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***
Still unwilling to believe it , Bates reached for his laptop. With a few quick taps, Bates opened the Leeds United official site. The hopage loaded slowly—too slowly for Bates's pounding heart—but then it appeared.
Right there, at the top, in big bold font:
CARLOS TEVEZ TRANSFERS TO MANCHESTER UNITED FOR €20 MILLION
Below it was a picture of Tevez, arms folded, already wearing a red kit. His expression looked smug. Too smug.
Bates stared at the screen like it had personally insulted him.
His mouth twitched. "No… no, they wouldn't…"
He was still clinging to the hope that Leeds had posted a mistake. So intern clicked the wrong photo. Maybe it was a prank. Maybe it was April Fools' Day, and no one had told him.
Frantic now, he started typing in the Manchester United website.
Except his fingers weren't cooperating. He typed "manchesret-unuted.cim" the first ti. Then "manutrid".
Blackwell, visibly annoyed, yanked the keyboard away. "Let do it before you open the calculator or sothing."
He typed in the correct address and hit enter.
A few seconds later, the page loaded.
WELCO CARLOS TEVEZ TO MANCHESTER UNITED
It was all in massive red letters, bold and clean, right above a photo of Tevez shaking hands with Ferguson in front of the press board. The press release even had a welco ssage from Ferguson, praising Tevez's work rate and calling him "an exciting addition."
Then ca the sound.
BANG!
Bates, completely out of control now, grabbed the glass ashtray from his desk and hurled it onto the floor. It shattered into a hundred pieces, sending everyone in the room jumping backwards.
"HE'S MINE! HE WAS MINE!" Bates scread, kicking the corner of the desk. "I WAS GOING TO PAY TODAY! THIS MORNING!"
Then ca round two.
He reached for the paper tray and flung it across the room. Pens scattered. Files flew off the desk. Then he swatted the laptop shut with a loud snap, missing the screen but knocking over a coffee mug that spilled all over the desk.
No one dared speak.
Blackwell just stood there, eyes wide, watching this grown man throw the tantrum of a lifeti.
The assistant backed up to the door slowly like he was trying to avoid waking a bear.
Finally, after smashing a picture fra, throwing a stapler, and knocking over his chair, Bates collapsed onto the sofa. He slumped into it like his bones had turned to soup.
He covered his face with both hands, breathing heavily.
There was complete silence for nearly a full minute. Just the soft sound of broken glass shifting underfoot.
Blackwell eventually cleared his throat.
"Well," he said carefully, "I suppose Tevez is… definitely out, then."
Bates didn't move.
Blackwell continued, trying to keep his voice even. "Boss, we've still got a bit of ti left before the window closes. We need to find soone else. I an, we can't exactly go into the season with a bunch of kids and—no striker."
Still nothing.
"Boss?" he tried again.
Bates let out a strange sound—sowhere between a groan and a snore. His head tilted slightly. One of his arms drooped down the side of the sofa.
Blackwell frowned. "Boss…?"
The assistant finally stepped forward, unsure, and gently pulled Bates' hands away from his face.
And then both n jumped back in unison.
Bates' mouth was slightly open. A weird little crooked smile was frozen on his lips. One side of his face looked droopy. A string of saliva was hanging out of the corner of his mouth.
The assistant blinked, then shouted, "I think—I think he's having a stroke!"
Blackwell's eyes went wide. "Are you serious?!"
"I think so! His face is all… weird!"
Bates made a gargling noise.
"CALL AN AMBULANCE!" Blackwell shouted, leaping for the phone. "GET SOONE NOW!"
The assistant ran out the door in a panic.
Blackwell stood over his fallen boss, still gripping the phone. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "He really did lose his mind."
He shook his head and sighed.
"Could've just paid the clause yesterday."
As he waited for the ambulance to arrive, Blackwell stared at the now-closed laptop, already dreading the press conference. No Tevez. No Plan B. No backup striker. And now… possibly no chairman.
Just him, a squad full of nervous teenagers, and the crushing weight of the Premier League season on the horizon.
Wonderful.
****
As the mastermind behind the chaos, Arthur had never planned anything too dramatic. All he wanted was to catch old man Bates off guard. If things went well, maybe West Bromwich Albion would stumble into the new season with a weak squad. That alone would be enough. If they started the season poorly, the board might lose patience and sack Bates. And once Bates was out of a job, he wouldn't be a threat to anyone, least of all Arthur.
That was the extent of Arthur's scheming. So over the past few days, he'd only told his assistant, Allen, to casually keep tabs on West Brom's transfer activity. Nothing more. He didn't waste energy worrying about Bates. The man was grumpy, stubborn, and—more importantly—overconfident. That combination usually didn't last long in football.
Besides, Arthur had plenty of other problems to deal with.
Tevez's transfer to Manchester United had kicked off another dia firestorm. And Leeds United, still wobbling from the sumr's massive squad clear-out, was right in the middle of it.
The headlines weren't kind. According to certain tabloids, Arthur had the emotional range of a brick and the compassion of a tax audit. So fans were screaming for his resignation. Others accused him of treating players like trading cards, flipping anyone for cash if the price was right. Nearly the entire starting eleven from last season had been sold in the span of a few weeks.
The only people still supporting Arthur were a small, loyal group of fans with calculators and a firm grasp of reality. They understood that the club was drowning in debt, and that selling big-na players was the only way to stay afloat. They weren't thrilled about it, but they got it.
Still, the pressure was building. Every morning when Arthur arrived at the training ground, he had to wade through a gauntlet of microphones, flashing caras, and reporters yelling his na like he was a contestant on a ga show. Questions flew from every direction:
"Arthur, how do you respond to claims that you've gutted the squad?"
"Arthur, is it true you sold the team bus too?!"
"Do you even like football?"
It got so bad that one morning, a caraman tripped into the front gate trying to chase Arthur's car. The gate lost a side panel. The caraman lost a shoe. Arthur lost his patience.
Finally, just to get them off his back, he agreed to a sit-down interview with the Yorkshire Post—a local paper that at least spelled his na correctly and didn't write in all caps. The interview was scheduled for just before the start of the new season, and as soon as the announcent was made, the dia circus around the club gate slowly began to thin out.
With the reporters distracted, Arthur could finally focus. Training sessions returned to normal. He got through two full weeks of practice without being asked if he was secretly trying to relocate the club to Luxembourg. Progress.
But at the end of July, news about Bates finally reached Arthur's ears—and it was far juicier than anything he could've imagined.
That afternoon, Arthur had just wrapped up another intense training session. He was still in his tracksuit, sipping lukewarm coffee in his office, when there was a knock on the door.
"Co in," he called, without looking up.
The door swung open, and in strutted Allen—Arthur's assistant—with a huge grin on his face and a little spring in his step.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. Allen only walked like that when sothing ridiculous had happened.
"Alright," Arthur said slowly, "what did soone do this ti? Did Southampton forget they're in the Premier League again?"
"No, no, much better," Allen said, waving a folded-up news article like a golden ticket. "You'll love this. West Brom just announced that Bates has resigned as club chairman!"
Arthur stared at him. "Resigned? Already? The season hasn't even started!"
"I know!" Allen said, still grinning. "That's the best part!"
Arthur scratched his head. "Did he get sacked for missing out on Tevez or sothing? That seems fast, even for Premier League standards. And didn't you say the money for the transfer was mostly coming out of his own pocket?"
"Right again," Allen said, holding up one finger. "That's why no one expected it. But apparently, the day we announced Tevez had gone to United, Bates had a bit of an… episode."
Arthur paused. "What kind of episode?"
"An angry one," Allen said. "He smashed up his office. Shattered an ashtray. Scread about betrayal or sothing. Classic ltdown stuff."
Arthur tried not to laugh. "You're telling he actually flipped out because we beat him to the punch?"
"That's not even the best part," Allen said, clearly enjoying this way too much. "He was so furious that he ended up getting rushed to the hospital. Word is, he had a minor stroke."
Arthur nearly choked on his coffee.
"You're joking."
Allen held up both hands. "Swear to God. I didn't believe it either. But three separate sources confird it. Stroke, hospital stay, and now—official resignation."
Arthur blinked in disbelief, then burst out laughing.
"Pfft—this guy. Wants to play power gas and then literally short-circuits himself the mont he loses one."
He shook his head and chuckled. "Honestly, what did he expect? You can't challenge and be built like a biscuit."
Allen chuckled too, but then noticed Arthur leaning back in his chair, completely relaxed for the first ti in weeks.
"You seem relieved," Allen said.
Arthur nodded. "Of course I am. He was the only one left with a grudge and a bit of power. And now? No more Bates. No more sches. I can finally get on with rebuilding this club without looking over my shoulder every ten seconds."
He stood up, stretched, and poured himself another cup of that awful instant coffee he never had ti to replace.
"Let the man rest," Arthur added. "Preferably far, far away from anything football-related."
Allen nodded. "So… what now?"
Arthur took a long sip, then looked out the window toward the training ground.
"Now? We finish the rebuild. Quietly. Efficiently. And we make sure the next ti soone tries to challenge us, they don't end up in the hospital… they end up unemployed."
Allen whistled. "Harsh."
Arthur shrugged. "Professional."
And with that, the page officially turned. Bates was out. The boardroom battlefield had been cleared. And Arthur was finally in control.
All that was left now… was football.
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