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Arthur tossed his phone on the nightstand with a dramatic flick of his wrist, as if he were discarding a rotten tomato. Florentino's furious voice still rang in his ears, but Arthur just curled his lips into a smirk.
"Old man's stingy as hell," Arthur muttered under his breath. "Moans about ninety million being too expensive. With that kind of attitude, he'd be lucky to keep up with the transfer market—he wouldn't even be able to eat scraps off the table, let alone shit to keep warm."
He shook his head, amused by the whole thing, and rolled over. To Arthur, it was done and dusted. Leeds had their man. Florentino could scream until his veins popped, but Kaka was already wearing white and blue.
Outside his bubble, the footballing world was in chaos. The shockwaves from Leeds' sumr business still rattled through every newsroom, every fan forum, every corner café in Europe. Headlines blared, pundits argued themselves hoarse, and rival managers tried to hide their envy while secretly updating their wish lists.
Ti flew, and before anyone knew it, August arrived. Just ten short days stood between now and the official kickoff of the 2007–08 Premier League season.
But while Arthur fine-tuned Leeds United, another headline quietly stole the spotlight: Shakira was back.
She had just wrapped up her whirlwind tours, music videos, and endless press obligations. The tabloids had been following her every step—airport arrivals, hotel lobbies, stage rehearsals. Now she returned to Leeds, finally free from her hectic schedule. But then she did sothing unexpected: she canceled a string of planned dia appearances.
Cue the gossip machine.
By the next morning, the rumor mill was in overdrive. "Is she unwell?" one paper speculated. "Is Shakira hiding a serious illness?" another asked. And of course, the juiciest headline of all: "Is She Pregnant?"
Arthur, anticipating the circus, had tightened security around his estate. Paparazzi lurked like vultures outside the gates, but once Shakira stepped through the front door, she finally exhaled in relief.
She leaned against the wall, tugged off her oversized sunglasses, and muttered, "Thank goodness, honey. They're relentless. Honestly, they chased halfway across town. One even tripped into a bush trying to get a photo."
Arthur laughed, striding over to plant a kiss on her lips. "Well, sooner or later, they'll figure it out," he said knowingly. His hand drifted down, brushing gently over the curve beneath her loose, baggy clothes.
He caressed her slightly swollen belly with tenderness, his thumb tracing circles as though he couldn't quite believe it was real.
Shakira's eyes softened instantly, her whole body lting into his touch. "Mmm… we'll leave that secret for later," she whispered with a mischievous smile. Then, giving his hand a playful tug, she added, "Right now, I'm starving. Let's eat before your child makes faint from hunger."
Arthur grinned, letting her lead him to the dining room. The staff had already prepared dinner—a warm spread of grilled fish, roasted vegetables, and a decadent chocolate dessert Arthur had requested specially.
They sat together, laughter bouncing easily between them as plates emptied and wine glasses clinked.
Later, after the plates were cleared and the house quieted, they lay side by side in bed. The soft glow of the bedside lamp painted golden light over the room. Neither of them was in a hurry to sleep; instead, they whispered about the future, their voices carrying equal parts nerves and joy.
Arthur turned on his side, propping his head on one hand. "You know, darling," he began with a grin, "I love you dearly, but please—don't give our kid a na as long as yours. We Brits have tiny little na boxes on birth certificates. If we go with sothing like, oh, 'Shakira Isabel barak Ripoll Jr.,' the poor lad will need a separate sheet of paper."
Shakira shot him a heated look, though her lips twitched with amusent. "Are you making fun of my na, querido?"
Arthur imdiately leaned in, kissing her in apology, his hand brushing her cheek. "Of course not, my love. Your na's beautiful—just like you. But think about it: I want our child to be able to write their full na before they're in university. Nothing wrong with a simple one. What's wrong with… say… Arthur Jr.?"
He said it with mock grandeur, puffing his chest as though he were suggesting the na of a great king.
Shakira's eyes narrowed. She crossed her arms and glared at him with exaggerated fierceness.
"Nope."
Arthur blinked. "Nope?"
"Nope," she repeated, drawing out the word with dramatic emphasis.
Arthur groaned, falling back on the pillow. "You wound . Shot down before the shortlist even begins!"
******
As the days ticked down toward the start of the new Premier League season, the excitent in England reached fever pitch. But funnily enough, it wasn't the pundits, journalists, or TV experts who set the tone first. It was the bookmakers.
Yes, the people who made a living turning football predictions into odds were the first to stick their necks out and declare who they thought would rule England this season.
And what a shift it was compared to the year before.
Last season, Chelsea had been the clear favorites, with their billion-pound squad and Mourinho's smug grin plastered all over the newspapers. This season? Things were different. The lowest odds, the bookies' pick for champions, weren't Chelsea at all.
It was Manchester United.
Sir Alex Ferguson's n had gone shopping like kids let loose in a candy store, scooping up shiny new players left and right. The bookies believed all that money ant only one thing: United were top dogs again.
Right behind them, at second favorite, ca Arthur's Leeds United. That in itself said it all—Leeds weren't outsiders anymore. They weren't "the new lads punching above their weight." No, Leeds were now considered a real powerhouse. A threat. A team that had spent heavily and wisely, making headlines across Europe.
Chelsea, who once swaggered about like kings, had to settle for third in the betting. And Arsenal? Ah, Arsenal were as consistent as ever—consistently fourth. Their odds were as steady as their annual tradition of falling short in the title race.
Then ca Liverpool. Poor Liverpool.
Their odds were so bad the bookmakers shoved them behind Newcastle and Tottenham. Yes, Newcastle. And Tottenham. Punters and experts alike were essentially saying: "We'd sooner bet on Spurs winning the league than Liverpool." That was how little faith they had in Rafa Benítez's side.
Arthur nearly choked on his morning tea when he saw the odds list. At first, he was annoyed to see Leeds still ranked behind United. But then he scrolled further down the page and saw Liverpool's na sitting miserably in seventh. Suddenly, his irritation lted into sympathy.
He set the paper down, sighed dramatically, and muttered, "Poor Moores. The man's cursed. Truly cursed."
David Moores, Liverpool's chairman, had tried. He really had. When he failed to land Fernando Torres, he still spent close to fifty million euros strengthening the squad. But it wasn't enough. No big-na stars, no Champions League football for two years running, and absolutely no faith from the oddsmakers. Arthur shook his head and almost pitied him. Almost.
Because sympathy aside, Arthur had bigger things on his plate.
The world could argue endlessly about odds and predictions, but before the Premier League season kicked off in ten days' ti, Leeds had an appetizer to take care of—a little curtain-raiser known as the Community Shield.
On August 5th, Leeds would march into Wembley Stadium to face Chelsea, last season's FA Cup winners. It wasn't the biggest prize in football, no, but it was silverware. And Arthur wanted it.
anwhile, the caras rolled inside the bright studio of Sky Sports. Two familiar voices were warming up for the broadcast: Gary Lineker and his trusty partner Jon.
The two hadn't seen each other for a month, and true to form, their reunion wasn't sentintal—it was bickering.
"Old buddy, how was your holiday?" Lineker asked, grinning.
"Not bad," Jon shot back with a smirk. "Better than yours, I'd wager."
The two chuckled, their banter a warm-up before the real show. Soon, the feed cut to Wembley, where players from both sides were jogging back to the tunnel after their warm-ups. Lineker's face lit up as he began his opening monologue.
"Ladies and gentlen, good afternoon! I'm Gary Lineker, and with is Jon. Welco to Sky Sports' coverage of the 2007 Community Shield. Today's clash? None other than Premier League champions Leeds United versus FA Cup champions Chelsea."
"Good afternoon, everyone!" Jon chid in, his tone crisp and professional.
Lineker nodded and leaned slightly closer to the cara. "Thank you for tuning in. In just twenty minutes, the first trophy of the English season will be contested right here at Wembley. Now Jon, what do you make of this ga?"
Jon adjusted his microphone, cleared his throat, and launched into analysis. "Well, I think most fans are with on this. All eyes will be on the new signings. Chelsea have brought in the likes of Florent Malouda and Alex. Leeds, of course, stunned the world by adding Adriano and Kaka. But here's the thing: the Community Shield doesn't usually carry much weight. It's more of a glorified friendly. So the real question is—will either manager risk their shiny new stars today?"
Lineker, who rarely complinted his partner live on air, actually cracked a smile. "Well said, old man. For once, you're spot on. Like you, I'm less interested in who wins and more curious to see how these new boys handle themselves under the spotlight."
Down in the bowels of Wembley, inside Leeds' locker room, Arthur stood in the center of the group. His players, buzzing with nervous excitent, slowly gathered around him.
This was it. The first official match of the season. The first ti his new-look squad would step onto the stage. He knew the players needed a speech, sothing to settle their nerves and sharpen their focus.
Arthur clapped his hands together. "Alright, lads, circle in."
The room quieted. Boots stopped clattering against the floor. Every pair of eyes—young, eager, expectant—fixed on him.
He let the silence hang for a mont before speaking in a relaxed, almost conversational tone.
"In twenty minutes, we're out there. First official match of the new season. Now, don't let the na 'Chelsea' scare you. Truth be told, today's match won't be half as intense as the battle we fought against Sheffield United at Elland Road three months back. You all rember that, don't you?"
A few players chuckled, the mory of that scrappy, nail-biting encounter still vivid.
Arthur smiled knowingly. "Exactly. But here's the thing—this ga might not be the fiercest, but it's special. For every single one of you, this is the first Community Shield of your careers. And let tell you sothing—the trophy isn't pretty. Honestly, it looks like a dinner plate from my nan's kitchen. But even so, I'd like to see one of those ugly shields sitting proudly in the Thorp Arch trophy cabinet."
The room erupted in laughter. Even Kaka, usually composed and serious, cracked a smile at the jab. The tension that had hung over them lted instantly.
Arthur nodded approvingly, then straightened up, his voice firm. "Alright, boys, jokes aside—this is our stage. The world is watching. The season begins now. I believe you all want the sa thing I do—a perfect start. So let's make it happen."
With that, he bent slightly, stretching his right hand out into the middle. "Together now. One goal, one team. Let's go!"
*****
"Alright, dear viewers, we finally have the confird starting lineups for both sides. And let just say—thankfully, we no longer need to hold up a crumpled sheet of paper to read them out like schoolboys." Lineker grinned as he tapped the sleek laptop sitting on the desk before him, his voice carrying that familiar mix of sharp wit and genuine excitent.
"Hahaha, yes indeed. Even Sky Sports has caught up with the modern age," Jon chuckled, leaning back comfortably in his chair as the caras panned across the electric atmosphere at Wembley. "Alright then, no need for extra chatter. Let's go through the lineups of both teams."
"First up, Chelsea," Jon began, with the kind of practiced rhythm that ca from years behind the mic. "José Mourinho is sticking with his signature 4-3-3 system today. In goal, of course, the dependable Petr Čech. Across the back line from right to left, it's Glen Johnson, Ricardo Carvalho, Tal Ben Haim, and Ashley Cole. Just ahead of them sits the midfield trio—Michael Essien, John Obi Mikel, and Frank Lampard pulling the strings. And in the forward line, Shaun Wright-Phillips on the right, Joe Cole drifting through the middle, and Chelsea's big sumr signing, Florent Malouda, starting on the left flank."
Lineker raised his brows, eyes still scanning the screen. "Hmm. When you look at that, Jon, it feels like Chelsea can easily morph into a 4-5-1 when they're pinned back. But—and I'll say it plainly—doesn't Joe Cole look a bit lightweight as the focal point up front? He's got flair, sure, but can he really bully centre-backs in the way a Drogba would?"
"That's a fair point," Jon admitted, his voice carrying that reluctant sigh of a fan who already knew the weaknesses of his team. "Unfortunately, Drogba's sidelined, Shevchenko isn't available, and Kalou has also been ruled out. That leaves Mourinho with very few options for the centre-forward role. It's either Joe Cole pushed higher up, or bringing in Claudio Pizarro. Neither is ideal, but José has clearly gone with the more versatile choice."
Lineker couldn't help but smirk. "Ouch. That's tough luck for your Blues, my friend. I do feel a touch sorry for you… but not too much." His chuckle drew laughter from the studio crew. Before Jon could muster a coback, Lineker pressed on, his voice lively and teasing: "Alright, we've covered Chelsea. But now, ladies and gentlen, cos the lineup everyone is itching to see—the reigning Premier League champions, Leeds United. What sort of hand has Arthur dealt us today?"
Jon leaned forward, eyes shining with equal parts curiosity and anticipation. "I think it's fair to say every fan in the stadium, and certainly everyone watching from ho, wants to see how Leeds line up. They've had a busy sumr transfer window, with so major signings that set tongues wagging across Europe. People will want to know—are we seeing Kaka today? Is Adriano fit to start? How bold is Arthur going in this Community Shield clash?"
The cara lingered on the Leeds players lining up in the tunnel, their sharp white kits gleaming under the floodlights, as the comntators prepared to reveal Arthur's choices. The buzz in the stadium was almost deafening now, supporters of both sides waving flags, chanting, and clapping in anticipation of the season's curtain-raiser.
Lineker leaned toward his mic with a grin. "Let's not keep the people waiting. Ti to lift the curtain on Leeds United's starting XI…"
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