couldn’t stop grinning either. Even though the Three Bastards said preseason games didn’t really count, this was still an officially sanctioned competition—and it marked the first championship since he began coaching a professional men’s rugby club. It was a pity there was no trophy.
Lynch was also satisfied. Investment demands returns—sometimes in money and assets, sometimes in intangible value. He’d poured funds into the team and promised to keep supporting them. The team needed to show its worth.
The players were thrilled too. After a year of effort, they’d finally won a title. Sure, it might not carry much weight, but it still meant they had a firmer foothold in their careers.
Perhaps the organizers of the United Games heard Lynch was present, so they went out of their way to prepare a certificate for the Interstellar Club—likely the first tangible prize in the history of the preseason.
The reason wasn’t hard to figure out. Lynch is a major partner of the United Games and a key vice chairman of the Sports Promotion Association. He demanded their respect.
Seeing the excited young players and Kane gesturing toward him, Lynch decided to say a few words.
“An ideal without support will always remain just a dream. Only those with a realistic foundation can ever become reality.”
“I’m glad that, among many paths, you chose the right new one. It’s a bit of a tongue-twister, but congratulations—a brand new life, completely different from before, is about to unfold.”
In the locker room, the players stood or sat, gasping for breath, eyes fixed on Lynch with intense focus. The coaches and Kane stood to the side. As club chairman, Lynch entering the locker room was ceremonial, a mark of validation for the team’s performance.
What he said carried weight. Being their peer in age, his words hit harder than Kane’s or Mordick’s.
“No success comes without effort. Behind every victory are ten thousand drops of sweat—that’s especially true in sports.”
“I believe in something, and I believe it’s a truth.” He raised one finger and pointed upward. “As long as you work hard, there will definitely be a return. Definitely.”
“I’ve heard from Kane and Coach Mordick about some of the club’s issues. I think it’s time for some changes. Taking advantage of this win, I’ll announce them now.”
“First, Kane will receive 1% equity in the club. But you can’t sell it to others—if one day you want out, you can sell it back to me at market value.”
Mordick glanced at Kane with envy. Holding equity meant being a
partner
, and while many companies used that title to exploit workers without raising salaries, it still carried weight (not all partners earn profit shares, after all).
If Kane ever left the Interstellar Club, just being labeled
partner and manager at a pro club
would land him a great job. A regular manager wouldn’t have the same pull.
Judging by Kane’s stunned face, the impact was clear. The others could only admire, not envy—because long-term loyalty to a team often contradicts greater personal ambition.
There’s a saying:
new goals, new challenges
. If they became partners, that might hold them back.
Some might eventually step down for a stable life, but that’s not what a warrior should do.
When Kane’s lips began to tremble with emotion, Lynch smiled and gestured for him to stay quiet.
“Second, starting next season, the club will establish a foundation dedicated to supporting players who are forced to retire due to injuries. We’ll help arrange jobs for you. The pay might be lower than what you earn now, but…”
Lynch’s smile was as warm as sunshine. “…it’ll be enough to support a family, enough that you won’t have to worry about food or clothing.”
Mordick and Kane were dumbfounded once again. Today might’ve had more jaw-dropping moments than the entire past year combined.
“Mr. Chairman, no offense, but about the foundation…” a young player around twenty-one scratched his head nervously. Not everyone can stay calm in front of someone like Lynch.
Lynch nodded. “It’s called the Sports Career Support Fund. It’s a branch of Blackstone Capital—a private fund. Simply put, it’s mine.”
“All athletes who’ve played for my clubs for over six years will be covered. I firmly believe that those who give should be rewarded, and I believe that people like me—who are a bit wealthier than average—should shoulder more responsibility.”
“Capital doesn’t have to be cold. At least I won’t be. You’ve given me your youth and health—so I’ll ensure your future is secure.”
“You might be placed in schools as PE teachers. If you’re assigned to high schools or universities…” He raised an eyebrow and whistled cheekily. The players all burst into suggestive laughter like animals in heat.
“Or you might stay on as assistant coaches, or take roles in tier-two, tier-three, or other development-level clubs.”
“You give to me—I give back.”
Though touched, Kane and Mordick sensed something deeper. They wouldn’t fully understand until next season, when the players started colliding harder than ever before. That’s when they’d admit: Mr. Lynch really was a benevolent capitalist.
After wrapping up the important stuff, Lynch declined a few invitations and returned to his hotel. In the lounge, he met with the Three Bastards—the game commentators.
Before he arrived, the three were on edge. After all, they might’ve offended a powerful man during the game broadcasts.
This is the difference between politicians and capitalists. Politicians care about appearances and retaliate in secret. Capitalists retaliate openly—to warn others what defiance might cost.
So when Lynch entered the room, the three middle-aged men—combined age over 100—immediately stood up awkwardly, unsure what to do.
Lynch handed his coat to the butler and let the maid polish his already-clean shoes.
“No need to be nervous. Sit.” He gestured calmly, smiling as he sat across from them. “I actually like your commentary style. If you think you were being offensive—don’t worry. Who can’t take a joke these days, right?”
Commentator Two couldn’t help but ask, “Should we agree with you on that?”
The other two glared at him, then smiled obsequiously at Lynch.
Lynch smiled—it was impossible to tell whether he was genuinely indifferent or just pretending. “All jokes aside, your style is entertaining. I have a job offer for you—if you’re available.”
The three of them nodded in unison.
They had almost nothing lined up before February—just replays or sitting at home. A new gig sounded pretty good.
“Great. I want you to keep your style—sharp, sarcastic, with a flair for drama. But instead of games, I want you to comment on people. And on events.”
Commentator One had a hunch. He leaned in and asked, “Mr. Lynch, do you mean…”
Lynch glanced at his watch. “The state elections are coming. I’m on good terms with the governor. Lately, all the news is about politics. I need a different voice to bring a different flavor. You get what I mean?”
Commentator Two, now sensing less danger, nodded eagerly. “We get it. Say what we’re paid to say.”
“Well said!” Lynch pointed at him. “The state election will be over before February. Two months. I’ll pay you thirty thousand and take care of all the programming. All you need to do…”—this time his smile was genuine—“is mock our opponents the same way you always have!”
“People will love you!”
Their crude, vulgar, pandering style was far more relatable than opera. Viewers would tune in for entertainment and, in doing so, side politically with the incumbent governor—because as long as the mockery wasn’t aimed at them, everyone found it funny.
And if it was all in good fun, then surely sacrificing one person for the good of the state wouldn’t anger the candidate.
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