CHAPTER 741: BETWEEN WOOLTON AND MADRID

Over the next few days, Zachary settled into a steady rhythm—rehab in the mornings, reflection in the afternoons. He kept a low profile, focusing on his recovery. Each morning at Melwood, he underwent a regimen of ultrasound therapy, neuromuscular stimulation, customized pool workouts, and controlled passing drills on turf under supervision.

It was only on Thursday that a bit of change happened in his schedule, when Emily Anderson visited his Woolton residence. The agent who had adeptly managed his endorsement deals during his injury now sat across from him in his garden office, a folder of plans in hand.

"Your recovery’s looking good," she said, flipping through her notes. "Nike is interested in a new campaign if you’re back in training by July. They envision a narrative around resilience and comeback. Audi is also keen on a feature highlighting your return to form."

Zachary leaned back, sipping a smoothie Kristin had just brought out. "Let’s hold off on major campaigns until I’m fully fit. I want to ensure I can deliver on the pitch before committing to anything else."

Emily nodded, understanding. "That’s sensible. We can focus on preliminary discussions and revisit the campaigns when you’re ready."

They then delved into appearance clauses, financial portfolios, and long-term licensing plans. By the time she left, the endorsement side of his world was once again aligned.

The following day, on Friday afternoon, Zachary welcomed Heather Miller, his longtime financial advisor, into his home office. As always, she arrived well-prepared, tablet in hand and dressed with the crisp competence of someone who could spot a market swing a mile away.

They settled in, the late spring sun casting mellow shadows across the hardwood floor of his Woolton study.

"I figured we should do a quick review," Heather said, scrolling through her dashboard. "You’ve got a window before preseason ramps up, and your profile’s only grown—even during recovery."

Zachary nodded. "Let’s hear it."

Heather glanced up from her screen with a small smile. "The short version? You could retire tomorrow and still fund three lifetimes."

Zachary chuckled. "Not planning on retiring just yet."

"Didn’t think so." She tapped the screen. "Bitcoin’s up dramatically. The €4 million you innitially invested in late 2015? Now worth just over €104 million. Ethereum—€5 million in June 2016? That’s sitting at around €106 million, give or take. Your timing was... well, let’s say uncanny."

He gave a tight smile. "Call it instinct." Of course, he wouldn’t say that he was living his second life and already knew the future.

Heather smiled, then glanced up. "Everything else is steady. Tesla and Netflix are climbing. Leeds shares are flat but healthy. Rental income in Ivory Coast’s consistent and growing. Liquidity-wise, you’re more than stable."

"Good," Zachary murmured, sitting up a little straighter. "Now, let’s talk growth. I’ve barely touched my Liverpool bonuses this year. The Ballon d’Or payout’s still sitting untouched. So are most of the goal and appearance bonuses from before the injury. And I’ve also not yet touched the £7.5 million from my signing bonus."

He gave Heather a look. "With the weekly wages on top... it’s starting to feel irresponsible keeping that much idle."

Heather tapped a few keys on her tablet, eyes scanning data as she replied, "You’re thinking reinvestment? Diversifying, or reinforcing what’s already working?"

"A bit of both," Zachary said. "No more into crypto for now—it’s growing well on its own. But maybe we top up our positions in Leeds, Netflix, and Tesla. We could still aim for long-term plays. Then look for something new."

Heather nodded thoughtfully. "Smart. U.S. tech is still climbing—AI, clean energy, aerospace. There’s also growing private equity movement in sports tech and performance analytics platforms."

Zachary leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "I like the idea of real-world infrastructure too. Property—especially in Ivory Coast. Something long-term. Tangible."

"Income-generating?" she asked.

"Exactly. Apartments, maybe even small commercial complexes. Something that benefits people. And maybe later... something for sport. Youth academies, pitches, equipment—back in Lubumbashi."

Heather gave him a long look, impressed. "That’s a proper legacy mindset, Zach. You’re not just looking for returns—you’re building something real."

"I don’t need fireworks," he said. "I want foundations. Something that lasts."

She smiled, already making notes. "Alright. I’ll prepare a proposal. Investment structures, property partners, long-term forecasts. We’ll build it layer by layer. I will try my best to ensure that it’s quiet, solid, and profitable."

Zachary stood and offered his hand. "Thanks, Heather. For everything."

She shook it, firm and familiar. "Always. And hey—remember to enjoy it a little too."

A flicker of amusement touched his lips. "I’m trying."

After Heather left, Zachary stood in the doorway for a long moment, immersing himself in the spring breeze carrying the faint scent of blooming wisteria from the edge of his garden. The low hum of the city beyond Woolton’s quiet streets felt distant, almost irrelevant. He took a breath, long and even. Then he closed the door and walked back into the stillness of the house.

The rest of the day passed in slow rhythm. He didn’t touch any rehab equipment—not today. But he still rolled out the mat in his sunroom and moved through a steady hour of yoga. He didn’t do anything too intense, but just enough to remind his muscles of flow, of breath, of motion.

Afterward, he showered, changed into loungewear, and settled into the garden with his phone. He called Kasongo first—his old friend from DR Congo, someone who had once been like a brother, though time and choices had driven a wedge between them.

The call rang once. Then twice... Then Kasongo picked up.

A beat of silence passed before Kasongo said, "So... you finally remembered my number, eh?"

Zachary chuckled softly. "Thought it was about time."

"Still Ivorian these days?" Kasongo asked in a half-joking, half-serious manner.

Zachary paused. "Still your friend, though."

Another brief silence followed, but shorter, lighter.

"Good," Kasongo said, his joy audible in his voice. "Because I’ve missed this nonsense. And I hear you’ve mostly recovered from that nasty injury. I guess congratulations are in order."

"Thanks," Zachary said. "It’s been a long road. But I’m close."

"Just in time to miss the final, eh?" Kasongo teased.

Zachary sighed. "Don’t remind me. I’d give anything to be on the pitch for that one."

"I believe it," Kasongo said. "We’re already in Madrid, but we’ve got our hands full. Liverpool’s looking scary—even without you."

Zachary leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting up to the clear Woolton sky. "How’s Partey?" he asked. "Tell him I said good luck. Just not too much."

Kasongo laughed. "He’s in beast mode. You know Thomas. He’s quiet, focused, and lethal. We’re ready. But we know it won’t be easy."

"I’ll be there," Zachary said. "Not in boots, but on the sidelines. I want to feel it. Even if I can’t play."

There was a pause on the other end, then Kasongo said, more gently this time, "Still... I know that coming back from an injury is not easy, bro. But, you’ve done well already. You should take joy in that."

Zachary smiled. "I appreciate it, man. Really."

"Next season," Kasongo added. "Let’s meet again—on the pitch. Like old times."

"You’re on," Zachary replied.

And just like that, the silence between them—months, maybe years old—finally cracked open again.

Next, Zachary also caught up with a few of his teammates who hadn’t travelled yet such as Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain, who was still managing his own return to full fitness, and Adam Lallana, who called to follow up on his travel plans for the final. Gini Wijnaldum also sent a voice note laced with his usual dry wit: "Madrid’s going to miss your magic. But don’t worry, we’ll save you a medal."

Zachary laughed, replying with a selfie from his garden, stretching out on the yoga mat, sweat on his brow and a quiet grin on his face. "Save me a goal celebration instead," he wrote. "I’ll be on the touchline."

Time passed just like that, and by late afternoon, he felt a gentle fatigue settle in—not from exertion, but from a day well spent. He had done enough thinking, talking, and planning this week to last him a month. So at 8:00 PM, after a light dinner and a quiet hour reading in bed, he drifted into sleep.

The next morning—Saturday, 1st June, 2019—he woke up later than usual. No alarm. Just the soft grey light creeping through his curtains. When he glanced at the clock, it was a few minutes past seven.

Today was the day of the final.

He moved through his morning ritual with calm meticulousness, starting with thirty minutes of gentle yoga in the living room, followed by a quick rinse and a warm breakfast. Boiled eggs, avocado toast, and a strong cup of black tea. By the time the clock hit 8:45, he was already dressed in sharp casuals: a navy bomber, white tee, tailored black pants, and spotless sneakers.

At 9:00 AM sharp, Zachary rolled out of his driveway in his sleek black Audi e-tron, the low hum of the electric engine barely disturbing the morning stillness. He took the quieter route out of Woolton, passing green hedgerows and early risers walking dogs, and stopped just ten minutes later outside a familiar brick townhouse on the edge of Allerton.

Kristin stepped out almost as soon as he pulled up.

She looked stunning in travel-smart attire—fitted navy trousers, a crisp cream blouse under a grey trench coat, and a small carry-on slung over one shoulder. Her blonde hair was swept back in a loose knot, and her amber eyes lit up when she saw him.

"Morning," she said, sliding into the passenger seat.

"Morning," he replied, leaning over to kiss her softly. "Ready?"

Kristin gave him a look that was part smile, part dare. "I’ve been ready since the semi-final."

They then drove in comfortable silence, the city gradually waking around them as they passed Anfield, then looped west toward John Lennon Airport. The roads were clear, and the morning sun cast a golden hue over the city.

At the airport, the private jet stood ready on the tarmac, its sleek silver frame gleaming beneath the mid-morning sun. A handful of Liverpool executives were already boarding, their conversations low and focused—threads of anticipation and strategy weaving through every word.

Zachary and Kristin approached the aircraft, greeted by a courteous flight attendant who ushered them up the steps. Inside, the cabin was elegant and spacious, lined with plush leather seats, polished wood paneling, and soft lighting that gave the interior a calm, understated luxury.

They found their seats near the front, next to one another. As they settled in, the gentle hum of the engines thrummed beneath the cabin floor—reassuring, steady. Kristin leaned back and glanced at Zachary, who was gazing out the window toward the runway.

Madrid was waiting.

He turned to her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Here we go."

Kristin smiled back, slipping her hand into his. "Let’s go watch them bring it home."

Moments later, the cabin doors closed, the engines roared to life, and the jet began its smooth taxi toward takeoff. They were in the air within minutes—on their way to the final.