Chapter 103: I Love Sports, I Love This City!

Kane and Julie stared at Lynch in stunned silence. They couldn’t believe that a simple disagreement had led to Julie—who had worked at the club since she was nineteen—being fired after twelve years of service by the new owner.

Julie had poured her heart and soul into this place for over a decade. Even now that the club had been demoted to an amateur level, and her monthly salary barely matched the average wage, she never once considered leaving.

She once imagined she’d spend her whole life here, even dreaming that her son would one day become an athlete, train at this very club, and represent Sabin City on the world stage.

She never expected this—being fired for simply contradicting Lynch.

Still in disbelief, eyes wide, Julie stared at him. Lynch simply repeated himself, “You may leave now, ma’am…”

Snapped back to reality by his words, Julie left, looking lost and broken. Kane hesitated, clearly wanting to speak up on her behalf. In the end, he couldn’t help stepping forward. “Sir…”

Lynch raised his hand, cutting him off. These people had been at the club too long. The previous management had essentially treated the place as a money-laundering tool, handing power over to the internal staff. As a result, everyone had developed a distorted understanding of authority.

In this team, only one person’s word mattered: the owner’s. Everyone else was here to serve him. They needed to understand that.

They were free to oppose Lynch’s orders—if they quit. Outside of that, they could do anything that wasn’t illegal. Otherwise, Lynch would have his lawyers sue them until they couldn’t afford pants.

Even if Julie hadn’t spoken up, Lynch would’ve made an example of someone—probably the coach, who hadn’t shown up today. From what Lynch knew, the club still had one.

The coach and some players had also been implicated in the money-laundering scandal. After all, laundering through transfers couldn’t be done without their involvement.

That scandal ruined the coach’s career. No club wanted someone with a tainted record, so he stayed here, living off what remained.

Kane, however, knew his place. Once Julie stepped up, Lynch had his demonstration.

After silencing Kane, Lynch shifted topics. “I agree with your earlier point—sports represent the spirit of a city. Sabin needs something new to break this summer slump. We need a professional men’s rugby team to boost morale. If I were to take over and restart the professional club, how much would it cost?”

Kane had been thinking of pleading Julie’s case, but his heart skipped a beat. That dull thump left him momentarily dizzy. All thoughts of the woman he had worked with for over ten years were gone—replaced by excitement over this opportunity.

After a brief mental calculation, he gave Lynch a number. “This year, we’d need about 200,000 to 300,000. It could increase over time. If we want to bring in star players, it’ll be more.”

His voice dropped. Running a professional rugby club wasn’t easy. Just this transfer window, top player Jonathan’s transfer fee had exceeded 3.1 million, setting a record.

A player worth 3.1 million wasn’t going to play with a team of amateurs. He’d need quality teammates—at least three or four more stars, plus some top-tier support players. Just building the lineup could cost tens of millions. Then there were the yearly salaries. Even mid-tier corporations might not be able to afford that.

Lynch didn’t respond. Kane gritted his teeth and added, “I think our first step should be getting promoted to the professional league. If we move from amateur to pro, we can start training our own stars. That would cut costs dramatically—maybe even turn a profit.”

He was smart. He knew how to get someone like Lynch—a capitalist—to back him: show him the potential for profit.

But Lynch wasn’t thinking about cost or profit. People like Kane understood clubs and sports, but not the higher-level game.

For example, the city hall was planning to launch a sports fund this year. No one knew exactly what it was for, but it might not cover top-player fees. Still, it could ease some financial pressure.

There were also league broadcast rights and prize money. If Lynch managed the club well and aligned it with top national teams, the broadcast revenue alone would be substantial.

And he had a working relationship with the mayor. Helping to revitalize Sabin’s crumbling sports sector—voluntarily, no less—meant the mayor would have no choice but to support him with favorable policies.

So Lynch wasn’t worried about the money. He was focused on how quickly he could make visible progress—to justify asking for funding and land.

“Give me a full development plan—for both men’s and women’s rugby, based on professional standards. Take it seriously. It’ll determine how much I invest,” Lynch said, pausing before asking, “Does the club have its own training facility?”

Kane flinched and shook his head. Even when the last wealthy backer was involved, no one had considered building a professional training base. They were there to launder money, not support sports. No one planned to invest seriously.

Even player transfers were done with ulterior motives.

Lynch nodded, already mapping out his next moves. He didn’t just need money and policy support—he needed land.

Sometimes, how much a businessman earns has nothing to do with the business itself. It all comes down to guts—and whether others believe in him.

By Lynch’s request, just that afternoon, the Sabin City Professional Rugby Club issued a public announcement—on posters and in the papers.

Effective immediately, the club was renamed Interstellar Professional Club. Men’s rugby was now just one project under its umbrella. The club also began preparations for women’s professional rugby, and planned for baseball, cricket, polo, basketball, tennis…

Anyone reading the announcement would feel that this long-dormant club had suddenly come alive—and sense a long-lost spirit: the spirit of the city.

That afternoon at city hall, under the mayor’s witness, Lynch signed the equity transfer agreement alongside league officials and the club manager. For a symbolic price of one Sol, all shares and rights of the club—including over 30,000 in debt—were transferred to Lynch. The city hall and the league would no longer be responsible.

While the club was ownerless, the league had been covering basic operations—paying essential staff a minimal salary of around 10,000 per year. Now, Lynch had to repay that debt too.

In front of reporters, Lynch spoke of his love for this city, his support for sports, and his passion for rugby and other games.

He said that while he used to be an ordinary citizen unable to help, now that he had the means, he had a responsibility to act—to contribute to Sabin’s revival.

“Truly moving,” Ferrell said after the brief press conference, walking out with Lynch, smirking. “You’re in trouble. You fired the club assistant?”

Lynch nodded. “Why?”

Ferrell chuckled. “The Sabin Women’s Rights Protection Association is here. They say you’re discriminating against women and plan to sue you.”

Lynch raised an eyebrow in mild surprise but didn’t seem concerned. “Give me their number. I’m sure we can clear up the misunderstanding quickly.”

In his view, there was nothing that couldn’t be resolved through communication. Even wars could end with negotiations—what was a minor issue like this? It wasn’t even worth calling a problem.