*** Bonus for 200 stones. ***
On a quiet Monday morning, most of England was still wrapped up in post-Christmas laziness. The streets were cold, grey, and sleepy. But over in Yorkshire, the football world was about to get a jolt of caffeine, courtesy of a certain club's official website.
"Leeds United are now officially listening to all offers for their star right-back Maicon," the website declared boldly.
Those twelve words hit the football world like a rogue firework on New Year's Eve. This wasn't some vague rumour from a gossip column. No unnamed sources. No sneaky leaks. This was official—posted for all to see.
And what really made jaws drop was that it came from Arthur, the stubborn mastermind behind Leeds United's rise. This was the first time since he took over the club that he'd publicly dangled a player in front of the footballing world. Arthur wasn't the type to make noise unless he had a plan—and this, clearly, was one.
The Yorkshire Post jumped on it instantly.
"In a shocking turn of events," their article read, "Leeds United have opened the door for Maicon's departure—yes, Maicon! The man who has terrorized wingers all season. More stunning, the club says they'll even consider offers from other Premier League sides! In January!"
That part made rival clubs sit up straight. Normally, you wouldn't hand over a top defender to a direct rival halfway through the season—unless your coach had a trick up his sleeve… or a vendetta.
And while reporters scrambled to write dramatic headlines, one man was still enjoying the comfort of his warm bed.
Arthur.
Snuggled up under his blanket like a hibernating bear, he was enjoying a rare day off. The club was on holiday, the players were scattered across Europe posting beach photos, and the only thing on Arthur's schedule was sleep. Glorious, uninterrupted sleep.
Until—RING RING RING!
His phone screamed beside him. Arthur groaned, squinting through one eye as he fumbled for it like a man defusing a bomb in his sleep.
"Hello?" he mumbled, still dreaming about tactical formations and late goals.
"Boss! You won't believe it! I've received three offers for Maicon—and it's only been two hours since the post went live!" Allen's voice was practically vibrating through the phone.
That woke Arthur up faster than a bucket of ice water.
"Three?" he sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Which clubs?"
Allen paused, then added carefully, "Well... they're all Premier League teams."
Arthur raised an eyebrow, even though no one could see him. "Go on."
"Liverpool came in with 15 million euros. Manchester United offered 18. But the biggest one—Chelsea—Marina called personally. They're offering 28 million."
At that name, Arthur blinked. "Marina? Isn't their CEO still Peter Kenyon?"
"Yes, technically," Allen said, already anticipating the confusion. "But Marina—Marina Granovskaia—is Abramovich's right-hand woman. Trust me, she's the one who really runs the transfer business over there. She moves pieces like a grandmaster on a chessboard."
Arthur leaned back against the headboard and rubbed his temples. Now fully awake, he was piecing it all together.
So Abramovich was serious. And if Marina was calling herself, it meant they weren't just poking around—they wanted Maicon.
And suddenly, this wasn't just about selling a player anymore. It was about leverage.
"Alright," Arthur said, his voice gaining that calculating edge Allen knew all too well. "Here's what you do. Call Liverpool and reject the offer outright. Tell them we won't even think about anything under 30 million."
"Got it."
"Then talk to Marina. Let her know Real Madrid's offer was higher than 28. Don't actually name the figure—just suggest we're holding out. Make her wonder."
Allen grinned. "And Manchester United?"
"I'll deal with them myself," Arthur said with a smirk, already reaching for his laptop. "Something tells me Sir Alex will be calling soon."
"Understood. I'll get started right away!"
The line clicked off.
Arthur tossed the blanket aside, now wide awake and already planning his next move. He didn't mind selling Maicon. In fact, he'd already anticipated it months ago. The moment Real Madrid started sniffing around, he knew this transfer was inevitable.
But now that England's big three had joined the party, it was a bidding war—and Arthur was more than happy to play auctioneer.
He padded barefoot to the kitchen, brewed a cup of coffee, and opened his laptop. While the world thought Leeds United were being generous by listing Maicon for sale, Arthur was playing a different game entirely.
Let the others come to him. Let them sweat over who would blink first.
In the transfer market, as in football, timing was everything. And Arthur had just kicked off a brand new match—one where the winner wasn't the team with the biggest trophy cabinet, but the one willing to dig deepest into their wallet.
Somewhere in Madrid, Capello was probably fuming. In London, Marina was likely already dialing back. And in Manchester?
Well, Sir Alex would probably be throwing a teacup across the dressing room soon enough.
Arthur smiled and took a long sip of coffee.
Let the games begin.
*****
Arthur squinted groggily at the morning light leaking through the curtains. He blinked a few times, stretched under the warm duvet, then rolled out of bed like a man who had just fought three wars in his sleep. His joints popped. His hair was a mess. He didn't care. Today was going to be busy.
After splashing cold water on his face, brushing his teeth, and pulling on a hoodie over his T-shirt, Arthur knocked on the guest room door. "Julian! Get up! Coffee's on!"
Inside, Julian grunted something unintelligible, probably a mix of curses and confusion. But ten minutes later, he was at the kitchen table, half-asleep and hugging a mug like it was a life preserver. Arthur smirked and sipped his own coffee while flipping through the morning paper. "No rest for the wicked, huh?"
"Only the wicked make their assistants wake up this early," Julian mumbled, glaring over his cup.
They shared a quiet breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast, and a mountain of bacon—then drove off to Thorp Arch. Arthur, still shaking off the last of his sleep, kept checking his phone. His mind had already leapt ahead to a dozen tasks: training drills, player rotations, pending transfer calls. Most importantly, Maicon.
As soon as they arrived at the training ground, Arthur sent Julian off to handle emails and sponsor stuff. He walked straight into his office, tossed his coat on the chair, and dropped into his seat. A second later, he pulled out his phone and dialed a familiar number.
Sir Alex Ferguson picked up almost instantly.
"Hello, Arthur."
The voice on the other end was calm, relaxed—so much so that Arthur raised his eyebrows. Either the old man had nerves of steel, or Manchester United's defeat yesterday hadn't ruffled him at all. Typical.
"Hello, Alex," Arthur said, friendly as ever. "Have you had lunch yet?"
Ferguson let out a booming laugh. "Hahaha! How long have your family lived in England, lad? You still greet people like it's a dinner invitation."
Arthur chuckled. "Well, my dad taught me that asking about meals was the highest form of respect. So I only do it with good friends."
"Then I'm flattered," Ferguson replied warmly. "But I'm guessing this isn't just a social call. You're calling about Maicon, aren't you?"
Arthur grinned. Right to the point. He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing.
"Alex, there's an old saying—friends should settle accounts clearly. Business is business, even between pals," he said. "That's why I called you personally. I want to be straight with you."
There was a beat of silence before Arthur continued. "Calderon's still very much in the picture. He's upped Real Madrid's offer—two million euros more than yours. But that's not the worst of it."
"Oh?"
Arthur could practically hear the curiosity prickling in Ferguson's ear.
"He's thrown Sneijder into the deal. Twenty million cash, plus Sneijder."
Another pause.
"And that's not all," Arthur said. "Apparently Calderon's already made contact with Maicon behind our backs. It looks like Maicon prefers Real Madrid. They've been whispering in his ear, making promises."
For a long moment, Ferguson said nothing.
Arthur could sense the gears turning. The great Sir Alex Ferguson, a master of mind games and negotiation, was weighing his next move. He wasn't angry—that wasn't his style. But surprised? Definitely. He knew Real Madrid were sniffing around, but he hadn't expected that kind of package. Sneijder alone was worth at least ten million euros.
Arthur stayed quiet, letting the weight of it all settle. Then, before the silence could stretch too far, he spoke again.
"One more thing, Alex."
Ferguson made a low, thoughtful sound. "Go on."
"Chelsea came in this morning too," Arthur said casually. "Roman's assistant—Marina—called my general manager, Allen, directly. They offered twenty-eight million euros. Straight cash."
That got a reaction.
"Marina?" Ferguson asked, surprised.
"Yep. Marina Granovskaia. She might not have the title yet, but she's the one running their transfers now. Ruthless, sharp, and quick. When she calls, it means Chelsea's serious."
Arthur could practically hear the Scottish legend scratching his chin. The game had changed. Real Madrid had Sneijder. Chelsea had deep pockets. And now Arthur had just raised the stakes, putting the ball firmly in Manchester United's court.
He leaned back in his chair, perfectly calm now. He didn't need to bluff. Everything he said was true. This was the advantage of telling the truth—it carried its own weight.
***
Why is gpt so useless now! It wastes attempts, rewrites into something I have no idea where it found. Deepsek can't expand properly. It would be easier to translate with the ching chong stuff but I'd rather stub mu toe into magma.
Anyone know any decent alternative?