"Mr. Morgan," Raiola began, voice buzzing with excitement like a man who just discovered a pot of gold behind his fridge. "I had lunch with Gaetalo two days ago, and I got some news—absolutely shocking stuff."
Arthur frowned. "Gaetalo? That name rings a bell."
He paused, tapping his pen against his desk. He knew the name. It was floating somewhere in the dusty attic of his brain, buried under tactical diagrams and contract clauses. But it just wouldn't surface.
"Who is this guy again? Come on, Mino, I've got training in twenty minutes. No riddles."
Hearing the impatience in Arthur's voice, Raiola finally gave in and dropped the mystery act. "Gaetalo's Kaka's agent."
Arthur's eyebrows shot up like he'd just been told the sky was falling. "Wait, what? Milan's Kaka? As in the Kaka? AC Milan are letting him go? Who's after him? This winter?"
He sat forward, his clipboard forgotten, completely locked in now.
Raiola chuckled on the other end. "Whoa, slow down! No, it's not that dramatic. He's not being sold. Not yet, anyway."
But Arthur had already spiraled. His brain was spinning through timelines, trying to remember when Kaka actually left Milan. In the timeline he remembered—before he ever arrived at Leeds—Kaka had another two years at Milan. Was his presence somehow accelerating the dominoes?
He didn't have time to dwell on that because Raiola kept going.
"During our lunch, Gaetalo was rambling about the usual agent-club drama, you know. Contract renewals, bonuses, marketing rights—same old headache. Then he accidentally let it slip that Real Madrid's still chasing Kaka hard."
Arthur blinked.
That wasn't new. Not even close.
He'd sat beside Florentino Pérez last year, watching the Champions League final in Istanbul. The man practically drooled every time Kaka touched the ball. At the time, Pérez had still been Real Madrid president, and Arthur remembered the guy casually asking Galliani about Kaka like a man window-shopping for superstars.
But Galliani had slammed the door on it back then. The man wasn't letting Kaka go for anything less than divine intervention. Not long after, Pérez stepped down. So if this was just the same old flirtation from Madrid…
Arthur rubbed his forehead. "So… Calderon's made an offer? Or is Galliani softening up?"
Raiola paused. Arthur could hear him take a loud slurp of espresso through the phone.
"Not exactly. Neither of them made a formal offer yet. But…" Raiola lowered his voice like he was revealing state secrets. "Both Pérez before, and now Calderon, have been in contact with Gaetalo behind the scenes. Kaka knows it. But he doesn't want to leave Milan."
Arthur leaned back in his chair and exhaled. So that was that. No move. Nothing imminent.
But then his brain hit the brakes and did a sharp U-turn.
"Wait—why the hell am I even interested in this?!" he blurted. "This is Real Madrid and AC Milan's business! What does this have to do with me?! Are they expecting me to join the bidding war? Are they gonna send me a thank-you fruit basket for raising the price?"
He squinted suspiciously at nothing in particular.
"Unless Milan wants me to drive the price up and cut me a little rebate under the table," he muttered, half-joking, half-worried.
Before he could say anything else, Raiola piped up again, as if sensing Arthur's skepticism through the phone.
"But that's where it gets interesting," Raiola said. "Gaetalo said something's shifted lately. He's been trying to negotiate a new deal for Kaka for almost six months now—more salary, better bonuses, all that jazz. You know how agents work—we bring up interest from other clubs to pressure the negotiations. 'Oh look, Madrid wants him, better pay up!' Classic move."
Arthur smirked. "Yeah, textbook Raiola playbook."
"Exactly! But this time," Raiola continued, "when he pulled the Madrid card again, Galliani didn't blink. No budging. Total poker face. In fact, he got tough. Very tough. That's why Gaetalo thinks Milan's stance has changed. He's convinced they're seriously considering letting Kaka go."
Arthur blinked. Now that was new.
Still, part of him wondered why Mino was bothering him with all this during training week. He wasn't Real Madrid. He wasn't Galliani. What did he care if the two richest clubs in Europe were arm-wrestling over Kaka?
Then Raiola dropped the kicker.
"And I remember, Mr. Morgan," Raiola said slyly, "you told me not long ago that you've always admired Kaka."
Arthur's eyes widened. For a second, he forgot the cold, grey training pitch waiting outside, and the fact that he had a full schedule of drills and tactical reviews ahead of him.
"Oh?" he said, voice rising ever so slightly.
Just like that, his earlier irritation at Raiola's dramatic buildup vanished. His curiosity had taken over.
****
It had to be said—Raiola knew exactly how to light a fire in Arthur's chest.
The phone call had ended, but Arthur was still sitting at his desk at Thorp Arch, heart thumping like he'd just jogged ten laps in a parka. His thoughts were a whirlwind. Kaka. Kaka. The very name sent a ripple through his spine like it was 2005 again and he was glued to a grainy stream of AC Milan games on a laptop that coughed every time someone sprinted.
In his old life—before the chaos, before the second chance—Arthur had been a dyed-in-the-wool AC Milan fanatic. And Kaka? Kaka was everything. Grace, pace, power, elegance—like an angel with gold-plated boots. Arthur had posters. He had DVDs. He had a knockoff jersey with the number 22 ironed on crookedly.
So yeah, he'd dreamed of signing Kaka. Not just dreamed—fantasized. When he first took over at Leeds, he'd thought, One day, when the finances aren't a steaming pile of debt, and I'm not scraping coins for shin pads, maybe I can bring him here.
Not just to sell shirts or chase nostalgia. Arthur had a secret weapon: the injury recovery card. He knew the ghosts of Kaka's future—how injuries would dim his brilliance, how Madrid would burn him out. If Arthur could get him early, give him the right recovery, maybe—just maybe—he could preserve that flame a little longer. Let the world see a few more years of the Kaka that should've been.
But Leeds back then? Poor. Not just poor—dirt broke. The kind of broke where you stretch one set of training cones to cover three drills. And as for pulling in a Ballon d'Or winner? They had about the same chance as signing a unicorn.
Even now, with the team climbing and his system clicking, Arthur had kept the idea tucked away like a childhood toy in a dusty attic. Kaka was still at Milan. Real Madrid had tried before—Arthur remembered that—and even they had been turned down flat. Kaka had loved Milan too much to jump ship. And that was Madrid. Leeds United didn't even register on that radar.
But now… now Raiola had brought hope.
If what Mino said was true—if Milan were really softening on Kaka's future—then this could be the window. January or summer. If Leeds could pull this off, it wouldn't just be a transfer. It would be a monumental shift.
Kaka, still near his peak, in a white-and-yellow Leeds shirt? Arthur's brain nearly short-circuited.
The impact would be seismic. On the pitch, it was like bolting a Ferrari engine into a family sedan. Off the pitch, the marketing would skyrocket. Sponsors, fans, global media—Leeds would explode into the stratosphere. The brand boost alone would cover half the transfer.
Arthur shot up from his chair and grabbed his phone again. Mino hadn't even had time to enjoy his espresso before Arthur called him back.
"Mino," Arthur said, pacing across the office like a man who'd just remembered his house was on fire. "Drop everything. I want you to verify all of this—every bit of it. Dig into Milan's actual stance. I need to know how far this goes."
"Right," Raiola replied instantly, energized by Arthur's intensity. "Consider it done."
"And if you need anything—logistics, paperwork, someone to charm the Milan board—Allen's on standby. Use him."
"Perfect," Mino said. "He owes me a favor anyway."
"One more thing," Arthur added. "If you can, try to get a read on what Kaka himself is thinking. Is he even remotely open to leaving? What does Gaetalo say? I want to hear everything."
Mino hummed in satisfaction. "Understood. You'll have your report within two weeks. Oh, and… what about my incentive?"
Arthur grinned. "I haven't forgotten. We've brought in a bunch of bright kids recently—sharp feet, sharper agents. I'm keeping the best of them for you. Swing by, sign their contracts, and take your cut."
Mino sounded like he was already toasting to the deal with a glass of overpriced Italian wine. "Now that's why I love working with you."
They hung up, and Arthur stood still for a moment, the phone still in hand, already plotting. The hunt was on.
January 1st, 2007 – New Year's Day
It was a cold, brittle morning in Yorkshire, but Elland Road was buzzing. The terraces were packed with scarves, flasks, and a renewed sense of belief. Leeds were hosting Blackburn, and the home fans were expecting fireworks.
But strangely, all the real fireworks weren't in England.
At 9 a.m. sharp, over on the Iberian Peninsula, Real Madrid's official website dropped a bomb so big it shook football Twitter off its hinges.
"Maicon Douglas joins Real Madrid for €40 million."
Just like that.
The winter window had barely creaked open, and Madrid had already slammed a gold brick on the table. The first transfer nuke had been launched—and judging by the price tag, it might also be the biggest.
The internet exploded in disbelief.
"Wow, Real Madrid doesn't even blink anymore. €40 million before breakfast?"
"Calderon's not playing. He's starting his Galactico 2.0 era with a Brazilian rocket."
"Wait, wasn't Chelsea about to sign Maicon? Didn't The Guardian say so last week? What kind of last-minute heist is this?"
And then the Leeds fans chimed in.
"Didn't Arthur fall out with Calderon recently? I swear he called him a 'mustache-slicking Bond villain' in a press conference."
"That's rich—Leeds were just thumped by Chelsea last week. Robben made our right side look like an open toll road. And now we've sold our right-back?"
"That side's going to be a motorway for top clubs now. We might as well put traffic cones and wave them through."
But there was another angle to this drama—one that was sending shivers through the footballing finance world.
"Wait, wait, Arthur bought Maicon for €4 million! And now he's sold him for €40 million?! That's tenfold! Who does that?!"
"I told you from the start—Leeds under Arthur is just one giant resale racket. The man's running a football version of Wall Street."
"I don't care what you say, this is daylight robbery. How do you buy Maicon for lunch money and sell him for the GDP of a small country?"
"Someone check Leeds' transfer office. They've got dark arts going on over there."
"And now their right-back slot is a flaming disaster zone."
"I told you a long time ago that Leeds United is a Rip off shop…"