The next morning dawned bright over Leeds, though Arthur was already awake before the first rays of sunlight had properly filtered through the curtains.
He had gone to bed fairly late, still buzzing with excitent after studying the shiny new cards the system had spat out at him. The possibilities were endless, and his brain had raced until exhaustion finally claid him. But today was different—today was about business.
He slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb Shakira, who was still curled up under the duvet. She had stumbled ho exhausted after a long evening shoot. Arthur had spoiled her with a massage until she practically lted in his arms, then, in a half-sleepy daze, she'd let him change her into nightwear and tuck her in.
Now she slept soundly, breathing softly, her dark hair a ss on the pillow.
Arthur paused for a second, smiling at the sight. A man could get used to mornings like this. Still, he had work to do. He kissed her forehead gently and tiptoed out of the room and closed the door gently behind him.
Last night, before calling it a day, Arthur had fired off a ssage to Allen. The poor lad was to show up in his office this morning with a neat pile of the transfer offers that had co flooding in. Arthur wanted to comb through them properly and, if anything worthwhile popped up, start negotiations straight away.
By the ti Allen arrived, Arthur was already sitting comfortably in his office, waiting with the posture of a man who had both patience and caffeine reserves. Allen, on the other hand, looked like soone who had spent the night in a warzone with his inbox. His arms were loaded with printed docunts, and he dropped them neatly onto the coffee table in front of Arthur like they were sacred offerings to a king.
"Boss, here's the lot," Allen said, slightly breathless. "I've filtered out the nonsense. These are the ones worth your ti."
Arthur raised an eyebrow, amused at how serious Allen looked, then leaned forward and gave a short nod.
"Good lad. Now before you vanish, the tea leaves are in the drawer. Make it strong, yeah? My body's still reminding about the drinking I did these past few days. Feels like I've been pickled."
Allen chuckled. "Got it. Strong tea, coming up."
While Allen busied himself with the kettle, Arthur picked up the stack of papers and began flipping through them. Seven, maybe eight pages in total—not overwhelming, but enough to keep him busy. Each sheet was a different club sniffing around his players.
Most had already been struck out by Allen. Arthur could see the red pen marks where his assistant had taken the liberty of saying "not a chance." He had to give Allen credit; the man knew the squad almost as well as he did. The remaining offers were the borderline cases—the ones Arthur himself would need to decide on.
But as he leafed through page after page, a slight frown grew on his face. None of the offers really thrilled him. Sure, there were so good numbers, but nothing scread "take it now." And truth be told, Arthur wasn't desperate to sell unless the player themselves had expressed a wish to go.
After all, he had already moved on Yaya Touré and Piqué earlier in the season. Rivaldo was practically in his rocking chair, ready to call it a career. Midfield and defense were already lighter than he liked. With the Champions League on the horizon next season, Arthur was not in the mood to gut his squad just to pad the bank account.
Still… one offer caught his eye.
Sir Alex Ferguson. Manchester United. Peter Schichel.
Arthur placed the sheet down carefully, like it was a chess piece he was about to move into place. The timing of it all made sense.
At that mont, Allen returned, setting a steaming cup of tea on the table. Arthur picked it up, inhaled deeply, and took a slow sip. The bitterness was perfect. He let out a satisfied moan, leaned back on the sofa, and closed his eyes for a second.
"Schichel," Arthur murmured. "That one… that's negotiable."
He wasn't being reckless. The truth was, he had been preparing for this decision for a while. Schichel was reliable, no doubt. A proper A level keeper, seasoned and solid. But Arthur had soone else in mind for the future—soone already in his squad.
Manuel Neuer.
The German had been quietly growing under Leeds' coaching staff, honing his ga in training, picking up the odd appearance in cup matches. Arthur had tracked his progress like a hawk, and the numbers spoke for themselves. From the raw talent who had first arrived, Neuer had climbed steadily, now hovering at a B overall rating. Another season, and Arthur was certain he'd hit A level.
Not as sharp as Schichel just yet, but close enough to take the mantle. And when you factored in potential? It was a no-brainer. Neuer's ceiling was S . The man was destined to be world-class, maybe even redefine the role of a goalkeeper. Schichel was great, but he'd already peaked.
Arthur opened one eye and grinned. "Yeah. Schichel can go. Neuer's ready to be the main man."
Allen raised his eyebrows but didn't argue. If anything, he looked impressed. "So you'll accept United's offer?"
"Not without squeezing every penny out of them first," Arthur replied with a sly smile. "This is Ferguson we're talking about. He'll pay through the nose if he thinks it's the solution to his Van der Sar problem."
And that, Arthur knew, was exactly what was happening. Van der Sar was still solid, but at thirty-seven, the Dutchman couldn't go on forever. Ferguson was a genius, and geniuses always plan their succession. Schichel wasn't a long-term solution, but for a couple of years, he'd be safe hands until the next great keeper arrived.
Arthur sipped his tea again, the gears in his head turning. This text is hosted at novel•fire
And then another idea popped in.
"If we sell Schichel," he said slowly, "we'll need a backup for Neuer. Soone young, promising, and cheap. Soone who won't complain about sitting on the bench for a year or two."
Allen tilted his head. "Anyone in mind?"
Arthur smirked. "David de Gea. Atlético Madrid's kid. Seventeen. Raw as hell, but the talent's there. He'll cost peanuts right now. We grab him, tuck him behind Neuer, and boom—we've got the next decade sorted."
Allen blinked, trying to process the foresight. "Seventeen? Isn't that a bit… young for the Premier League?"
Arthur waved his hand dismissively. "So what? Goalkeepers are like wine—they get better with ti. We'll nurture him. Worst case, he turns into a decent backup. Best case? He becos a star. Either way, we win."
The plan was falling into place. Sell Schichel to United, let Neuer take over as Leeds' number one, and snatch up De Gea as the apprentice. Simple, elegant, and—most importantly—profitable.
Arthur leaned back fully now, balancing the cup on his knee, looking like a man who had just solved three puzzles at once.
"Allen," he said with a chuckle, "sotis I amaze even myself."
Allen rolled his eyes but smiled. He'd seen this look before. It was the look Arthur wore right before Leeds United pulled off another transfer masterstroke.
*****
Arthur had already made up his mind. Ferguson wanted Schichel, and Arthur was willing to talk—but only on his terms. After all, he wasn't running a charity shop, and Leeds United's goalkeeper wasn't so bargain-bin clearance item.
From Ferguson's side, the situation made sense. Van der Sar was still holding up at 37, a wall between the posts for United, but even the toughest Dutchn eventually feel the years. Ferguson, in his usual fashion, was trying to plan two steps ahead. He wanted soone reliable—soone who could inherit the gloves when Van der Sar finally decided enough was enough. But reliable didn't co cheap, and Arthur wasn't about to hand out loyalty discounts.
The offer from United was €13 million. Respectable, yes, but compared to what Arthur had spent—half a million—it was practically daylight robbery. A neat 25-fold profit. If he'd been any other manager, he might have rushed to sign off imdiately, slapped himself on the back, and called it a good day. But Arthur wasn't any other manager.
"Thirteen million?" Arthur muttered, half amused, half insulted, as he leaned back on his sofa with the papers in hand. "They think I'm so kind of fool, don't they? Selling Howard's butter fingers fetched fifteen million, and this is Schichel we're talking about—the Premier League champion's main man between the sticks! If Ferguson thinks he can waltz in and grab him for thirteen, he's got another thing coming. Not a chance. Not even if God Himself picked up the phone."
The decision was instant. Schichel could go—but only if United coughed up the kind of fee that would make Arthur grin all the way to the bank.
With that, he pulled his phone from his pocket, thumbed through his contacts, and found the na: Sir Alex Ferguson. Without hesitation, he hit call.
The line clicked, and soon that unmistakable gruff Scottish voice answered.
"Arthur," Ferguson said dryly, "if you're not busy parading your title around Leeds, what makes you think it's a good idea to ring up your defeated opponent today?"
The tone was sharp, the words bristling. Typical Ferguson—bruised pride wrapped in sarcasm.
Arthur wasn't about to take that lying down. "Alex, that's your opening line? Really?" he shot back imdiately. "If that's the case, I'll just rip up your little offer and toss it straight in the bin. Saves us both the trouble."
The bluntness caught Ferguson off guard. For a mont, he'd forgotten why Arthur might be calling in the first place. Then it clicked—the bid he'd submitted for Schichel. His tone softened quickly, switching from defensive to almost conciliatory.
"All right, all right," Ferguson said, clearing his throat. "I thought you were calling to gloat about your shiny new Premier League dal."
Arthur let out a small laugh. "What's there to gloat about? It's just one trophy. Anyway—next season it'll probably be yours again, won't it?"
For a brief mont, Ferguson relaxed. That sounded civil, almost respectful. But then Arthur delivered the second half of the line, deliberately separated by a pause like a carefully placed dagger.
"…Because let's be honest, Alex, who else is going to challenge you lot once we're tired of it?"
That did it. Ferguson's blood pressure spiked. His knuckles went white around the phone. He actually had to resist the urge to fling it across the room. The cheek of the man! A rookie manager, one season in the Premier League, talking to him like that!
Arthur, sensing he might have pushed a bit too far, quickly reeled the conversation back before Ferguson could explode. "Look, Alex, you've still got the FA Cup and the Champions League in play. My little league title is peanuts compared to what you might end the season with. So let's talk business. Schichel. How much are you actually willing to pay?"
Ferguson froze. His brows knitted, confusion plastered across his face. He actually pulled the phone away and stared at the screen, as though it might explain what he'd just heard.
"'How much am I willing to pay?'" Ferguson muttered to himself, almost in disbelief. "What the hell does he an, how much? I already did na a price!"
It didn't compute. He'd sent over an offer. Thirteen million. Clear, straightforward. Now here was Arthur, acting like it didn't exist, as if the slate were wiped clean and Ferguson had to start again from scratch.
Arthur, anwhile, sat on the other end of the line, frowning at the silence. He pulled the phone away, checked the screen—still connected. He brought it back to his ear.
"Hello? Alex? You there?" he called out, louder this ti. "Don't tell you've fallen asleep on . You've not gone soft in your old age, have you?"
Still no response. Just that heavy, brooding silence.
Arthur sighed theatrically, shaking his head as though Ferguson could see it. "Co on, Alex. Don't make shout into the phone like so lunatic. I know you're still there. Now—are we going to talk like adults, or should I really just toss this offer where it belongs?"
And on the other side, Ferguson sat in his office, phone pressed to his ear, face redder than a Manchester United kit, torn between fury and grudging admiration for Arthur's nerve.
Reviews
All reviews (0)