Arthur didn't have to wait long.
It was a breezy morning at Thorp Arch, and Arthur was out on the training pitch barking at his midfielders like a man possessed. "Mateo! If you're gonna pass like that, at least aim for someone with a pulse!" he shouted, waving his clipboard with the same energy as a frustrated schoolteacher dealing with a particularly dense classroom.
He barely had time to sip his lukewarm coffee when his phone buzzed in his jacket pocket.
"Arthur Morgan speaking," he answered, still squinting at the midfield drills. Then a familiar, smooth Italian voice came through the line.
"Mr. Morgan," said Galliani, his tone slick as always, like a man who'd spent his life negotiating with oil barons and politicians. "Mr. Berlusconi asked me to personally pass on his greetings. And—more importantly—we've decided to accept your proposal. We'll go with your first option. Kaka will be sold to Leeds United for 50 million euros at the end of the season."
For a brief moment, Arthur forgot about the training pitch, forgot about the wind, forgot even about his lukewarm coffee.
He just stood there, phone in hand, his right palm instinctively gripping it tighter like he was about to crush it from sheer excitement.
50 million euros?
For Kaka?
That was daylight robbery with a smile and handshake. Arthur could barely contain the grin spreading across his face. He looked like a kid who had just found out Christmas had been extended to Easter.
He didn't even care that the midfield drill had gone completely off the rails behind him. Someone had just tripped over the ball.
Someone else was laughing. He didn't notice.
He was too busy mentally calculating the resale value of a world-class playmaker trained under his system for two seasons.
Florentino Pérez was bound to return to Real Madrid, and when he did? Arthur knew exactly who'd come knocking with a briefcase full of cash.
Kaka for €50 million now, and later… maybe €80 million?
This wasn't a transfer. This was a long-term investment scheme, and Arthur was the mastermind.
Trying to keep his voice calm, Arthur chuckled lightly into the phone. "Hahaha, that's great news, Mr. Galliani. Thank you for the smooth coordination. I'll have Allen fly out to Milan next week to draft and sign the letter of intent, alright?"
Galliani sounded equally pleased, probably imagining the cash flow this would bring into Milan's coffers. AC Milan's finances had been stretched tighter than Arthur's hamstring after five minutes of yoga. A big sale like this could buy them some much-needed breathing room.
"Of course," Galliani replied quickly. "Mr. Allen has my number. Just have him call ahead before he comes."
The official business was done, but Galliani wasn't about to hang up just yet. He had one more card to play, and it came with a touch of Italian finesse.
"There is, however, one small request," Galliani added with the tone of a man asking you to keep a secret about where the good wine is hidden. "We'd appreciate it if you could keep this matter confidential until the end of the season. You understand, we're still in a good position in Europe. Our performance in the Champions League is strong, and the last thing we need is a distraction."
Arthur could practically hear him adjusting his tie through the phone.
"We won't inform Kaka yet either," Galliani continued, lowering his voice slightly like they were conspirators in a backroom deal. "If the news gets out, it might create... complications for me personally as well."
At this point, Arthur nearly burst out laughing. He had to turn his head away from the squad just to hide the grin.
"Don't worry," he replied with a chuckle. "That's the least of your problems. I've got enough sense to keep this under wraps. My lips are sealed. Professional ethics and all that."
What he didn't say, of course, was what he was actually thinking:
This is brilliant.
He knew exactly why Galliani was so nervous. It wasn't just about Milan's European campaign. It was about Galliani himself. AC Milan was in shambles in Serie A this season.
They'd been docked eight points at the start of the campaign. Inter Milan were steamrolling their way to the title, and AC Milan? They were already 20 points behind. That was a canyon-sized gap even a helicopter couldn't cross.
Winning the league was a fantasy. Getting a Champions League spot through Serie A? Also starting to look like wishful thinking.
Their only real shot at salvaging the season was to go all-in on the Champions League, and Kaka was their golden ticket. If word got out that they were planning to sell him, especially to a Premier League club like Leeds, it would trigger a media circus, and Galliani? He'd be the clown in the middle of it.
But the real punchline?
Galliani had been banned from participating in football operations for nine months by the Roman Sports Court due to his role in the infamous "Phonegate" scandal. The ban wasn't even over yet! If anyone found out he was actively involved in transfer negotiations during his suspension, he wouldn't just be dodging journalists. He'd be facing another courtroom.
Arthur pictured Galliani in a wig and robe, trying to explain how he "accidentally" sold Kaka during his ban. The image was priceless.
Still, Arthur had no intention of leaking the deal. It wasn't just about ethics. It was about strategy. With the ink still drying on the plans, there was no point rocking the boat. Better to let Milan ride out their rollercoaster of a season and let Kaka keep doing his thing—dancing through defenders in red and black—until the summer.
There was no rush. Four months remained until the season ended. Arthur had already secured the funds—€5 million as a deposit, ready to go. Kaka would stay in Milan, blissfully unaware of the move, and Arthur?
Arthur would quietly prepare the stage in Leeds.
He'd already started mapping out the tactical setups in his mind. Where would Kaka fit best? As the roaming playmaker behind the striker? Maybe deeper, dictating tempo and launching counters like a quarterback?
So many delicious options.
But for now, there was nothing else to be done. The deal was done in principle. The money was in place. All that remained was patience.
Arthur ended the call, slipped his phone back into his jacket, and turned back toward the training pitch where chaos was still unfolding.
"Alright, lads!" he shouted, clapping his hands. "Back to work! Just because I'm buying a magician doesn't mean the rest of you can stop learning how to pass in a straight line!"
There were a few groans, a couple of cheeky grins, and the training resumed.
Arthur looked up at the overcast sky, the kind that always threatened rain but rarely followed through. It felt like the calm before a storm.
But he didn't mind.
He had time. He had Kaka. He had a plan.
And no one—not even Galliani with all his whispered phone calls—was going to mess this one up.
*****
In the two days following the phone call from Galliani, Arthur threw himself entirely into training. He was all business, laser-focused. No jokes, no coffee breaks, no inspirational speeches about grit and glory—just non-stop tactical drills, defensive coordination, and rehearsing counterattacks until the players looked ready to collapse.
What put an extra spring in his step, though, was the return of an old familiar face—Sun Jihai, who'd been out injured since the early weeks of the season. Arthur watched him jog out onto the pitch with the squad and gave a sharp whistle to get everyone's attention.
"Well, well, look who's finally remembered he's employed," Arthur said with a smirk as Sun joined the warm-up circle.
Sun just grinned back and stretched his hamstrings, ignoring the banter. But Arthur was already doing mental arithmetic. If Sun kept this pace and recovered fully, he could give him a solid appearance in the FA Cup match against Manchester United at the end of the month. A nice little platform to showcase himself.
And after that? Arthur already had a plan. Sell him off. If he could get back the €5 million they paid for him, great. If someone bid even a cent over that, brilliant. Either way, he had Dani Alves now. The right-back position was more than covered. Arthur had options—and he loved having options more than he loved biscuits, and that was saying something.
But before any of that, Leeds had a bigger task looming. Saturday's match at home against Everton.
Arthur's goal was simple: collect as many points as possible before the Champions League Round of 16 kicked off. Overtaking Manchester United before that wasn't likely—but staying close behind them? Keeping the pressure on? Forcing them to feel someone breathing down their neck as fixture congestion started to mount?
That was a tactic Arthur could live with.
He hadn't forgotten the painful memory of their last trip to Goodison Park. Leeds had left Merseyside with nothing, their only souvenir being a bruised ego and a brutal reminder that Everton's Mikel Arteta was not to be underestimated. The Spanish midfielder had orchestrated both of Everton's goals that day like a composer leading a symphony.
So this time, Arthur wasn't about to make the same mistake.
He channeled his inner Mourinho. Not the charming, smiling Mourinho. The tactical madman one. And he drew up a plan that made his assistants glance at each other with both admiration and a hint of fear.
He benched Franck Ribery and Gareth Bale.
Yes. Sat them both down.
Arthur was going to give up the wings entirely. He was going to clog up the midfield like an overstuffed drainpipe and suffocate Arteta out of the game.
When the starting whistle blew at Elland Road, the crowd did a double take. No Bale flying down the flank. No Ribery tormenting full-backs. Instead, the midfield looked like a Renaissance painting—crowded, dramatic, and oddly beautiful.
Yaya Touré. Xabi Alonso. Rivaldo. Luka Modrić.
It was a midfield armada.
Arthur's instructions were crystal clear: the moment Arteta touches the ball, I want two men on him like seagulls on chips.
Touré and Alonso followed the Spaniard around like unpaid bodyguards, pressing him, closing his angles, cutting off his options. Arteta looked frustrated within minutes. Everton, reliant on their midfield maestro to dictate tempo, began to stall like an old diesel engine on a winter morning.
And as Everton sputtered, Leeds started to pounce.
In just under twenty minutes, both Zlatan Ibrahimović and Fernando Torres had taken three shots each. Torres hit the post once. Zlatan attempted a scorpion kick just for fun. The Leeds front line was buzzing like they'd been plugged into a car battery.
Moyes was frantic on the touchline, waving his arms, yelling at his players to come support Arteta. But Leeds, back on home turf, didn't let up. They weren't interested in giving Everton time to breathe, let alone adjust.
Then came the breakthrough.
29th minute.
Arteta, under pressure in the middle of the park, tried to pivot but Alonso pounced—clean interception, quick touch forward.
With Everton scrambling, Alonso threaded a perfect pass into the left channel.
Rivaldo—yes, the veteran still had those samba feet—collected the ball and barely broke stride before slipping it inside to his right.
And like a freight train coming off the wing, Touré came bursting into the box. He didn't take a full touch, just stabbed the ball forward to glide past the last defender. Rudy, Everton's keeper, rushed out to block the angle, arms spread like a traffic cop trying to stop a riot.
Touré didn't blink.
With one subtle tap of his left foot, he rolled the ball sideways—straight into the path of the waiting Zlatan.
Boom.
Goal.
1–0 to Leeds.
The crowd erupted, the stands shaking as Zlatan pointed at Touré in celebration. Arthur didn't smile, didn't punch the air. He just turned calmly to his bench and nodded, as if to say, I told you this would work.
Everton tried to respond after the restart, pushing more bodies forward, but Leeds held firm. The midfield refused to give Arteta an inch, and the defenders cleaned up the rest. By halftime, the 1–0 lead held.
Back in the dressing room, Arthur was already plotting.
Everton had shifted gears, placing more players around Arteta to shield him from the Leeds hounds. That meant something else had opened up.
So Arthur pulled Touré and Rivaldo—job done—and brought on the two players he'd benched: Bale and Ribery.
And just like that, Leeds transformed. No longer a midfield-heavy, possession-based team. They became a counterattacking nightmare.
Flying wingers.
Open space.
Terrified full-backs.
Moyes, watching from the touchline, looked like a man trying to plug leaks in a sinking boat. Arthur had outmaneuvered him again. He could see it in Moyes' expression—an odd mix of resignation and grudging respect.
The knockout blow came in the 81st minute.
Bale, now operating from the right, took on two defenders near the edge of the box. A quick shimmy, a body feint, and then a powerful left-footed strike that curved toward the top left corner.
Rudy flew through the air, fingertips outstretched, but the ball kissed the tips of his gloves and still nestled in the net.
2–0.
Game over.
Leeds fans roared as Arthur clapped from the sidelines, finally allowing himself a small grin.
Three points secured. Revenge on Everton complete.
But the surprises weren't done.
After shaking hands with Moyes and muttering a polite "Good game," Arthur turned to walk off the pitch.
"Boss!" a voice shouted from behind.
He turned to see Diego Simeone jogging up with a wild grin, his phone held high.
He slapped Arthur on the shoulder and shoved the screen in his face.
"Chelsea lost to Liverpool!!!"