"Youth training camp? Who?" Laporta's voice came through the line, sounding puzzled.
Arthur leaned back in his chair with the kind of smug grin only he could manage. He knew exactly what he was doing, but he decided to play it up for effect. He rustled some papers on the desk dramatically, flipping through them as though he were looking for a hidden treasure map. In reality, he wasn't even reading anything—he was just making as much noise as possible into the receiver.
"Aha," he declared after a few seconds, snapping a random file shut. "Found it. It's Bojan—Bojan Krkić!"
There was a pause on the other end.
"Bojan?" Laporta repeated, rolling the name around in his mouth as if testing how it tasted. Instantly, an image flashed in his mind: a small, bright-eyed teenager, no taller than Messi, darting about La Masia like a whirlwind. Laporta had always liked the kid. In fact, he secretly saw him as the next jewel of Barcelona's academy, a prodigy almost too good to be true.
"When did you start falling in love with him?" Laporta asked, half amused, half wary.
"Yes!" Arthur replied firmly, not missing a beat. His tone was so confident it left no room for doubt.
Of course, the truth was Arthur had just made the decision right then and there. He hadn't been planning it—Bojan's name had popped into his head, and the mischievous side of him thought: Why not throw him into the deal and see what happens?
In his memory, Bojan was labeled "the next Messi" during his teenage years, even being called a wonder child. In La Masia, he had performed spectacularly, so much so that Rijkaard had recently promoted him to the first team. But Arthur knew how these things went. Barcelona's frontline was a fortress of talent—Messi, Ronaldinho, Eto'o, Henry—who on earth could break into that? The poor kid was bound to sit on the bench, his brilliance dimmed by the shadows of superstars.
Arthur thought ahead, the way only he could. In a few years, he knew, Bojan would grow frustrated, desperate for playing time, and eventually leave for Italy—Roma, if memory served. And then the "next Messi" tag would fade into the background, and this once-celebrated boy would become another name drifting across Europe's mid-table clubs.
But if I grab him now, Arthur thought, maybe I can save his career. Or at the very least, flip him later for a tidy profit.
After all, Barcelona had managed to sell him for more than 10 million when he left for Roma. That fact alone told Arthur this gamble was worth it.
"It's not impossible to put him in the deal," Laporta admitted after a pause, choosing his words carefully. "But at this price…" He let the thought hang before continuing, "At this price, Arthur, you'd have to reduce it a little."
Arthur nearly choked on his own laughter. "Reduce it? Why!" he exclaimed, eyes widening in mock disbelief. "Hoan, we're talking about a youth player here!"
"He's not just a youth player anymore," Laporta countered quickly. "Frank promoted him to the first team this year!"
Arthur leaned forward, elbows on the desk, grinning like a cat that had just found a cornered mouse. "Oh, really? And has he played?"
Silence.
Arthur pushed harder. "No, right? Then why in the world should I lower the price? I'm betting on the future, Hoan! This is me taking the risk. You should be thanking me!"
"He is a genius," Laporta insisted, his voice rising slightly.
Arthur smacked the desk with his palm, laughing. "Piqué and Touré aren't geniuses? Come on, Hoan! Piqué came from your own La Masia! If he wasn't a genius, why did you buy him back, huh?"
There was a long pause. Arthur could almost picture Laporta on the other end, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, completely floored by Arthur's sharp tongue.
"Exactly," Arthur said, sitting back smugly. "That's what I thought."
He could feel the momentum swinging in his favor. Time to soften the blow before Laporta hung up in frustration.
"Look, Hoan," Arthur said, his voice suddenly warm, almost soothing. "I know what's going on in your head. You're scared, right? Scared I'll open this little blind box and, oh, surprise, it turns out to be pure gold. And then you'll be sitting there, gritting your teeth while I laugh my way to the bank."
Laporta didn't say anything, but Arthur could practically hear the man's jaw clenching. Because it was true. Everyone in Europe knew Arthur's eye for talent. If Arthur spotted a kid, chances were he'd turn out to be something special. The idea of letting Bojan slip into Leeds' hands only for Arthur to polish him into a diamond… well, that thought was enough to make Laporta's stomach turn.
Arthur let the silence drag just long enough before offering his final card.
"Alright, let's compromise," Arthur said smoothly. "For Bojan, Leeds United will agree to a priority repurchase clause with Barcelona. Within the next five years, if I decide to sell him, you get first dibs. And here's the kicker—the buyback cap won't exceed 20 million euros. Sound fair?"
Now that caught Laporta's attention. His ears perked up instantly.
Twenty million? For a striker, that was peanuts in the modern market. If Bojan blossomed elsewhere, Barcelona could buy him back, use him for a couple of years, and then flip him for an even higher price. Worst-case scenario, they'd have essentially paid Arthur a training fee. Best case? They'd make a killing.
And on top of that, by slipping Bojan into this transfer package, Barcelona would save themselves another 7 million euros right now. The math was looking better by the second.
Laporta thought quickly. His board could definitely swallow this. And honestly, the more he turned it over in his head, the more it felt like he was getting away with something.
"Okay," Laporta said firmly. "I think the board can accept that proposal."
Arthur leaned back in his chair with a grin that could rival a Cheshire cat. "Perfect."
With the deal practically sealed, neither of them saw a reason to keep the call going. They exchanged a few casual pleasantries—Arthur teasing, Laporta cautiously polite—and then hung up.
The moment the line went dead, Arthur wasted no time. He grabbed his phone again, this time dialing Allen. When Allen picked up, Arthur didn't even greet him.
"Allen, listen," Arthur said quickly. "I just wrangled Bojan into the deal. Make sure you handle the connection properly and keep an eye on it. This could be big."
Arthur hung up, still grinning. Another piece of the puzzle was in place.
And just like that, Leeds United had taken one step closer to reshaping the future.
****
Arthur leaned back in his oversized boss chair, the kind that looked more like a throne than office furniture. He slouched into it, legs stretched out, arms dangling lazily over the armrests, eyes half-closed. He looked less like the ambitious manager of Leeds United and more like a man who had fought a war against Excel spreadsheets and barely survived.
"Tired doesn't even begin to cover it," he muttered to himself.
But there was no time to properly rest. The season was crawling toward its finish line, and Arthur's head was buzzing with too many numbers, names, and possibilities. He shut his eyes and called up the system in his mind, the invisible football-obsessed assistant that had been his secret weapon since day one.
The familiar interface popped into his thoughts, glowing like a scoreboard:
[Host]: Arthur
[Club Owned]: Leeds United
[Economic Status]: Normal Operation
[Team Status]: Positive
[Available Funds]: €148 million
[Fixed Skills]: Super Scout (Can view detailed attributes of any player), Master Coach
[Skill Package]: Injury Recovery Card x1
Arthur squinted at that last line. "One lonely card. Brilliant. If someone breaks a leg, I can fix them up once, and after that it's back to rubbing ice on it and praying."
Still, the big number caught his attention—€148 million in available funds. He gave a satisfied nod. Ever since he had paid off the club's loan, Leeds was finally operating like a proper team instead of a corner shop barely staying afloat.
Back in the winter window, the funds had been around €120 million. Now, even after months of paying salaries to staff and players, the balance had grown. The club had netted more than €20 million in profit. Not bad at all.
Arthur began to mentally sort through the math, scribbling invisible numbers in his head.
Adriano—€33 million.
Kaká—€45 million.
But on the other side, the sales of Touré, Džeko, and Vardy had brought in €55 million.
That meant he had really only spent €26 million net to bring in two superstars and a talented young player in Bojan. He leaned back, whistling.
"That's not business," he said proudly. "That's wizardry."
The cherry on top? The season wasn't even over yet. Soon the Champions League bonus would come in, along with TV revenue, sponsorship money, and prize pools. By then, he'd be swimming in cash like Scrooge McDuck.
And when people have money, dangerous thoughts tend to creep into their heads. Arthur was no exception.
He tapped his desk with a mischievous grin. "Messi's off the table, sure… but Cristiano Ronaldo? He's got to be slightly more affordable right now. What if…?"
For a moment, Arthur pictured Ronaldo in a white Leeds kit, showing off his abs after scoring, hair gel perfectly untouched even in the rain. The crowd chanting his name, shirts flying off the shelves, Instagram exploding.
But reality crashed back in.
He knew better than to ring up Sir Alex Ferguson with that kind of proposal. Not because he was afraid the grumpy Scot would chew him out over the phone—though he almost certainly would. No, the real problem was that Ferguson would never agree to sell Ronaldo. Not now, when the Portuguese star was in his honeymoon phase with United. Even if Arthur sent spies, tapped phones, and bribed the kit man, Ronaldo himself probably wouldn't want to leave.
Arthur sighed, pushing away the dream. "Fine. Stay in Manchester, you smug show-off. But one day…"
He shut down the fantasy, stood up from his chair, and left the office with a shrug.
Two days later.
Elland Road was buzzing for the penultimate league game of the season. Leeds United were facing Middlesbrough, who had already secured safety from relegation and were basically running on holiday mode. Half their players looked like they were thinking about sunbeds and cocktails instead of football.
Arthur, pacing the technical area with his usual swagger, sensed it from the start. "These lads don't even want to be here," he smirked. "This'll be easier than convincing Shakira to let me hold the TV remote."
Leeds didn't waste time. In the first half, Zlatan Ibrahimović, as majestic as ever, thumped in a goal that looked equal parts ballet and brute force. He celebrated by puffing out his chest, as if reminding the Middlesbrough defenders: You can't stop Zlatan. Zlatan stops you.
In the second half, Lukas Podolski finished the job, smashing home a strike that left the keeper rooted like a garden gnome.
Final score: 2–0 to Leeds United.
The win was clean, controlled, and barely required a sweat. Arthur clapped his players off the pitch, pleased but not celebrating too wildly. Because he knew the real battle wasn't theirs to fight today.
He rushed back after the match, waiting for news from Manchester.
But the update was not the one he wanted.
The Manchester Derby had finished: Manchester United had beaten City 1–0 away.
Arthur groaned. "Of course they did. Bloody typical."
It meant everything now hinged on the upcoming makeup match between Chelsea and Manchester United, only five days later. Leeds' entire season—whether they could snatch something monumental—rested on that clash.
May 10. Stamford Bridge.
It was a heavyweight showdown: Chelsea versus Manchester United, the third time they'd met this month alone. And this one wasn't just another game—it was the decider for the Premier League title.
If United won away at Stamford Bridge, the trophy would be theirs with a game to spare, ending their three-year drought.
No wonder the media hype was off the charts. Newspapers, TV shows, pub chatter—everyone was talking about it. Five full days of endless debates: "Will Mourinho let it slip? Will Ferguson play it safe? Can Ronaldo do it again?"
On paper, Chelsea had nothing to play for. They were out of the title race, already locked in for the Champions League. They could have rolled over and let United waltz away with it.
But Mourinho had other ideas.
When asked in an interview whether Chelsea might take it easy, the Portuguese manager gave his usual mix of charm and menace:
"We are professionals. We win every match we can win. That is our job. That is our pride. We will not give the game away."
Some said it was pure professionalism. Others whispered it was revenge—after all, Manchester United had just eliminated Chelsea in the Champions League semi-finals.
Arthur, parked in front of his TV at home with snacks in hand, nearly choked when he saw Chelsea's starting lineup.
He rubbed his eyes. "No… he didn't… oh my god, he did!"
Mourinho had gone all-in. Except for Drogba, who was being rested after a brutal run of matches, every other starter was the exact same eleven from the Champions League semifinal. It was basically a declaration of war: If United want this title, they'll have to steal it from our cold, dead hands.
Arthur burst out laughing. "He really hates Ferguson that much. Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful."
Meanwhile, Ferguson's lineup told a very different story. The old Scot, ever cautious with his squad's fitness, benched his two biggest stars—Cristiano Ronaldo and Wayne Rooney. Both had been running on fumes after weeks of back-to-back 90 minutes (and even a 120-minute game). Ferguson gambled, choosing rest over risk.
Arthur slapped his forehead. "Oh, come on, Alex. You're really gonna fight Mourinho's A-team without Ronaldo and Rooney? This is either genius or suicide."
******
Arthur hadn't felt this level of suffocating tension in ages. Sure, he'd experienced nervousness before—Leeds United gave him heart palpitations almost every week—but tonight was different. Tonight, he wasn't pacing the touchline barking orders or adjusting his tie like a madman. Tonight, he was forced into the agonizing role of spectator, sitting on his own sofa with Shakira leaning against him, as the television in front of them turned into a window into destiny.
The Premier League title race had never been tighter, and it all hinged on this match. Chelsea, stubborn as ever, stood between Manchester United and glory.
From the very moment referee Wade raised his whistle to his lips and let out that piercing blast, Arthur was locked in. His eyes glued to the screen, his muscles stiff as stone, he barely even blinked. Every pass, every tackle, every flick of the ball had him on edge.
Shakira, who had curled up next to him with a bowl of fruit she'd been absentmindedly picking at, could feel it—the sudden, sharp tightness in his muscles whenever Manchester United found a sniff of space. His leg would twitch like he was about to make a sliding tackle in the living room, and once, when Ronaldo darted down the wing, Arthur nearly spilled the bowl out of her hands as he jolted forward.
"Relax, amor," Shakira teased softly, poking his arm. "It's just football."
Arthur turned his head toward her with the look of a man who had just been told the earth was flat. "Just football? This is life and death!" he whispered hoarsely, eyes snapping back to the screen as if looking away might cost Leeds United the title.
Thankfully for Arthur's blood pressure, Chelsea were Chelsea. Mourinho had built them into a fortress, and defending at Stamford Bridge was like trying to knock down a medieval castle with a toothpick. The first half dragged on with Manchester United pressing, probing, throwing men forward, but nothing cracked. Chelsea sat deep, absorbed everything, and then countered like assassins.
By the time the referee blew for halftime, the scoreline was still 0–0. Arthur finally exhaled, the air leaving his lungs in a long sigh. Shakira giggled and leaned her head on his shoulder.
"See? You didn't die," she teased.
"Not yet," Arthur muttered, rubbing his temples. "But my hairline's retreating by the minute."
Fifteen minutes later, the war resumed. Both sides came back onto the pitch, switched ends, and the chess match picked up again. Manchester United threw everything they could, desperate to force a way through. Arthur couldn't sit still anymore—he was halfway off the couch, pointing at the TV as though Didier Drogba might actually hear him shout, "Track back! Don't let him cross!"
The game stayed goalless until the sixty-fifth minute. Then came the turning point. Sir Alex Ferguson, who had been prowling the sideline with the patience of a man chewing glass, finally snapped. He made his move. Heinze and Dong Fangzhuo, who had both been disappointing going forward, were dragged off. On came Michael Carrick to add some control in midfield and Wayne Rooney, United's pitbull, to inject chaos and goals.
Arthur groaned, gripping his knees. "Here we go. He's unleashing Rooney. Mourinho better not blink."
But if there was one thing Mourinho never did, it was blink. He could have stood in the middle of a hurricane with his suit soaked through, and he'd still smirk and wag his finger. Chelsea simply absorbed the storm. They tightened, locked down their box, and strangled every attack. Ball after ball came in, and ball after ball was cleared.
"Come on, hold!" Arthur whispered, as though his words could fortify Chelsea's backline.
Minutes ticked away. Seventy… eighty… eighty-five. Still 0–0. Shakira occasionally glanced up from the game to study Arthur's face. His jaw was clenched so hard she worried he might break a tooth. His fingers drummed on his thigh like a war drum, and every whistle from the referee made him flinch.
Finally, after what felt like a century, the clock ticked into stoppage time. Five minutes added. Five minutes of pure torture. Manchester United surged forward, desperate, frantic, like a pack of wolves circling their prey. But Chelsea never cracked.
Then, at last, the whistle shrieked. Full-time. 0–0.
Arthur froze for half a second. Then his entire body slumped, as though he'd just been told he didn't need to pay taxes ever again. The tension poured out of him all at once, and for the first time all night, his lips curved into a grin.
On the TV, the cameras panned to Ferguson. The great man's face was a storm cloud—gloomy, furious, utterly thunderous. In a flash of frustration, he hurled his water bottle across the technical area, sending it bouncing across the turf like a plastic missile.
Arthur couldn't help himself—he burst out laughing. "Oh, that's priceless! Someone frame that!"
But the comedy wasn't over. Mourinho, with all the grace of a villain stepping out of a comic book, strolled straight across the pitch once the whistle went. His team had only drawn, but you wouldn't have known it from the smug grin on his face. He marched to Ferguson's bench, extended his hand with exaggerated politeness, and gave the kind of smile that could curdle milk.
Arthur cackled. "Look at him! He's acting like he won 5–0! Oh, Fergie's going to explode."
Sure enough, Ferguson's eyes looked like they might shoot lasers. His lips tightened into a grim line, and for a moment Arthur swore the old man might actually deck Mourinho on live television.
Shakira chuckled at Arthur's reaction, shaking her head. "You're enjoying his misery far too much."
Arthur wiped his eyes, still laughing. "I can't help it! That face—oh, it's art!"
····
"Fortunately, Chelsea are strong," Arthur muttered later, still buzzing from the drama. He stretched, rolling his sore shoulders. Sitting frozen in one position for ninety minutes had turned him into a stiff mannequin. But finally, there was a glimmer of hope.
Shakira noticed the faint smile tugging at his lips—the first all night. But it didn't linger long. Arthur's mind was already moving forward, already weighing what lay ahead.
Because while this match had spared Leeds United, the true test hadn't arrived yet. Three days from now, his own side would play their final league game. Leeds United at home against Sheffield United.
The table was razor-thin. With Manchester United dropping points, both clubs now sat level on ninety points. But Leeds, thanks to their superior goal difference, sat on top. That meant destiny was in their hands.
The math was simple: if Leeds United won their last game, the title was theirs. If they drew, as long as they didn't lose by more than two goals compared to Manchester United's result, the title would still be theirs.
And the coincidences—the drama of it all—were almost poetic. Leeds United facing Sheffield United. Manchester United facing West Ham. Two matches that would decide not only who lifted the trophy but also who got relegated.
Because West Ham and Sheffield were both stuck on thirty-eight points, clinging to survival by their fingernails. Whoever lost would be sent down.
Arthur rubbed his temples, the weight of it all sinking in. Two finals happening at once. Two games that would shake English football to its core.
Even before the ball had been kicked, the storm had already started brewing. England was buzzing. Fans, pundits, journalists—everyone smelled the drama, and everyone was ready.
And Arthur knew: in three days, his world would either collapse or crown him a hero.