Arthur leaned back in his chair, eyebrows shooting up as Allen slid another folder onto the desk.
"Then there's Adriano," Allen said, his tone that of a man bringing bad news but trying to dress it up nicely. "After Moratti gave the green light, Raiola's already spoken with him about our interest."
Arthur blinked. "Wait—already? So early? Didn't Moratti swear up and down he had some sacred emotional bond with Adriano? And now suddenly he's tossing him away like last week's takeaway? The money isn't even in the bank yet!"
He genuinely looked baffled. The season wasn't even finished, and already someone was being told they were unwanted. For Arthur, that was almost cruel beyond measure. How devastating would it be to a player—especially one in a fragile state—to learn he'd been discarded before the campaign was even over? And it wasn't just any player. Adriano had once been Inter Milan's golden boy.
Allen gave a helpless shrug, the kind you give when you know the story is ridiculous but still true. "Nothing I can do. Raiola told me Mancini's fallen in love with Džeko and Vardy. And as soon as Moratti heard that, he didn't wait a second. He ordered the staff to inform Adriano that Inter had sold him off. Raiola says the lad's not in a great mental place right now."
Arthur slammed his hand lightly against the desk. "Bloody hell! Moratti's a sly old dog, isn't he? Absolutely ruthless. Doesn't even bother with the polite mask." He ran his hands through his hair, muttering. "Alright. Tell Raiola to keep Adriano calm for now. I've got too much on my plate here. End of the month, you and I will fly to Milan together. We'll sort it out properly face-to-face."
Allen nodded briskly. "Understood. And while we're there, we should stay in touch with Galliani. Since you'll be in town, we can also deal with the Kaka situation."
Arthur let out a half-laugh, half-groan. "As if I could ever forget Kaka. Fine. We'll keep that iron in the fire too."
"Got it," Allen said.
Arthur was about to dismiss him when he noticed Allen still shuffling about with his briefcase. The man clearly wasn't leaving.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "You're still here? What now? I've got training to run."
Allen straightened, producing yet another, thicker bundle of papers. "Yes, boss. This." He set the intimidating stack down with a thud. "These are the offer letters we've received recently from clubs all over Europe. I've printed and compiled them."
Arthur stared at the pile, eyes widening. "Bloody hell… that thick?!" He picked it up and flicked through, feeling the weight in his hands. He hadn't even started reading when he began muttering under his breath. "Are these clubs trying to mug us? Do they all want to strip Leeds United bare and run off laughing?"
Allen, trying not to laugh at Arthur's indignant expression, raised both hands in a calming gesture. "Boss, remember—it's the end of the season. Everyone's looking at what business they can do. We've already snapped up two major signings, so naturally the other clubs have to start throwing bids at us. But honestly, it's not as dramatic as it looks. Lots of offers, yes—but really, they're only for a handful of players."
Arthur gave him a skeptical look, then sighed and tossed the papers back at him. "Alright, fine. We'll sort it later. Bring them to the office after training, and I'll go through them properly."
——
By three in the afternoon, training had wrapped up. Players trotted off to showers, laughing and chattering, but Arthur wasn't finished for the day. He spotted Simeone, who was trying to make a quick escape, and promptly hooked an arm through his.
"Oi, Diego. Not so fast. You're coming with me."
Simeone froze like a kid caught sneaking biscuits from the jar. "What? No! I was just—uh—heading home. Carolina's waiting for me to call her. If I don't, she'll think I've been kidnapped!"
Arthur dragged him toward the office anyway, ignoring his complaints. "You can ring her later. What we're about to do is important. And you're involved."
"Involved? In what?" Simeone demanded, looking around as though hoping someone would rescue him.
Arthur smirked. "Business."
Simeone groaned dramatically, as though Arthur had just told him he'd be spending the evening doing taxes.
When they reached the office, Allen was already there, standing at the door like a loyal hound. Simeone's eyes narrowed immediately. "I knew it. Allen's waiting. This is a trap. If I'd run earlier, I'd be home already."
Arthur just gave him a shove through the doorway. "Quit whining and sit down."
Inside, Allen laid out the thick stack of offer letters on the coffee table, then slipped away to make tea for both of them like some overworked butler. Arthur handed Simeone half the pile, keeping the rest for himself.
"Here," Arthur said. "Have a look."
Simeone raised an eyebrow. "What, you're making me do admin work now? Next you'll have me licking stamps."
"Just read," Arthur ordered.
So the two of them sat side by side, papers rustling as they scanned through. Just as Allen had explained, there were indeed dozens of offers—but on closer inspection, they were all circling the same few names. The midfielders who made Leeds tick. The forwards who scared defenders witless.
Simeone let out a low whistle. "Well, look at this. Real Madrid wants half your midfield. Barcelona's sniffing around too. Arsenal thinks they can tempt your striker with London life. And Juventus—ha! They think they can bully their way into this as well."
Arthur grimaced, tossing another offer letter onto the table. "Bunch of vultures. They think Leeds is a buffet and they can just load their plates."
Simeone chuckled. "To be fair, boss, it's a compliment. Nobody makes this much noise if your players are rubbish."
Arthur shot him a look. "Compliment or not, I'm not running a clearance sale. If they want someone, they'd better come with serious money."
Allen returned then, placing steaming cups of tea in front of them, and sat down. The three men leaned over the mountain of papers, their heads almost touching, like conspirators plotting a great heist—except this time, the heist was about preventing their own squad from being robbed blind.
And as Arthur sifted through the bids, muttering under his breath about greedy clubs and nosy directors, it became perfectly clear: Leeds United's success had painted a giant target on their back.
But Arthur wasn't about to let anyone empty his cupboard.
*****
First on the agenda that afternoon was Luka Modrić.
Arthur leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against the table as Simeone spread out the offer sheets like a gambler revealing a winning hand. The little Croatian had been nothing short of spectacular all season—sliding tackles, inch-perfect passes, the vision of a hawk, and the endurance of a marathon runner with three lungs. Naturally, the big boys of Europe had taken notice.
Simeone, with that sly smirk of his, listed them off like a waiter reciting the specials of the day.
"Barcelona. Roma. Tottenham. And here—" he tapped the last sheet dramatically, "—Manchester United and Dortmund. Sir Alex and company want a piece of him too."
Arthur snorted. "Of course they do. Who doesn't want Modrić?"
The numbers on the sheets were nothing to sneeze at either. Barcelona had dropped the fattest bid: twenty-nine million euros. That wasn't just money—that was the kind of offer that made accountants start fantasizing about beach houses in Ibiza.
Arthur and Simeone exchanged glances. They didn't need words. At the exact same time, like some comedy sketch duo, Arthur asked, "What do you think?" just as Simeone declared, "Can't sell!"
Their eyes met again, then both broke into satisfied nods. Perfect sync. If Leeds United ever needed to enter a talent show, these two could win with a simple routine of football strategy and synchronized stubbornness.
Arthur gathered the offer sheets, straightened them with a sharp slap on the coffee table, and looked up at Allen, who had just wandered in holding a tray of drinks like a dutiful butler.
"Allen," Arthur said, his voice firm but calm, "reject them all. Every single one. And if any more offers come in for Luka, reject those too. No negotiations, no counter-offers. Just straight no."
Allen set the glass of water down carefully in front of him, nodding. "Got it, boss. I'll handle it."
Arthur leaned back, satisfied. Losing Modrić wasn't just a bad idea—it would've been catastrophic. The little magician was the glue in midfield, the one who made Leeds tick. Selling him now would be like ripping the engine out of a car because someone liked the hood ornament.
But before the ink on that decision could metaphorically dry, Simeone pulled out another slip of paper like a conjurer producing one last card from his sleeve. "By the way, boss, I've got another one here. Real Madrid just sent in a bid for Zlatan. Calderón's offering twenty million euros."
Arthur raised his eyebrows, then let out a sharp "Tsk!" like someone had just tried to pay for a Michelin meal with pocket change. He snatched the paper, glanced at it for a grand total of two seconds, then tossed it aside with theatrical disdain.
"Twenty million? What kind of sick joke is that? I spent twenty-one million bringing him from Juventus. And Calderón thinks he can take him off our hands for less? The man's either delusional or still drunk from last night!"
Allen covered his mouth to keep from laughing while Simeone chuckled openly. Zlatan might be a walking chaos machine, but Arthur valued him. Madrid trying to undercut the price was like someone trying to buy a Ferrari at second-hand Toyota rates.
Arthur straightened again, pointing his finger toward Allen. "Make sure Raiola knows—if Calderón tries to bypass us and contact Zlatan directly, I want to know about it immediately."
Allen gave a sly grin, nodding. "Of course, boss. Though honestly, I don't think Calderón will dare. You've already fleeced him once before—he probably still wakes up in cold sweats remembering it."
That got both Arthur and Simeone laughing. It was true: Calderón had been on the wrong end of their transfer dealings more than once. The poor man probably avoided looking at Leeds contracts the way people avoided horror movies.
Still, Arthur wasn't laughing for long. He knew Calderón well enough. The man was capable of trying anything if it gave him an edge, even sneaking around the back door. And truthfully, Real Madrid's situation made things even more precarious.
Their striking department was in an odd state. Van Nistelrooy had only been there less than a year, but age and nagging injuries were catching up fast. Higuaín had just arrived in the winter window, but he was raw, unpolished, and still figuring out which way was up in La Liga. For Capello, Madrid's manager—who was blissfully unaware he'd be out of a job soon—Zlatan was the perfect short-term solution. Big, strong, technical, and a complete nightmare for defenders.
Arthur could practically picture it: Capello whispering in Calderón's ear like some mafia consigliere, convincing him this was the move to make. But Arthur also knew what was coming. Capello wouldn't be there much longer, and once Madrid's summer chaos arrived, Calderón would have bigger fires to put out than Zlatan.
"Boss, take a look at this one—it's… interesting."
Simeone's voice cut into his thoughts. Arthur looked up, puzzled. Simeone was holding out another sheet, that same sly grin plastered on his face like a man who knew he was about to stir the pot.
Arthur raised an eyebrow, took the paper, and the second his eyes scanned it, he burst out laughing. A real, belly-deep laugh that had him shaking his head.
"Barcelona again!" Arthur exclaimed, waving the paper. "And guess who they want now? Yaya Touré."
Simeone crossed his arms, grinning. "Can't say I'm surprised. Rijkaard probably watched that Round of 16 tie and thought, 'I need a piece of that guy.'"
Arthur chuckled, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "Yeah, must've been that second leg. Touré was everywhere, like an unstoppable tank in midfield. Suddenly Rijkaard's in love."
Simeone nodded seriously now. "Well, to be fair, Touré has come a long way in just a year. He's developing fast. Strong as a bull, technically sharp, covers half the pitch by himself—these all-around midfielders are becoming hot commodities."
Something about Simeone's words made Arthur pause. Improved quickly, had he? That triggered Arthur's curiosity.
Without another word, he mentally pulled up the system he always relied on, that magical little database of stats and growth. Numbers appeared in his mind's eye, crisp and clear:
[Yaya Touré]
Age: 24
Offensive Threat: 89
Defensive Strength: 80
Body Balance: 92
Long Pass Accuracy: 89
Short Pass Accuracy: 90
Shooting Accuracy: 88
Dribbling Accuracy: 87
Shooting Skills: 90
Speed/Maximum Speed: 86/88
Injury Tolerance: A
Talent: S
Current Game Status: Normal
Player Evaluation: All-around midfielder, strong body, huge defensive radius, excellent vision, skilled footwork, some ability to dribble past opponents, and capable of thunderous long shots. Since joining Leeds, he has been growing rapidly under the manager's guidance.
Comprehensive Rating: A (3%)
Arthur let out a long breath as he digested the stats. Relief washed over him. Yaya's comprehensive rating was still just at the beginning of the A tier—barely three percent.
That meant he had a mountain to climb before hitting his full S-level potential. In other words, Leeds still had time, and rivals were jumping the gun.
*****
After triggering Schmeichel's talent peak task last time, Arthur had gotten into the habit of checking on his players' growth whenever he had a spare moment. But recently? Spare moments had been as rare as a referee actually admitting they were wrong. Between training sessions, transfer meetings, and the endless stream of "urgent" calls from agents who thought their players were worth triple their actual value, Arthur had been drowning in football business.
So much so, in fact, that he had nearly forgotten about the task system entirely.
If Simeone hadn't brought it up during their latest office chat, Arthur might have blundered badly. Imagine it: Toure about to trigger his peak, and Arthur selling him right before it happened. He'd regret it all the way to his grandmother's house—well, if his grandmother had been alive, which made the metaphor even more depressing. The point was, he'd be furious at himself.
Thankfully, Simeone's reminder gave him clarity. Looking at Toure's progress now, it was clear the Ivorian wasn't quite at that point yet. Still some time to go before he hit his peak task. Which meant, if Barcelona came with the right offer, Arthur could still consider doing business.
He leaned back, waved the paper in his hand, and asked his assistant with mock seriousness.
"Diego, what do you think? Can we sell him?" Arthur slid the quotation sheet across the table, not even acknowledging Barcelona's insulting €18 million offer. "Be honest."
Simeone muttered under his breath, scratching his chin like a detective puzzling out a mystery. Then he dropped his gaze to the table and went into deep thought mode.
Arthur wasn't in a rush. He shifted comfortably into his chair, crossed his legs, and sipped his tea like some mafia boss waiting for his consigliere's advice.
Half a minute later, Simeone finally raised his head. His eyes were sharp, serious.
"Boss, I think it can be sold. But the price is too low."
Arthur grinned. "Oh? Now we're talking. Go on."
This was actually the first time Arthur had properly discussed selling a player with Simeone. Naturally, he was curious about how the man thought, and what logic he would use.
Simeone leaned forward, getting into it. "Look, we're not short of midfielders. Toure isn't in the starting eleven every week. On the attack, you clearly prefer Modric and Alonso together—they've got the creativity and control. On the defensive side, if you're worried about losing Mascherano's physical presence after selling him, well… we've got a solution waiting."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "And what's that?"
"The Brazilian kid out on loan at Real Sociedad. We could bring him back next season."
Arthur tapped the arm of his chair, narrowing his eyes. "Brazilian kid? You mean Casemiro?"
"Exactly." Simeone nodded firmly. "I've watched his games in La Liga. Physically strong, tough in the tackle. His ball-winning is nearly as good as Toure's. And more importantly, he's got a solid football brain. Reads the game well. He could grow into the role."
Arthur considered this. He didn't have Casemiro's detailed stats in front of him—loan players were harder to track in his system. But Simeone wasn't the type to throw out random names. If he said the kid had potential, Arthur was inclined to trust him.
"Alright," Arthur nodded decisively. "Then it's simple. I'll call Laporta later. If he thinks he's taking Toure off me for €18 million, he must've hit his head on the Camp Nou ceiling. That's daylight robbery."
The two men shared a smirk. With Toure's fate outlined, they moved on to the rest of the stack of offers.
Arthur flipped through the papers quickly. Most were rubbish—clubs testing the waters with offers that were less than half of what he'd paid for the players. Then something caught his eye.
Barcelona again. This time, €4 million for Pique.
Arthur almost choked on his tea. "Four million? For Pique? They must think I'm running a clearance sale."
Simeone just shrugged. "They're trying their luck."
Arthur rolled his eyes, then waved Simeone and Allen out of the office. "Alright, lads. Good work today. I'll handle this."
Once they left, Arthur leaned back, grabbed his phone, and scrolled through his contacts until he found Laporta's number. He pressed call.
The line barely rang before a booming, cheerful voice came through.
"Good afternoon, Arthur!"
"Good afternoon, Juan." Arthur replied smoothly.
They'd met in Switzerland not too long ago, and despite Barcelona's reputation for playing hardball, Arthur had actually gotten along fine with Laporta. Deals in the past had gone relatively smoothly.
So Arthur didn't bother with pleasantries. He went straight for the jugular.
"Juan, I've seen the two quotations you sent."
There was a pause on the other end, then a hopeful tone. "Really? And… do you agree?"
"Of course!" Arthur said instantly.
"Uh…" Laporta froze. His brain flatlined for a second.
He had been bracing himself for one of those endless transfer battles, where Arthur would drag him into circles and squeeze every last euro out of the deal. But this? Arthur agreeing so quickly? It felt like walking into an ambush.
Arthur chuckled, enjoying the silence. He could almost picture Laporta's face right now—smiling on the outside, panicking on the inside.
Before the poor man could reboot, Arthur added with a booming laugh, "Of course I'm willing to sell them. But we need to discuss the price, hahahahaha!"
Laporta nearly dropped his phone. What the hell was that?
Arthur might as well have said, "Yes, I'll sell you my car… but only if you pay the price of a private jet."
The Barcelona president's mind flashed back to Maicon. Just months ago, he'd watched Arthur flog the Brazilian full-back for €40 million. Forty! For a defender! That move had sent shockwaves through the transfer market.
Arthur's reputation was now infamous: a ruthless negotiator who could charm you at dinner, then rob you blind on the deal sheet.
Laporta's stomach clenched. This was not going to be easy.
But before he could even open his mouth, Arthur threw in another curveball.
"Juan, I've got a question for you."
"Yes?" Laporta asked cautiously.
Arthur leaned forward, voice suddenly calm and deliberate.
"Are you selling Messi?"