Kapitel 17: Ashburn Athletics
Waking up to the gentle hum of the city from the luxurious expanse of my Emerald Tower penthouse never got old. The sun was just peeking over the skyline, throwing beams that turned my place into a golden bachelor pad. Still half-stuck in dreamland, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a notification that was about to make my day a whole lot more interesting.
[Ding! Congratulations! You've completed your mission: Create a Business.]
[Would you like to open your gift?]
"Fuck yeah, I do," I murmured, thumbing the 'YES' with more enthusiasm than a kid in a candy store. The system whirred, and the next message popped up like a genie out of a bottle:
[Congratulations! You've received a McLaren 720S Spider.]
"Holy shitting Christmas!" I whooped, throwing off the covers. A McLaren. The universe apparently decided to throw me a bone the size of a luxury sports car.
I sprang out of bed like a kid on Christmas morning, the kind of excitement coursing through me that you only feel when life hands you the keys to a McLaren 720S Spider. "All right, let's see this bad boy," I muttered, pulling on some jeans and a t-shirt faster than I'd ever managed before.
Bounding down to the garage of the Emerald Tower penthouse, my heart was thumping in my chest. The garage door slid open with a whoosh, revealing the sleek, predatory form of the McLaren under the harsh white lights.
"System, give me the rundown before I drool all over the concrete," I said, circling the car like it was a sacred artifact.
[The McLaren 720S Spider features a retractable hardtop convertible, perfect for enjoying the city skyline. Its exterior is a gleaming Supernova Silver, while the interior boasts luxury Alcantara carbon black seats. Under the hood, you'll find a 4.0-liter V8 engine, pushing 710 horsepower with a top speed of 212 mph. It's not just a car; it's a statement.]
"A statement, huh?" I chuckled, running a hand along the smooth lines of the car. "Well, consider my statement fucking made."
Sliding into the driver's seat, the smell of new leather and the subtle hum of power waiting to be unleashed filled my senses. I couldn't resist; I fired up the engine, and the growl it emitted was music to my ears—a symphony of mechanical perfection that promised adrenaline and freedom.
As I sat there, letting the engine purr, the system chimed in again, snapping me back to reality.
[New Missions Available:]
Sign Five Promising Athletes to Ashburn Athletics
[Reward: 15 EXP]
Sponsor a Major Sporting Event
[Reward: 20 EXP and a gift]
Secure a Partnership with a Major Sports Brand
[Reward: 25 EXP]
"Guess it's time to switch from horsepower to power moves," I mused, shutting down the engine reluctantly. "Back to the grind."
The first mission was my immediate focus: sign five promising athletes. Ashburn Athletics was all about nurturing raw talent, and I needed fresh faces that could carry our banner into all sorts of arenas—literal and figurative.
Heading back up to my office, I lined up meetings, scoured agent lists, and watched endless reels of athletic prowess. I was looking for not just skill but a spark—athletes who could ignite excitement and draw crowds.
As the day unfolded, I met with a parade of potential: a track star with speed that could shame a cheetah, a young boxer with a left hook like a sledgehammer, a basketball prodigy who could shoot three-pointers in his sleep, a soccer player who danced past defenders like they were statues, and a swimmer who cut through water like it was air.
Stepping into the modest café where I arranged to meet my prospective track star, the buzz of the midday crowd didn't even register as my eyes locked onto the figure by the window. There she was, 2156875—or Ellie as she preferred, legs bouncing with nervous energy, not unlike the first time I saw her obliterate the 200-meter dash.
"Ellie, right? Damon Ashburn. Pleasure's all mine," I said, extending a hand, which she shook with the vigor of someone who could probably outrun my thoughts.
"Damon, hi! I've heard a lot about you. All good, I promise," she quipped, her smile bright enough to put the sun on notice.
"Only the good stuff's true," I shot back, sliding into the booth. "Heard you're fast enough to give the roadrunner a run for his money."
She laughed, easing into the conversation like a pro. "Only on my slow days. But I'm looking to get faster. And, uh, I heard you might help with that?"
"That's the plan," I said, flipping open my tablet to show her the stats and figures I'd crunched up. "Ashburn Athletics isn't just about being fast. It's about being the fastest. But it's not all about speed. We're talking training, endorsements, media—whole nine yards."
Her eyes widened slightly as she scanned the numbers. "Looks impressive, but what's the catch?"
"No catch," I assured her. "Just hard work, spotlight, and maybe your face on a cereal box if you're into that sort of thing."
Ellie chuckled, leaning back. "Cereal fame? Mom would love that."
I grinned, knowing I had her on the hook. "So, you in?"
She nodded, her determination setting in. "I'm in. Let's outrun the world."
"Perfect. Welcome to the team, Ellie. Let's set the tracks on fire."
Next up was the young boxer, 3141592—or Pi, as he'd joked once, considering his precision in the ring was as calculated as the digits of pi themselves. I met him at the local gym where the scent of sweat and ambition was almost palpable.
"Pi, how's the hardest hitter in the city?" I greeted, offering a glove bump as he wrapped his hands.
"Damon, good seeing you, man. Just grinding, you know? Trying to make a dent in the universe, or at least in my opponents," he replied, his grin fierce.
"Love the energy. I've got a proposal for you that might just amplify that," I said, laying out my vision for him as we watched a sparring match. "Ashburn Athletics wants fighters, not just in the ring but in life. We're building something big here, and I want you in my corner—literally."
Pi stopped wrapping his second hand, considering. "Sounds big. What's in it for me?"
"Top-notch training, management that fights for you not against you, and yeah, those sponsorship deals that don't suck," I explained, knowing the last part caught his attention.
"Sounds better than getting punched in the face for free," Pi mused, finally chuckling. "Alright, I'm in. Let's knock some heads together."
"Smart choice. Let's make you a legend."
The basketball prodigy, 808080—or Boom, named for his explosive dunks—was next. We met on the courts where he was practicing shots that defied gravity.
"Boom! Making those hoops cry, I see," I called out as I approached.
Boom lowered the ball, wiping sweat from his brow. "Trying to. Damon, right? Ashburn Athletics?"
"That's right. Heard you're looking to take your game to the next level," I said, getting straight to the point as he dribbled slowly, eyeing me.
"Always. What's your play?"
"Simple," I started, walking alongside him as he shot and scored effortlessly. "We elevate your game. Training, contracts, publicity—you focus on scoring, we handle the boring stuff."
Boom stopped, ball under arm, thinking it over. "You handle the distractions, I handle the baskets?"
"Exactly."
He nodded sharply. "Deal. Let's dunk on them."
The discussions with the soccer player and the swimmer went similarly—each with their dreams, each with the fire, and each signing on to what Ashburn Athletics promised to be—a revolution in sports management.
By the end of the day, contracts were signed, hands were shaken, and Ashburn Athletics had its champions. Five athletes ready to set the world on fire, and me, ready to fan the flames.
As I leaned back in my chair, a sense of accomplishment washing over me, the system pinged:
[Mission Completed: Sign Five Promising Athletes to Ashburn Athletics]
[Congratulations! +15 EXP gained.]
"Looks like we're off to the races," I muttered, already plotting the next moves for sponsoring an event and securing that brand partnership. But that was tomorrow's battle.
For tonight, I had a McLaren waiting to tear up the streets, and a bunch of new athletes whose dreams were now intertwined with my own. So I grabbed my keys, my jacket, and headed down to the garage.
The McLaren gleamed under the lights, a beacon of everything that had changed in my life since the system kicked in. I slid into the driver's seat, the leather hugging me like a promise of the rides to come.
With all the athletes now under the Ashburn Athletics banner, my mind couldn't help but tally up the costs so far. Starting a sports management company wasn't exactly pocket change territory, even for someone who'd recently come into a windfall, courtesy of the mysterious Broke Man's System.
The financial figures danced in my head. The office space alone, that sleek high-rise with glass walls and a view that screamed success, had set me back a cool $10 million. Then there was the branding—logos, websites, promotional materials—that chewed through another $3 million like it was nothing.
Let's not forget the legal and administrative costs. Harold, with his ability to make even a tax audit sound dull, had been worth every penny for the peace of mind he provided. That peace, however, came with a hefty price tag of $2 million in legal fees and setup costs. And the equipment for the office, including that state-of-the-art espresso machine that could probably launch a satellite if prompted, added another $1 million to the tab.
Then came the athlete signings, my golden tickets to making Ashburn Athletics a household name. Each contract negotiation, signing bonus, and initial marketing push for these five prodigies had quickly added up to $4 million.
Twenty million dollars down, and my bank account was still disgustingly bloated. "Fuck me, I'm practically hemorrhaging money, and it's still not enough," I groaned, flipping through the digital receipts on my tablet. Marketing blitzes, signing bonuses, office renovations, and that damn ergonomic office chair that promised to cradle my ass like royalty—it all added up, but not nearly enough.
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein