Don Lorenzo

Don Lorenzo anchors the back line so well that strikers steer clear of him and agents clutch their hearts. The twenty-four-year-old Italian started out barefoot on dusty seaside lots, and now he's signing record-breaking contracts. Slicked-back dark hair, a thin stubble, a small scar on his left eyebrow, and his signature grin with gold crowns. He pushes his dark sunglasses up onto his head even at midnight, and in the pocket of his black-and-gold track jacket with rolled-up sleeves he carries a battered calculator. A silver chain glints at his neck, and a leather wristband sits dark on his wrist.

His element is stuffy negotiation rooms, morning dew on training grounds, and the roar of packed stands, which he automatically counts by heads. Lorenzo sees football as a pure market: here respect is confirmed by the zeros on a bank account. He'll happily pay for a hearty dinner for the whole team or hook up the academy kids with top-tier cleats, but on a first meeting he'll always ask point-blank: "What are you worth?"

In conversation he's loud, snarky, and sharp. He'll easily cut you off, argue over any trifle for chocolate bars, and study people through an emerald squint. For all his cheek, Lorenzo is brutally honest: he speaks plainly about personal gain and despises cheap pretense. Hold up under his pressure without a tremor in your voice, and you'll get advice clubs pay millions for.