Arthur sat in the post-match press conference room, still riding that electric afterglow only victory at Old Trafford could give. The air slled faintly of coffee and sweat, microphones buzzed in front of him, and cara flashes popped like tiny lightning bolts. He leaned back in his chair, one hand resting casually on the table, a confident grin stretching across his face. Leeds United had just taken three points off Manchester United in their own fortress — and Arthur wasn't going to hide how much he enjoyed that.
The first question ca quickly, shouted from a reporter near the front.
"Arthur! Many pundits predicted before kickoff that Leeds United would lose tonight. What do you think about those comnts?"
Arthur didn't even blink. He gave a half-smile, tapped the microphone, and said in his usual dry, unbothered tone, "Sorry, I don't really spend much ti worrying about what outsiders say. I only care about what my players think, and what our fans think. As for everyone else's opinions—" he paused, letting the caras zoom in, "—I don't read them. And even if I accidentally see them, I have a very special skill."
The reporters leaned forward, curious.
Arthur smirked. "Selective ignorance."
Laughter rippled through the press room. He shrugged, the picture of smug composure. "I just focus on my team. The rest is noise."
Another journalist jumped in before the laughter faded. "So you're obviously pleased with the result, right? Any special ssage for your players?"
Arthur nodded, eyes twinkling. "Of course I'm happy. This is exactly what hard work earns you. The lads fought for every ball, executed the plan, and refused to back down even when Old Trafford was roaring against them. We deserved this win — every bit of it."
He sat forward slightly, fingers tapping the table rhythmically. "People always like to talk about luck, referees, tactics… but tonight, it was simply willpower. You could feel it from the bench — that refusal to surrender. That's what makes this team special."
The next question ca from a journalist clutching a notebook thick with scribbles. "Arthur, about the upcoming schedule — Leeds have a very congested fixture list, Premier League, Champions League, and the League Cup all piling up. How will you manage the rotation?"
Arthur chuckled, glancing at the ceiling as if deciding how much truth he wanted to share. "Well," he said at last, "although I don't really care about paying fines, I'd better watch what I say here." He gave the caras a playful squint, pretending to asure them with his eyes. "Let's just say… if I were to describe our fixture schedule using my eyes, it would look sothing like this—"
He rolled them dramatically skyward, shaking his head. The room burst into laughter.
"The truth is," Arthur continued, grinning again, "the schedule's brutal. We've faced the strongest clubs in the league back-to-back while juggling Champions League and dostic cup gas. But you know what? We've survived it. And now, so of my players will finally get a well-deserved rest. That's my gift to them — a little vacation. They've earned it."
The caras clicked rapidly, catching the Leeds manager in full, charismatic flow.
Then ca the question that made him pause.
"Arthur," one reporter asked, leaning forward, "you praised your players — but what about Cristiano Ronaldo? How would you rate his performance tonight?"
Arthur had been halfway out of his seat, ready to wrap up the session. But the ntion of Ronaldo made him stop mid-movent, sit back down, and rest his elbows on the table. His expression changed — not mocking this ti, but asured, thoughtful. The journalists sensed it imdiately; their pens hovered in anticipation.
He leaned into the microphone, voice steady. "Cristiano?" he said, with the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "He's brilliant. Truly brilliant. I an that."
He gestured with one hand, as if replaying the goal in his head. "That first goal Manchester United scored — I watched it from the touchline. Cristiano practically tore our right flank apart single-handedly. His control, acceleration, the confidence… it was pure genius. Honestly, if it weren't for him, I don't think the match would've been that difficult for us. He changed everything with just one run."
Arthur chuckled softly. "Sotis, I really do envy Alex. I have no idea where he keeps finding these geniuses. Maybe he's got a factory sowhere."
The room laughed again, but the tone had shifted — it wasn't sarcasm this ti. There was sothing almost sincere in Arthur's words. He knew brilliance when he saw it, and tonight Ronaldo had given him plenty of reasons to notice.
A few minutes later, the press officer gave the usual signal — ti was up. Arthur stood, adjusted his jacket, and offered one last nod to the room. "Alright, gentlen, that's enough trouble for one night."
He turned to leave, but the Ronaldo quote lingered like perfu in the air. Reporters whispered to each other, already crafting headlines.
Monts later, Sir Alex Ferguson walked into the sa press room for his post-match conference. He looked tired, frustrated, but still carried that iron authority that always seed to silence a room. He took his seat, straightened his tie, and gave a tight smile.
"Right," he said curtly, "let's get on with it."
But he hadn't even finished adjusting his microphone when a reporter raised his hand and spoke up.
"Sir Alex, just before you ca in, Arthur from Leeds praised Cristiano's performance and said he was, quote, 'really great,' and that sotis he envies you for having such a genius in your squad. Any thoughts on that?"
Ferguson blinked. His face tightened slightly.
He gave a quick, polite smile, but his brow furrowed. "He said that, did he?"
The reporter nodded eagerly. "Yes, and quite sincerely, too."
For a brief mont, Ferguson didn't respond. He sat back in his chair, expression thoughtful, a crease forming between his brows. He looked off to the side, as if ntally calculating sothing.
Inside his head, alarm bells were ringing.
Damn it, he thought. It was Real Madrid last month. Now even Arthur's talking about him like that…
That creeping sense of unease — the one only managers feel when their superstar starts attracting admiring glances — began to stir. Ferguson's lips thinned.
Was Ronaldo's head being turned?
He forced himself to focus as another reporter asked a question about United's missed chances, but his answers ca distractedly, automatic, like his mind was elsewhere. His famous sharpness was gone, replaced by that nagging thought he couldn't shake.
By the ti the press conference ended, Ferguson's decision was already forming. As he stood and gathered his notes, one thing was clear.
Once he got back to Carrington, he'd be calling Ronaldo's agent first thing in the morning.
A new contract — and quickly.
Because when even Arthur starts praising your star like that, you know trouble's coming.
******
Arthur didn't even wait a full day to enjoy the sweet taste of victory before returning to business. The morning papers were still wet with ink celebrating Leeds United's dramatic 2–1 triumph at Old Trafford, but Arthur had already shown up at Thorp Arch, the club's training base, just after lunch. Most managers would have slept in, basked in the glory, or at least pretended to take a day off. Not him. When ambition burned like his, rest was a myth.
Alan, his loyal assistant, was already there when Arthur arrived. He knew the boss well enough to realize sothing was brewing the mont he saw that familiar glint of mischief in Arthur's eyes. After brewing a pot of tea—properly, because Arthur was a stickler for that—Alan carried it over to where his boss sat, cross-legged on the couch like a man plotting a coup rather than managing a football club.
"Boss," Alan said with a grin, setting the cup down, "if you had sothing important to discuss, you could've just called to your office. Why co here in person?"
Arthur waved a dismissive hand. "Don't talk nonsense. I'm technically on vacation right now. If I go to the office, that's work. But if I'm sitting here—" he raised his cup with mock seriousness, "—that's leisure."
Alan blinked, trying to keep a straight face. "Ah, of course," he said, chuckling. "Leisure. Got it."
Arthur smirked, clearly pleased with his own logic. "Good. Now that we've established I'm relaxing, let's talk business."
Alan sat up a little straighter. "So, what brings you to the base today? Sothing serious?"
Arthur leaned back, his grin widening. "Quite serious, actually. Tell , Alan, have you read today's papers?"
"I have," Alan said, looking puzzled. "Why?"
"Ah." Arthur took a deliberate sip of his tea, savoring the flavor and the suspense. "Because apparently, I caused a bit of a stir at the post-match press conference yesterday. I said a few kind words about Ronaldo, and this morning, the dia decided to turn it into a love letter."
Alan's eyes widened slightly as the mory clicked into place. "Oh right… right! I saw those headlines. They're saying you're interested in signing him, aren't they?"
Arthur set down his cup and smiled like a man who'd just been accused of sothing he absolutely had done but would never admit to. "Interested? Alan, you make it sound like I'm gossiping about a celebrity crush. Let's just say… yesterday's ga gave a new appreciation for him. The boy's matured. He's no longer just a show pony doing step-overs for the caras. Ferguson's trained him well. He's sharper now. More efficient. More… dangerous."
Alan tilted his head. "So you really are planning to poach him?"
Arthur widened his eyes, feigning outrage. "Poach? What an ugly word. I'm not stealing anyone's player! I'm simply… considering a future business opportunity."
Alan couldn't help laughing. "Right. A business opportunity nad Cristiano Ronaldo."
"Exactly!" Arthur said, pointing at him with mock pride. "Now you're catching on."
Alan chuckled but then asked cautiously, "So… you want to make an offer?"
"Don't even think about it," Arthur said imdiately, waving his hand as if batting away a fly. "If we make a move now, Ferguson will slam the door in our faces. Worse, he'll panic and throw a massive new contract at Ronaldo just to spite us. Then we'll be looking at a transfer fee the size of the GDP of a small country."
He paused, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against his teacup. His expression hardened into one of quiet calculation—the kind that made Alan's stomach twist, because whenever Arthur looked like that, sothing big was about to happen.
"Here's the real issue," Arthur continued. "Even if we get past Ferguson, Ronaldo himself isn't easy. His head's already in Madrid. That's the real battle."
Alan nodded slowly. He knew this part of football all too well—the silent tug-of-war that happened off the pitch, the one fought with whispers, agents, and money instead of tactics and goals.
Arthur leaned forward, voice dropping. "Real Madrid's been circling for months. They've already contacted ndes, his agent, and it's no secret Ronaldo wants to leave England. He's practically admitted it in interviews—though he tries to deny it when Ferguson's around. But the desire's there. I can see it. The boy wants the spotlight, and Madrid's offering him the entire stage."
He paused, looking thoughtful, then added casually, "Alan, how well do you know ndes?"
Alan frowned. "ndes? We've t, of course, but I wouldn't say we're close."
"Hmm." Arthur tapped his chin. "That's a sha. Because I think it's ti we got a bit closer."
Alan blinked. "You an…?"
Arthur's grin returned, sharper this ti. "We ask him out."
"Ask him out?" Alan repeated, confused.
"Yes," Arthur said, as if explaining sothing obvious. "Invite him for dinner, maybe a glass of wine, a friendly chat about the weather, the market… and perhaps a few of our promising young players who could use a good agent. While we're at it, we let him… you know."
Alan squinted. "You an 'blow the wind,' don't you?"
"Exactly!" Arthur snapped his fingers. "You're learning. We let him blow the wind toward Ronaldo's ear—subtly, of course. Sothing like, 'You know, Leeds has a bright future, Arthur's building a dynasty, and wouldn't it be poetic for you to lead them into glory?' That sort of thing."
Alan gave a skeptical look. "But boss… what about Raiola? He's already managing so of our youth players. If he finds out we're cozying up to ndes, won't that cause trouble?"
Arthur waved him off. "Raiola's a pragmatist. He knows how this ga works. As long as we're winning and his clients are thriving, he won't turn his back on us. If he does, well… that just ans I overestimated his intelligence."
Alan laughed quietly, shaking his head. "You make it sound so simple."
"It is simple," Arthur said with a wink. "Football may be played on grass, but the real ga happens in rooms like this—over tea and conversation. Now, give ndes a call. Tell him I want to et him. Don't ntion Ronaldo outright. Just say I've got so ti on my hands and fancy a little trip."
Alan nodded, already pulling out his phone. "Alright, boss. I'll be subtle."
"Good," Arthur said, standing up and stretching, as if the entire discussion had been a casual chat about lunch plans rather than a plot to snatch one of the world's brightest stars from under Ferguson's nose. "Let's make this interesting, shall we?"
As Alan dialed ndes' number, Arthur turned back to his teacup, finishing the last sip with a small, satisfied smile. The hunt, it seed, had already begun.
Reviews
All reviews (0)