June 5th, 2020
After the initial chaos of the takeover and surviving the press conference without accidentally declaring war on Spain, Henry finally had some breathing room.
Time to do what every responsible new football club owner should do first.
Check the bank account.
Sitting in the luxurious office now designated as "Henry's Command Center" — which was essentially just a room filled with coffee cups, half-eaten biscuits, and financial documents he barely understood — Henry squinted at the laptop screen in front of him.
Alfred stood nearby, calm and poised as ever, a silent guardian against financial idiocy.
"So…" Henry said, tapping at the keyboard like it was a bomb he might accidentally trigger, "after all the... uh, strategic investments I made, how bad is it?"
Alfred adjusted his glasses and handed him a neatly printed summary.
"Not as dire as it could have been, sir," he said. "You spent a… courageous amount on player acquisitions."
Henry coughed. "Courageous" was one way of saying "borderline criminally reckless."
"But even after all that," Alfred continued, "there's still a balance of just over £30 million left in Fulham's accounts."
Henry blinked. "Wait, really?"
"Yes, sir. Apparently, when you negotiated the player contracts, you front-loaded many payments. Most of the wages are staggered intelligently — I suspect your past Football Manager addiction helped."
Henry sat back, whistling in amazement. Maybe he wasn't entirely hopeless.
But then came the real kicker.
"You'll have to address the Financial Fair Play regulations," Alfred said mildly. "Overspending could lead to sanctions if not handled properly."
Henry groaned, dragging his hands down his face.
"FFP... I hate that thing. It's like being told you can't have your cake and eat it too."
"Unfortunately, sir, it's non-negotiable."
Henry stared out the window for a long moment, thinking.And then, like a cartoon lightbulb popping up above his head, an idea struck.
***
Later that day, Fulham's official legal team — three very confused but expensive lawyers — found themselves on a call with FIFA officials.
Henry, armed with the world's most charming smile and the world's most dubious logic, made his case:
"Look," he said, pacing back and forth, "this isn't just buying players. This is an investment into the future of football! A one-time boost. A generous act. A love letter to the beautiful game! Surely FIFA can understand the need for passion-driven spending?"
The FIFA reps looked like they were reconsidering their life choices.
Still, after hours of negotiation, paperwork, and some suspiciously generous 'donations' to FIFA's 'development programs,' a compromise was reached.
Fulham would face no immediate penalties, under the strict promise that they would comply with Financial Fair Play moving forward.
Henry collapsed back in his chair afterward, victorious.
"I feel like I just haggled at a Moroccan bazaar," he muttered.
"Congratulations, sir," Alfred said, offering him a fresh cup of coffee. "You have officially bent the rules without breaking them. You'll fit into football governance nicely."
***
Later that night, after the FIFA negotiations and a dinner that could have fed a rugby team, Henry sprawled out on the massive leather couch in his office, a half-eaten pizza box balanced precariously on his chest.
That's when it happened.
[Ding!]
A bright, mechanical chime rang in his ears — crisp, electronic, and way too cheerful for this hour.
Henry blinked. He sat up, causing half the pizza to slide onto the carpet, but that wasn't the problem.The real problem was the glowing blue screen floating mid-air right in front of his face.
"...What the hell?" Henry muttered, waving his hands through it like a madman swatting at an invisible fly.
[Congratulations! You have unlocked the FIFA Manager System!]
[System Activated!]
Henry let out a very dignified squeak and flailed backwards, nearly somersaulting off the couch.
Within seconds, Alfred entered the room — calm, composed, carrying a tray with fresh tea and a raised eyebrow.
"Is everything alright, sir? I heard... distressing sounds."
Henry straightened up immediately, blocking the floating screen with his body as best he could.
"Fine! Fine! Just... stubbed my toe. On...uh, ambition. Very sharp these days," he said, smiling so wide it probably looked like he was being held at gunpoint.
Alfred nodded politely, used to the bizarre explanations of billionaires. "Very good, sir. I've brought your tea."
Henry grabbed the cup with trembling hands. "Thanks, Alfred. You're a lifesaver."
"If there's anything else you require, sir, do let me know. Perhaps a warmer blanket or... a helmet?"
"I'll manage," Henry croaked.
Once Alfred quietly exited the room — no doubt mentally filing this episode under "young master's eccentricities" — Henry turned back to the mysterious, blinking screen.
The system introduced itself in a chipper, slightly smug voice:
[Hello, Host! I am your FIFA Manager System. I will assist you in managing your players' loyalty, morale, form, and potential!]
Henry's eyes widened.
"...You mean, you're gonna stop my players from abandoning me the second someone offers them two extra bags of crisps and a bigger paycheck?"
[Correct! Loyal players. Happy players. Winning players!]
Henry almost cried. This — this was a dream come true.It was like getting cheat codes for real life football management.
He quickly scrolled through the unlocked features:
Player Morale Tracker (Know when someone's sulking because they didn't get enough Instagram likes)
Hidden Potential Revealer (No more wasting millions on future flops!)
Loyalty Lock Mechanism (Superglue for stars!)
Henry laughed to himself, manic and giddy.
"This...this is beautiful. This is cheating. This is beautiful cheating!"
For the first time in ages, he felt invincible.
Between the fortune, the player signings, the suspiciously lenient FIFA agreement, and now a full-blown superpower system in his corner, Henry Baskerville wasn't just playing Football Manager anymore.
He was the Football Manager.
***
Meanwhile, the outside world was buzzing.
Fulham fans flooded the internet with speculation and hope.
On Twitter:
@CravenCrazies: Can't wait to see Messi walking down the Thames to sign for Fulham! #Believe
@HopefulHarry: Big names incoming. Ronaldo? Neymar? I'm ready to be hurt again.
@SarcasticSteve: Realistic signing: Danny Drinkwater on a free. Dream signing: God himself.
Reddit had entire threads dedicated to predicting Henry's mega-signings.
Top guesses:
Luka Modric
Paulo Dybala
Some guy who dominated their FIFA Career Mode save
Instagram memes showed photoshopped images of world-class players in Fulham kits with the caption:"Soon."
***
Not everyone in the football world was impressed, though.
Far from it.
Across the Premier League, rival managers were having a field day behind closed doors — laughing, scoffing, and placing bets among themselves about how quickly this "Henry Baskerville experiment" would crash and burn.
At a press conference the next day, one senior manager — let's just say his name rhymed suspiciously with Schmosé Schmourinho — leaned into the microphone, a smirk playing on his lips when asked about Fulham's bold new direction.
"I welcome Mr. Baskerville's enthusiasm," he said, the sarcasm practically dripping off his words like over-buttered toast. "Football is not a video game. It is real life. You cannot simply spend money, click save, and expect trophies to appear."
He paused dramatically, letting the chuckles of the press corps roll in, before adding:
"But perhaps in his world... maybe he has cheat codes."
The room erupted with laughter.
Elsewhere, the manager of a certain blue-clad team from Manchester couldn't resist taking a jab either.At his own press conference, he chuckled openly when Fulham was mentioned.
"Let's see if he lasts till Christmas," he said with a sly grin. "Owning a club is one thing. Building a team, a legacy... that's another story. It takes years, patience, wisdom."
He shrugged dramatically.
"Or maybe he will just buy Messi. Who knows?"
Even the normally diplomatic German manager of a certain red club from Liverpool cracked a smile when reporters pressed him.
"I think... it is good, no? New faces, new ideas. Maybe he will change the game. Or maybe..." he laughed, "...he will give us all something to laugh about over Christmas dinner."
The potshots didn't stop there.
The North London managers had their say too.
The gruff, no-nonsense coach of Tottenham grunted:
"Money doesn't build chemistry. You can't buy heart."
Meanwhile, Arsenal's young manager simply raised an eyebrow and said:
"Football is ruthless. You can't just throw a party and expect to win the war."
The media lapped it all up, rubbing their hands in glee at the drama brewing.
Pundits were even worse.
On television, debates raged louder than ever.
"Is Henry Baskerville the next Sheikh Mansour," one bold host asked, "or just another billionaire playing FIFA Ultimate Team with real people's careers?"
A particularly dramatic pundit declared:
"Remember Portsmouth? Remember Leeds? Remember the disasters when owners who thought they knew football, didn't?! History could repeat itself."
Another countered:
"Or this could be a once-in-a-lifetime revolution. If he gets it right, Fulham could become the next powerhouse. Who says dreams don't come true?"
Social media wasn't much kinder.
On Twitter:
@NeutralNed: Baskerville spending money like a kid in a candy store. Hope he bought a receipt too.
@FootballSnob101: Buying players is easy. Managing egos is hard. Get ready for Fulham: Galácticos Edition.
@UnderDogUnited: Rooting for Fulham just because the chaos potential is off the charts.
Memes exploded everywhere.
One showed Henry's face photoshopped onto Napoleon crossing the Alps, with the caption:"When you think buying Neymar and Mbappé will automatically win you the league."
Another had a Fulham crest photoshopped onto a burning spaceship crashing into the Premier League logo.
And yet, despite the mountains of doubt, the jokes, and the endless mockery, Henry — sitting comfortably in his office, swirling a cheap cup of instant coffee like it was vintage wine — simply smiled.
They didn't know what he knew.
They didn't know that he wasn't just throwing money at the problem.
He had something far better.
He had the money.He had the players.He had the deals signed.He had the FIFA Manager System keeping everything in check.
And most importantly?
He had nothing to lose — and everything to gain.
For the first time in a long while, Henry Baskerville felt alive.
Let them laugh.Let them scoff.
Soon enough, he thought, leaning back in his chair,they'd be laughing a lot less — and clapping a lot more.
***
The next few days were a whirlwind of activity at Fulham Football Club — and for once, it wasn't because of players posting cryptic emojis on Instagram.
Henry Baskerville, now fully embracing his inner football overlord, got down to serious business.
First on his to-do list?
Upgrade the backbone of the club.
The first change came in the form of a massive recruitment drive.
Henry wasn't interested in hiring "decent" staff.
No, sir.He wanted the best of the best — the kind of youth coaches who could spot a future Ballon d'Or winner from the way a six-year-old tied his shoelaces.
He personally oversaw the interviews too, which led to some...unconventional moments.
Like the time he asked a highly respected youth coach from Spain:
"So, if a 15-year-old demands a Bugatti after scoring a hat trick, do we give it to him or teach him the meaning of humble pie?"
The coach blinked.
"...We teach him humility, Señor Baskerville."
"Good answer! You're hired."
Or when a top-level physio came in from Germany, and Henry's first question was:
"Can you heal a hamstring faster than FIFA 21's 'Quick Recovery' cheat?"
The physio gave a grim little smile.
"I can try, sir."
"Hired!"
Within a week, Fulham had snatched up some of the top youth coaches, elite physios, tactical analysts, and even a nutritionist who once worked with Olympic gold medalists.
(Alfred, ever the efficient butler, kept tabs on everything quietly — only once raising an eyebrow when Henry tried to bribe a sports psychologist with free lifetime Netflix.)
Next came the announcement that really shook things up.
At a surprise press conference — because why not, Henry thought, surprises are fun — he stood in front of a sea of cameras and declared, voice proud and chest puffed out like a budget superhero:
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm thrilled to announce that Fulham Football Club will be building world-class training and youth facilities, alongside a complete renovation of Craven Cottage!"
Cue mass blinking and open-mouthed reporters.
Henry beamed.
"We're talking heated indoor training fields, state-of-the-art gyms, biometric tracking, luxury recovery spas, AI-driven performance analysis, and — because players are human too — the best cafeteria this side of London."
He gave a cheeky wink at the cameras.
"We're talking about cafeterias with pizza. And pasta. And yes — even gluten-free vegan options for the fancy lads."
Laughter rolled through the room, but Henry wasn't done.
"As for the stadium," he continued, "Craven Cottage will be lovingly restored and modernized. Bigger seating capacity, better facilities for fans, high-tech pitch maintenance, and yes, working toilets that don't make you question your life choices."
The Fulham fans watching the livestream nearly broke the internet celebrating.
On social media:
@CottageFaithful: Baskerville out here treating us better than our own parents. ❤️
@PremierBanters: Craven Cottage getting a glow-up! From leaky roof to Champions League night lights? LET'S GO!
@ElitePhysioFan: Rumor has it even the club's tea ladies are gonna have biometric scanners now.
Meanwhile, other Premier League clubs started to get...nervous.
Sure, they had laughed at first.But now, seeing how Fulham was stacking up talent behind the scenes like a squirrel hoarding nuts for winter, they weren't laughing quite as hard.
In particular, one technical director from a rival London club was overheard grumbling:
"You know, at this rate, we'll have to poach their staff just to keep up."
***
Back at Fulham, construction teams had already arrived, swarming over Craven Cottage like industrious ants.
Everywhere Henry looked, there were workers in high-vis vests, blueprints being waved around, and important-sounding words being shouted:
"Modular hydrotherapy pools!""AI-based injury prediction algorithms!""More pizza ovens for the youth academy cafeteria!"
Henry walked through the chaos with a massive grin plastered across his face, feeling like a kid building the world's coolest LEGO set — only this time, it was real.
Alfred, naturally, walked a few steps behind, holding an umbrella over Henry's head even though it wasn't raining. It was the principle of the thing.
"Sir," Alfred said, "at the current rate of expenditure, your liquid assets will remain perfectly healthy. The profits from the Baskerville Conglomerate continue to pour in steadily."
Henry grinned.
"Alfred, remind me again how smart I was to delegate all that business work to actual professionals?"
"Exceptionally smart, sir. One might even say 'accidentally brilliant.'"
Henry chuckled.
"That's me. Accidentally brilliant. Put it on a T-shirt."
"I shall make a note, sir."
They paused for a moment, surveying the construction site as a massive crane swung a giant metal beam into place — narrowly missing a very panicked project manager.
Henry sipped his coffee thoughtfully.
"You know, Alfred, some people think I'm just throwing money at the problem."
"Indeed, sir."
"And they think it won't work."
"Indeed, sir."
"And they think I have no plan."
Alfred hesitated, then said delicately:
"Well, sir, technically speaking, you don't have a plan."
Henry turned, smiled, and pointed a finger at him like he'd just won a game of Cluedo.
"Exactly! That's the genius part."
Alfred nodded, perfectly stone-faced.
"Very good, sir."
***
By the end of the month, Fulham Football Club wasn't just a club anymore.
It was a project.A vision.A chaotic but oddly professional revolution.
The players arriving for pre-season couldn't believe their eyes.
Gone were the rusty weights and half-broken treadmills of the old training ground.
In their place: sleek machines, polished floors, high-tech gadgets, and staff who looked like they belonged in the Marvel Cinematic Universe.
And somewhere, deep in the club's main office, Henry Baskerville sat at his desk, feet kicked up, staring at the glowing FIFA Manager System screen floating in front of him.
His empire was growing.
The doubters were getting quieter.
And the real fun?
The real fun was only just beginning.