Arthur leaned back in his chair, phone pressed lazily against his ear. He had thrown out what he thought was a cheeky, almost impossible idea—one of those lines you toss into a conversation just to see if it rattles the other guy. On the other end, silence. Nothing but the faint sound of breathing, heavy and hesitant, like someone pacing in a dark room.
For a moment, Arthur thought the line had gone dead. Then Laporta's voice came through, short and clipped, the kind of voice belonging to a man who'd just been asked if he'd like to sell his house, his car, and possibly his children all in one go.
"Are you serious?"
Arthur blinked, sat up straight, and nearly dropped his mug of coffee. "What?" he muttered. He had braced for laughter, maybe a stern rejection, even insults. But this? This wasn't rejection. This was… hesitation. Hesitation meant possibility.
His heart kicked like a startled horse. Messi. The golden boy of Barcelona, the kid who'd already started dazzling defenders as if they were training cones. If Leeds United somehow managed to land him… Arthur could practically see the future flashing before his eyes. Trophies, sponsors, ticket sales through the roof. And the resale value? Off the charts. In three, four years, he'd sell Messi for a price so outrageous he'd have to invent new adjectives for it.
Arthur cleared his throat, straightened his tie—even though Laporta obviously couldn't see him—and answered with exaggerated politeness. "Of course I'm serious, Mr. Laporta. From the way you responded… does that mean we can actually discuss this deal?"
The reply was instant, like a prayer that had been bottled up and finally released. "Of course! One hundred and fifty million euros. Money in the account, and you can take him away!"
Arthur froze. His brain stuttered like an old car engine trying to start on a frosty morning.
"…What?"
"One hundred and fifty million!" Laporta repeated, and this time he sounded like a man offering salvation. "You pay, you get Messi. Simple."
Arthur's eyes widened so far he thought they might pop out. His hand twitched, nearly sending the phone flying across the room.
One hundred and fifty million euros. For a teenager with a mop of hair and a habit of darting past defenders like a mouse through holes in the skirting boards.
Arthur's inner accountant screamed in horror. I suggested buying him as a cheeky experiment, not to commit financial suicide!
He pulled himself together, masking his disbelief with a sharp tone. "Mr. Laporta, isn't that a bit much? I asked sincerely, but now you're just mocking me, aren't you?" His voice turned cold, frost creeping over each word. Whatever little goodwill he had felt for the Barcelona president evaporated like morning dew under the sun.
Laporta, sensing the change in tone, scrambled to patch things up. "No, no, Arthur, you've misunderstood me! Please, let me explain!"
And then came the story—messy, ridiculous, and yet entirely believable.
It turned out Laporta wasn't joking at all. He really wanted to sell Messi. The problem wasn't Messi himself—it was his father.
Since Messi had broken into the Barcelona first team back in 2004, Papa Messi had become something of a regular visitor in the boardroom, each time armed with the same demand: a pay rise. Not once, not twice, but four times in just a couple of years.
And the last time? The club had caved. A nineteen-year-old Messi, barely old enough to legally order wine at dinner, had been handed an annual salary of five million euros.
Arthur nearly choked when he heard that figure. Five million for a kid who still probably needed help carrying his groceries? Madness.
To put it into perspective, Thierry Henry—the Thierry Henry, the World Cup winner, the Arsenal legend, the man who made defenders curl up in their beds at night—was about to join Barcelona on a salary of just 6.8 million euros. Messi, a teenager, was already breathing down his neck in wages.
Arthur could picture the boardroom scene. Laporta probably pulling at his hair, shouting, "This destroys our wage structure! The locker room will riot!" But of course, the board had voted otherwise. They renewed Messi's contract, bumped his buyout clause to a staggering 150 million, and gave Papa Messi his precious raise.
And now, here Laporta was, practically begging Arthur to pay the release clause and take the problem off his hands.
"If someone actually pays the 150 million," Laporta confessed, "I'll do everything in my power to persuade the board to let him go!"
Arthur leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. Slowly, the pieces clicked together. He did remember reading something like this years ago—how Messi's camp had kept pushing for salary increases again and again. Nine times in total, if he recalled correctly. Nine!
And once Messi set the example, the rest of the squad had followed. Suddenly everyone wanted more money. Barcelona, despite their massive revenues, had been stretched to breaking point. So much so that after Messi finally left, Laporta had resorted to selling 25% of the club's TV rights for the next twenty-five years just to plug the financial hole.
At the time, Arthur had thought the reports were exaggerated. Football gossip always was. But hearing Laporta's weary, desperate tone on the phone? He realized this wasn't gossip. Papa Messi really did treat the club like a cash machine.
Arthur rubbed his temples. The fantasy of Messi lighting up Elland Road, dazzling fans in white, quickly began to crumble.
Sure, the idea was tempting. The resale value, the prestige, the sheer madness of Leeds United owning Messi. But the reality? Paying 150 million euros now, and then having Papa Messi knocking on his door every few months, demanding yet another raise.
Arthur imagined it vividly—him sneaking into his office, shutting off the lights, hiding behind the desk while Papa Messi pounded on the door shouting, "Another million! Two more! Pay up, or we're leaving!"
It was enough to give him a migraine.
He shook his head firmly. "Forget it," he muttered under his breath. The risk was too high. Even if Leeds somehow scraped together the money, Messi's wages would spiral out of control, and his father would become the most irritating man in Yorkshire.
Arthur sighed and brought the phone back to his ear, his mind made up. Messi was a dream, but some dreams were best left untouched.
"Forget it, forget it," he thought. "I can't afford it."
And with that, the thought of Messi in a Leeds shirt was firmly shoved into the bin.
*****
Arthur sat back in his chair with a smirk that was about as trustworthy as a used car salesman who swore the smoke coming out of the exhaust was "just the car breathing."
A second ago, he had nearly blurted out something very stupid: "Why don't you sell me Messi?" The idea had popped into his head like an excited child waving its arms. But the moment it escaped his lips and he saw Laporta's face, Arthur realized what he had just done—he had almost boarded a pirate ship and handed over his life savings.
He backpedaled immediately. "Hahaha, Juan, come on now! Don't take me seriously. I was just joking! Me? Buying Messi? Please. That's like me buying Buckingham Palace—completely impossible. I can't afford a player that expensive. If you're really in the mood to sell, go ask those Russians in London. They love throwing cash around."
Laporta's shoulders visibly relaxed, though he sighed like a man who had just been told his lottery ticket was fake. "Ah… I knew it," he muttered under his breath. Then, as if confessing a secret to himself, he admitted, "Honestly, I never actually thought about selling him. You caught me off guard when you asked. I just answered without thinking."
Arthur clapped his hands together like he was wrapping up a failed business meeting. "Yes, yes, let's get back to real business. Enough of this nonsense. Now, about the two players we actually talked about. Toure and Piqué. Forty million euros. Both of them. What do you think? It's cheap, right?"
Laporta's face twisted like someone who had just bitten into a lemon. His mouth twitched, and finally he asked, half helpless, half suspicious, "Arthur… tell me something honestly. Do you have some weird obsession with the number forty million?"
Arthur blinked in confusion. "What do you mean?"
"You quoted forty million when you sold Maicon to Calderón," Laporta said slowly, eyeing him like a detective cross-examining a suspect. "And now you're quoting me forty million again. What's with you and that number?"
Arthur threw his arms in the air dramatically, like a wronged man in a soap opera. "Hey! Don't lump you and Calderón together. Juan, you are different. You're my friend! Selling Maicon to that sneaky snake Calderón for forty million? That was me charging him interest for being sneaky behind my back! But selling to you for forty million? That's because Toure and Piqué are genuinely worth forty million! Totally different situations!"
Laporta stared at him in silence. His brain tried to process Arthur's "logic," but the wires just weren't connecting. So, wait. Calderón paid forty million as punishment, and I'm paying forty million because it's fair? Wasn't it still forty million either way? Where was the difference?
Laporta rubbed his forehead. If he kept up this conversation, his hair—which was already turning a distinguished shade of gray—would end up snow white by the time negotiations ended.
He took a deep breath and decided to cut the nonsense. "Alright, Arthur. Let's be serious. Forty million is too high. You know we just splashed out on Henry. That already cost us a fortune. So here's my honest offer. Thirty million. For both. A package deal. Fair?"
Arthur snorted so hard he nearly choked on his own breath. "Fair? That's robbery! No chance. Thirty million isn't even enough for Toure alone! That guy's a midfield tank. At least thirty million just for him, minimum!"
Laporta waved his hand like he was swatting away a fly. "Oh, come on, Arthur. Don't exaggerate. He's a rotation player for us, not some Ballon d'Or candidate. Have you ever seen a rotation player sell for thirty million?"
Arthur's grin widened. He had been waiting for this. "Isn't Falcao a rotation player for you? Didn't you happily fork out forty-one million for him last year? And now you want to tell me thirty for Toure is too much?"
Laporta nearly fell off his chair. His voice rose with indignation. "Don't you dare bring that up! Honestly, sometimes I think the media are right when they call Leeds United a black shop. Do you know how many times I've regretted buying Falcao at that price? Since he arrived at Camp Nou, he hasn't played anywhere near the level he showed under you!"
Arthur threw up his hands. "And that's my fault how? If your coach can't figure out how to use him properly, don't come crying to me! Talk to Frank. Maybe he lost the instruction manual."
Laporta went silent. He just stared at Arthur, speechless. He had no comeback for that.
So, the two presidents—men supposedly responsible for running giant football clubs—were now bickering like schoolchildren trading football stickers.
Arthur folded his arms, smug as ever. Laporta exhaled slowly, realizing he wasn't going to win this argument by logic. He needed Toure. Deco was aging, and Barcelona needed fresh legs in midfield. Finally, Laporta gave in a little.
"Alright, alright," he muttered. "I'll sweeten it. Thirty-three million. That's my final offer. Thirty-three million, and you let me take both of them. Done."
Arthur tapped his chin, pretending to think, though in reality he was already planning his next move. Thirty-three still felt low. He was about to launch into another dramatic monologue about their "true worth" when suddenly a thought popped into his head.
A name. A very interesting name.
Arthur's eyes lit up mischievously. Slowly, he leaned back in his chair, a grin spreading across his face. "Thirty-three million, you say? Hmm… it's not impossible. But…" He paused for maximum effect, letting Laporta lean forward in suspense.
Then Arthur smirked like a cat who had just spotted a mouse. "But you'll have to throw in one of your youth academy players as part of the deal."
And with that, the room went quiet—Arthur holding all the cards, Laporta realizing he had just walked into yet another of Arthur's traps.
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