It was the tail end of January, the grey skies over England hanging like a heavy curtain as another frantic winter transfer window edged toward its deadline. In just a few days, the shutters would slam shut across Europe's biggest leagues, and the football world would go back to the usual chaos of match days and press conferences — minus the wheeling and dealing.
As the window opened, two names had stolen the spotlight from the start: Leeds United, under Arthur's mischievous and strategic stewardship, and the eternal juggernaut, Real Madrid.
The Spanish giants hadn't wasted any time making headlines. First, they snapped up the rampaging Brazilian right-back Maicon, causing defenders across La Liga to lose sleep. But they weren't done. In another shrewd move, they dug into their chest of Euros and pulled out Gonzalo Higuaín, barely 20, still baby-faced and cigarette-smoking back in Argentina, for 13 million. The kid had been lighting it up at River Plate, and now he was hopping continents straight into the glare of the Bernabéu floodlights.
Funny thing was — Arthur had seen him coming.
Back in early 2006, one of his scouts — probably Ron, who was always pushing obscure South American talents — had dumped a report on his desk with the name "Higuaín" underlined three times.
"He's got that nose for goal, boss," Ron had said enthusiastically. "Looks like he's always about to pass out from a nicotine high, but the boy can score."
Arthur had read it. Watched some grainy clips. Chewed on the idea for a few days.
But at the time, Leeds United's attack was packed tighter than the cafeteria during fish and chips day. Arthur already had strikers coming out of his ears — Torres, Keane, even a young Joe Garner trying to headbutt his way into the squad.
He'd sighed, scratched the back of his head, and told Ron, "He won't get minutes here. No point bringing him in just to let him rot on the bench."
So he passed. And now, there Higuaín was — in the gleaming white of Madrid.
Arthur wasn't bitter. He'd made the right call.
But he knew what this meant.
The moment he saw the headline, he muttered to himself between spoonfuls of cereal: "Well, if Higuaín's in, someone's gotta be out."
He knew it. Capello's squad wasn't infinite. When new blood arrives, someone always gets pushed out. And with Higuaín's arrival, Arthur could almost hear the countdown starting for a few unlucky souls at Madrid.
Still, he didn't expect what came next.
Just when it looked like the winter window was winding down — no more fireworks, no more late-night faxes and panicked last-minute agent calls — AC Milan detonated one last bombshell.
On January 30th, a little after ten in the morning, Milan's official website casually dropped a statement that sent football journalists scrambling like pigeons in a storm.
"After friendly negotiations with Real Madrid and the player himself, Ronaldo Nazário — former World Player of the Year and Ballon d'Or winner — has joined AC Milan for €7.5 million."
The internet, predictably, exploded.
In the cozy cafeteria at Leeds' training ground, Arthur sat at a corner table, lunch tray in front of him. Today's offering: steak, green beans, and the driest mashed potatoes known to man. His assistant, Diego Simeone, sat across from him, one hand gripping a fork, the other scrolling Twitter on his laptop like a man trying to escape reality.
He suddenly gasped, eyes bulging like he'd just discovered gold.
"Boss!" he barked, spinning his laptop around. "Boss, you seeing this?! Ronaldo! He's back in Italy! And he's gone to AC Milan!"
The screen showed Ronaldo, hairline receding but smile beaming, holding up the red and black jersey like it was Christmas morning.
Arthur didn't flinch.
He glanced at the screen for a half-second, nodded slightly, and said, "Yeah."
And just like that, he turned it back around and resumed slicing his steak like nothing had happened.
Simeone blinked, dumbfounded. "That's all you got? 'Yeah'? The guy's one of the greatest of all time!"
Arthur jabbed at a piece of meat and chewed it slowly. "Mmm."
Diego huffed, scrolling down the announcement page with increasingly frantic clicks.
"Only €7.5 million! That's ridiculous. What a bargain! He's been in great form too — already banged in 14 goals this season! Why the hell didn't we buy him?! We could've used him off the bench, no?"
Arthur paused. A small chuckle escaped his lips.
Then, with theatrical exaggeration, he set down his knife and fork, leaned forward, and stared Diego straight in the eyes.
"You're serious?" he asked.
Simeone blinked. "I mean, yeah. He's still got it, right?"
Arthur burst out laughing — a proper belly laugh this time. He slapped the table hard enough to jolt the salt shaker.
"Oh God, Diego… You've been watching too many highlights."
Diego frowned, scratching his scalp in confusion. "What?"
Arthur leaned back, arms folded.
"Alright," he said, in a tone teachers reserve for slow students. "You've been my assistant for nearly two years. That means you've picked up a few tricks. And eventually, you're gonna be a head coach yourself."
He gestured at the screen.
"So here's your exam. Real Madrid. Ronaldo. Fourteen goals this season. But they still sold him. Why?"
Simeone shifted in his seat.
"Come on," Arthur prodded. "Two minutes. No pressure. But if your answer is 'Capello's an idiot,' I'm confiscating your tactical board for a week."
Diego stared at his laptop like it held the answers to the universe.
Ronaldo had been scoring. He was still a name. Still a legend.
But why would Madrid let him go?
Arthur calmly cut another slice of steak, chewing thoughtfully while his assistant fumbled through the possibilities in his mind.
In the silence, the faint hum of the overhead lights and clink of silverware filled the space. A few tables away, a young academy player accidentally spilled soup on his shorts and let out a dramatic groan.
But Arthur didn't flinch. His eyes stayed on Diego, waiting.
****
In the dimly lit cafeteria of Thorp Arch, the air smelled of grilled meat, tomato sauce, and… transfer gossip. Arthur sat across from Diego Simeone, slicing through his steak with the calm of a surgeon and the focus of a man trying to ignore the chaos outside the club walls. The winter transfer window was on its final stretch, and across Europe, the football world was buzzing like a beehive with a caffeine addiction.
Simeone, never one to sit in silence for long, frowned deeply, the lines on his forehead folding like origami. He poked at his mashed potatoes absently, his mind clearly racing. After an extended pause, he finally offered, "Maybe it's because Real Madrid just signed Higuaín? They want to clear space for the new generation? Ronaldo's thirty now—his best days might be behind him."
Arthur didn't even bother looking up from his plate. He jabbed his fork into a cherry tomato, let it squish with a wet pop, and said, "That's one reason, sure. What else?"
Diego tilted his head, chewing on the idea like it was a rubbery bit of chicken. "I dunno… maybe Real Madrid spent too much this month? They're trying to get some of that money back?"
Arthur let out a bark of laughter, nearly choking on his water. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, still chuckling. "Diego, come on. You think Real Madrid's sweating over 7.5 million euros? That's like them checking the couch cushions for change."
Diego chuckled too, a bit embarrassed. "Yeah, fair point. They do spend like there's no tomorrow." He dropped his fork and leaned forward eagerly. "Alright, I give up. What's the real reason, boss? Enlighten me."
Arthur polished off the last bite of his steak with theatrical satisfaction, dabbed his lips with a napkin, then leaned back in his chair like a king preparing to deliver a royal decree.
"Listen carefully, Diego," he said, steepling his fingers. "Being a head coach isn't just about formations and tactics. It's not just about winning games or buying big names. It's about managing people—egos, tempers, chemistry. You remember me saying I admire Ancelotti?"
Diego nodded, face serious now. "Yeah, you've mentioned it a few times. Guy's got a calm head, good vibes in the locker room."
"Exactly," Arthur said, pointing at him with a grin. "There's a reason players love him. He keeps the squad united. There's almost never drama under his watch. Even when it does bubble up, he handles it before it explodes."
Diego nodded again, chewing on the idea like it was steak this time.
"Now," Arthur continued, tapping the table, "let's contrast that with Real Madrid. Capello is a legend, but he's old school. Iron-fisted. Doesn't care if you're a Ballon d'Or winner or the kit man—discipline is king. No exceptions."
Diego was leaning in now, elbows on the table, eyes wide like a kid at storytime.
"Ronaldo," Arthur said, "is a genius. But the man treats discipline like a yellow card—optional, sometimes necessary, mostly annoying. You've seen the pictures, haven't you? He came back from the winter break looking like he ate his twin brother."
Diego burst out laughing. "I did notice he looked chunkier! Like he'd swapped sprints for sausage rolls!"
Arthur raised a hand dramatically. "Exactly! And this is a guy with a long injury record. Torn ligaments, messed-up knees, recurring hamstring problems. He's thirty now, and he doesn't take care of his body the way professionals should. That's red flag number one for a coach like Capello."
"Right," Diego said, now fully invested. "Makes sense."
"But that's not all," Arthur said, waggling a finger. "Have you seen what the Spanish press is saying?"
Diego scratched his head. "I skim the headlines, but most of it's tabloid junk."
Arthur leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Capello apparently told Marca that Van Nistelrooy came to him complaining the locker room stank of booze. In the morning. Ronaldo was throwing parties like he was still twenty-one. Can you imagine showing up to training and having to navigate through empty bottles and hungover teammates?"
Diego snorted and nearly choked on his water. "You're kidding!"
"I wish I was," Arthur said, laughing. "Apparently, it wasn't just one complaint either. Word is Ronaldo was dragging other players into his wild nights. It's one thing when you're scoring hat-tricks every weekend. Coaches turn a blind eye when you're delivering on the pitch. But when your performance drops and your gut starts rivaling your talent…"
"…You become a liability," Diego finished, nodding slowly.
"Bingo," Arthur said, clapping once. "And Capello doesn't do liabilities. He's got no patience for bad apples in the barrel. No matter how shiny the skin or famous the name."
Diego sat back and whistled low. "You know, I played against Ronaldo when I came back to Atlético in 2004. Heard rumors even back then—about his love for nightlife. Thought it was just locker room banter."
Arthur raised his brows. "Those rumors had legs. The man's a legend, sure, but Real Madrid doesn't care about past glories when the current reality is tequila and tight shirts."
Diego laughed, shaking his head. "And now he's off to Milan. Can't believe they only paid 7.5 million for him."
Arthur shrugged. "They rolled the dice. Big name, big shirt sales. If he behaves and stays fit, he might score a few goals. But if he turns the San Siro locker room into a nightclub, Ancelotti's got a headache waiting for him."
The two men sat in silence for a moment, the cafeteria buzzing around them with the usual post-training chatter. Arthur leaned back, hands resting behind his head, the conversation winding down.
In the last couple of days, media outlets had practically migrated to the Apennine Peninsula. Every football magazine, sports paper, and basement blogger was writing about it. Fans were foaming at the mouth, imagining Ronaldo storming back into Serie A like an alien invader—back where he'd once dazzled, now returning to finish what he started.
AC Milan's announcement had closed the winter transfer window with a bang. A big, bold, unexpected bang that nobody saw coming until it was already on every screen.
And as the news echoed across Europe, Arthur—steak finished, appetite satisfied—felt the quiet satisfaction of understanding the game behind the game.
While everyone else stared at the price tag, he was already thinking about the locker room.
****
The calendar read Sunday, but for Arthur, manager of Leeds United and serial steak demolisher, it may as well have been Judgment Day.
That afternoon, the team boarded the coach and rolled into Berkshire with full swagger, their destination: the Madejski Stadium, home of Premier League newcomers Reading FC. Despite being new kids on the block, Reading had been punching above their weight all season. After 24 rounds, they sat impressively in eighth place, just a single point off Everton in seventh. A Europa League spot didn't seem like a pipe dream—it looked dangerously possible.
Still, the bookmakers weren't impressed. They'd crunched their numbers, drank their coffee, and decided Leeds United—who had been steamrolling opponents week after week—would walk out of the Madejski with three easy points. Leeds fans echoed the sentiment. Social media was buzzing with confident predictions: "3-0 incoming," "Bale hat trick loading," "Modric masterclass tonight."
Arthur, however, wasn't counting his chickens.
Not that he showed it. He sat calmly on the sidelines before kickoff, legs crossed, chewing gum like a man without a care in the world. But deep down, the tactical gears were grinding.
And then the match began… and promptly fell apart.
Barely 20 minutes in, Leeds were already two goals down. TWO! It was the kind of disaster that even the most pessimistic fan wouldn't have predicted unless they'd been cursed by a black cat while walking under a ladder holding an open umbrella indoors.
The first goal was a mess of deflections and chaos, with Reading's striker Doyle poking home after Leeds failed to clear a corner. The second was even worse—Leeds got caught pressing high, and Reading hit them on the counter like a freight train. Long ball over the top, a couple of quick passes, and boom—2-0.
Twitter exploded like a volcano. "Are Leeds throwing this game?" "MATCH-FIXING!" "Arthur's been paid in fish and chips!" The conspiracy theories came in faster than Reading's second goal.
Leeds did try to respond. Arthur yelled from the sidelines, throwing out hand gestures like an agitated mime. The players pressed forward, building pressure, throwing crosses into the box, but Reading parked the bus. Nay, they parked the entire public transport system. Eleven men behind the ball, kicking it into Row Z whenever danger approached.
By halftime, Leeds had nothing to show. 2-0 down, heads drooping, fans stunned into silence.
In the dressing room, Arthur didn't explode. He didn't throw a water bottle or flip the tactics board. No, instead he gave what could only be described as a ten-minute motivational caffeine injection.
"You lot look like you've been playing in slippers! Get your boots on and WAKE UP!"
There was shouting, there was sarcasm, there was even a particularly aggressive demonstration involving salt and pepper shakers as players. It was beautiful. It was chaos. It was Arthur.
But deep inside, he still didn't feel secure.
That's when he remembered the latest reward from his mysterious in-game system: the [Peak Beckham Experience Card]. He glanced over at Modric, who was sipping an electrolyte drink like a scholarly wizard, calm and poised.
"Luka," Arthur called, tapping his temple. "You ready to channel your inner Becks?"
Modric blinked. "What?"
Arthur smirked. "Nothing. Just... go be magic."
Second half whistle blew. And then? Transformation.
Right from the restart, Leeds played like a different team. The ball zipped around like it was on rails. Within five minutes, they carved Reading open with some textbook tiki-taka.
Torres laid it off to Modric, who slid a pass between two defenders like butter through a hot knife. The ball ended up at Bale's feet on the right, who didn't hesitate. Instead of cutting inside like he usually did, he drilled a cross low to the near post. Torres was there, sprinting in like a man possessed, and buried the shot from close range.
2-1. Game on.
The Leeds bench erupted. Arthur clenched his fist in triumph, whispering, "Alright, now we're talking."
Reading, still ahead, decided to go full turtle. Ten men behind the ball. Every player within thirty yards of their own goal. It wasn't football anymore—it was medieval siege warfare. Leeds had to throw everything they had at them.
Modric, now operating at 2004 Beckham levels, became the conductor. Long balls, short passes, clever flicks—he did it all. Every attack flowed through him.
Then, in the 77th minute, came the moment of genius.
It started on the left, with Bale receiving a pass on the wing. He faked a cross, dragged it back, then slid the ball diagonally to Modric, who had just arrived on the scene like a stealthy wizard.
Modric didn't even look up. He already knew where Bale would go next. One subtle shift of the hips, one glance at the defensive line, and then boom—a perfectly weighted through ball slid between the center-back and left-back, straight into Bale's stride.
Bale took one touch. Then without hesitation, he struck.
The ball skimmed across the grass, low and fast, and tucked neatly into the near post. Reading's keeper dove full stretch but had no chance. The crowd gasped. Arthur turned to his bench and simply nodded.
2-2. The comeback was alive.
But Arthur didn't want a comeback. He wanted a win. A statement. Manchester United had already destroyed Watford 4-0 yesterday. They weren't dropping points. If Leeds were serious about challenging for the title, they couldn't afford any more slip-ups.
So Arthur doubled down.
"PRESS! SQUEEZE THEM! DON'T LET THEM OUT OF THEIR OWN BOX!" he roared like a mad general at war. The players responded. Reading could barely breathe.
Every Leeds attack in the final minutes was like a tidal wave. Crosses came in from both flanks. Modric pulled strings in midfield like a puppeteer. Reading's defenders blocked shots with every limb they had, throwing themselves into tackles like it was the final battle in a medieval film.
Then came the 90th minute.
Torres, somehow still full of energy, dribbled down the left flank and tried to cut inside, only to be brought down just outside the penalty box by Reading's weary center-back. The referee blew the whistle and pointed at the spot where the foul occurred. Free kick. Prime territory.
Normally, Rivaldo might step up for this. But he wasn't on the pitch today.
Arthur's earlier halftime instruction came back into play: all free kicks and corners go to Modric.
So, there he stood. Luka Modric. The smallest man on the pitch. The calmest. The one with a Beckham card secretly active in his digital bloodstream.
The referee blew the whistle.
Modric took his time. Three steps back. Deep breath. Then he began the run-up. Slow at first, then quicker. Just as he reached the ball, he leaned left and wrapped his right foot under it, catching the underside perfectly.
The ball spun viciously. It climbed, arced, and dipped, all in one majestic, fluid motion. The curl was ridiculous—an exaggerated C that would make Roberto Carlos proud.
Reading's goalkeeper didn't even move. He just stared.
Thwack!
The ball slammed into the top left corner. Crossbar and post couldn't help but admire it as it sliced through the air and nestled into the net.
3-2.
Bedlam.
Leeds United had done it.
From two goals down to last-minute winners, they'd snatched three points from the jaws of disaster. The players mobbed Modric. Arthur simply turned to his assistant and said, "Told you Beckham wasn't finished."
As the referee blew the final whistle, the Leeds dugout exploded with joy.
The comeback was complete. The Madejski was silent—except for the distant hum of angry tweets from Reading fans.