Hearing Arthur's offer of 15 million euros for a three-year contract extension, Joyce nearly choked on his own breath. He barely resisted the urge to storm out of the room and replied with a forced smile, "That's..pletely impossible! Mr. Arthur, I still believe that the previous 6 million euros for three years is a very reasonable price!"
Arthur leaned back in his chair, shaking his head with theatrical flair. "No, no, no, Mr. Joyce. If we're sticking with that price, I can only say I don't see Kappa's sincerity." He clasped his hands together, nodding toward the window overlooking the stadium. "I an, just look at the Premier League standings. Leeds United is performing quite well."
Joyce's forced smile vanished. "I don't need you to remind of that. I'm very aware of Leeds United's performance. Yes, it's good. For now. But the season's just begun! Who's to say Leeds United won't stumble later on? And rember, we didn't sign a one-year deal last ti. If—and I an if—Leeds collapses again, how am I supposed to explain that to the board?" His voice grew louder with each word, the last sentence practically a shout.
Arthur chuckled, completely unfazed. "Whoa, whoa, no need to get worked up, Mr. Joyce. I understand your concerns, really, I do." He leaned forward, hands spread out like he was delivering a sermon. "But in business, you pay big for big returns. You know that. And ? I have full confidence in Leeds United."
Joyce almost snapped the cigar in his hand. He glared at Arthur, eyes practically bulging. "Mr. Arthur, your confidence ans nothing if the board doesn't share it. You get that, right?"
Arthur raised his hands in mock surrender. "Of course, of course. I get it." He reached into a small humidor on the table and pulled out a pristine cigar, offering it to Joyce with a grin. "Here, a peace offering. Cuban, by the way. Very nice."
Joyce looked at the cigar for a mont, then snatched it like Arthur might change his mind. He bit off the end and lit it with practiced ease, taking a long, steady drag. His expression softened, if only slightly.
Arthur watched him with the patience of a poker player waiting for the river card. Once Joyce had settled back into his chair, Arthur spoke again, voice smooth as silk. "Mr. Joyce, I have a little suggestion. If you think it's reasonable, perhaps you could take it back to the board and see what they think."
Joyce blew out a cloud of smoke and gave him a narrow-eyed look. "I'm listening."
Arthur just smiled.
Arthur leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the polished table. "I have an idea," he began smoothly. "How about Leeds United signs a betting agreent with Kappa?"
Joyce's eyebrows shot up, his expression a mix of curiosity and confusion. "A betting agreent?" he repeated, almost laughing. "Mr. Arthur, we're talking about a sponsorship contract, not so casino deal. What exactly are you proposing?"
Arthur chuckled. "I'm not selling shares in Leeds United, if that's what you're thinking," he replied, waving off the notion with a grin. "What I an is, we tie the sponsorship deal to Leeds United's performance this season."
Joyce blinked, processing the idea. Arthur continued before he could interrupt. "Here's how it works: if Leeds United qualifies for the Europa League, the sponsorship amount is set at 9 million euros for three years. If we qualify for the Champions League, it jumps to 12 million euros. And if we go all the way and win the Premier League title, the price skyrockets to 15 million euros." He paused, letting that sink in. "However, if we fail to et any of those targets, the sponsorship fee drops to 3 million euros for three years."
The room fell silent. Joyce, who monts ago had looked like he might walk out, now leaned forward in his chair, eyes locked on Arthur. "Mr. Arthur," he said slowly, "that's...a very interesting idea." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm... Give a mont to think."
Without another word, Joyce stood up and began pacing the room, hands clasped behind his back, muttering numbers and scenarios under his breath. Arthur, unbothered, picked up his cup of coffee and sipped it leisurely, eyes following Joyce as if watching a predictable chess match unfold.
Arthur knew exactly what was happening in Joyce's head. The proposal was practically gift-wrapped. From Kappa's perspective, it was win-win. If Leeds United did well, Kappa would reap the benefits of brand visibility, shirt sales, and advertising. If the club stumbled, Kappa simply paid less. Safe on both ends.
Arthur, however, was already envisioning the Champions League nights, the electric atmosphere, and the boost in sponsorship money. To him, 12 million euros was as good as in the bank.
Five minutes later, Joyce finally stopped pacing. His expression softened, and he returned to his seat, hands clasped in front of him. "Mr. Arthur, I have to admit," he began with a nod, "this is a very...constructive proposal. I actually think it could work." He tapped his fingers on the table, his eyes glimring with cautious optimism. "That being said, you know I can't make this decision alone. Give two days—no, one day. By tomorrow, or at the very latest the day after, I'll have an answer for you."
Arthur placed his coffee cup down, stood up, and extended his hand with a confident grin. "No problem, Mr. Joyce. I look forward to our happy cooperation."
Joyce shook his hand firmly, nodding.
That very evening, Joyce called for an ergency board eting. Faced with a proposal that was practically bulletproof from a financial standpoint, the board voted unanimously in favor of the deal.
The next morning, after a quick stay in Turin, Arthur was on his way to the airport to catch his flight back to Leeds when his phone buzzed. He checked the screen—Joyce. He answered, bracing himself for the usual back-and-forth, but Joyce's voice ca through bright and almost cheerful.
"Mr. Arthur! Good news. The board has unanimously approved your proposal. We'll send soone to Leeds in a few days to finalize the contract."
Arthur grinned, leaning back in his seat at the airport lounge. "Well, that's fantastic, Mr. Joyce. Looking forward to it."
Joyce chuckled. "I have to say, you really do know how to pitch an idea. Even the old grumps on the board were impressed."
Arthur laughed. "Glad to hear it. I guess I'll be seeing you soon."
Hanging up, Arthur couldn't help but feel satisfied. Kappa's backing was more than just a financial boost—it was proof that Leeds United was back on the map. And Arthur knew that with one big-na sponsor on board, more would co sniffing around. Success attracts money, and he intended to make sure there was plenty of it.
Tuesday marked the return of the players from international duty. Arthur arrived at Thorp Arch training ground at exactly 8:30 a.m., coffee in hand and a spring in his step. But the mont he stepped inside, he was greeted by a grim-faced assistant.
"Bad news, Arthur," the assistant began, scratching his head nervously. "Berbatov's injured."
Arthur's smile dropped. "Injured? What happened?"
"Picked up a strain against Sweden. Last monts of the ga. Bulgaria and Sweden both drew blanks, but Berbatov... well, his right leg didn't make it out unscathed."
Arthur rubbed his temples, groaning. "How bad?"
"Team doctor's report says four weeks."
Arthur blinked. "Four weeks? For a strain? Did they diagnose him with old age too?"
The assistant smirked. "You want to call him lazy?"
"Not yet," Arthur replied, still shaking his head. He pulled out his phone and opened the club's internal system. There it was: [Temporary Event] flagged right next to Berbatov's na. The system predicted he'd be back in three weeks, not four. Small consolation, but at least it wasn't worse.
"Alright," Arthur said, exhaling. "It's not ideal, but we can manage. The next few matches aren't against heavyweights. We've got enough depth to rotate. For now."
But the mont he said it, Arthur's mind was already spinning. What if there were more injuries? What if it happened to key players? His squad was deep—but not that deep.
He took a sip of his coffee, the caffeine failing to drown out the nagging thought. "Looks like the winter window's going to be busy," he muttered to himself. "Very busy."
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