Arthur raised his hand slightly, cutting Mendes off before the agent could even get a word out. His tone was calm, but there was a sharp edge in it, like a blade sliding out of its sheath.
"Mr. Mendes," Arthur said, leaning forward with his elbows resting on the table, "I came here with sincerity. You're a mature businessman, and so am I. Let's not waste time dancing around, shall we? In this football world, every player, every team—everyone—has a price. Do you agree?"
Mendes froze for half a second, then quickly nodded, his face tightening into a polite smile. "Yes, Mr. Morgan, I agree completely."
That line—everyone has a price—wasn't new to him. But hearing it from a club owner, spoken so directly, felt different. Usually, when Mendes sat across from club executives, they'd drone on about loyalty, about honor, about "the badge." He hated that kind of talk. It was all theatre. Everyone wanted money—just not everyone had the nerve to admit it. But this young manager-turned-mogul sitting in front of him? He wasn't pretending.
Arthur's tone stayed calm, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. "Good. I like honest people. Makes business much easier."
It was the kind of sentence that made Mendes a little uneasy. Leeds United had gone from near-bankruptcy to Premier League champions in just a few seasons under this man's guidance. That kind of transformation didn't come from playing it safe or thinking small. Mendes could tell—Arthur wasn't just ambitious. He was dangerous.
Arthur leaned back, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate ease. "In that case," he continued, "why don't we stop the polite talk? Just tell me which club Cristiano wants to go to. I don't see a problem, really. My coaching ability speaks for itself, and Leeds United's lineup? I think it's more than capable of matching Cristiano's ambitions. So that only leaves money. Tell me how much he's being offered, and I'll add—say—a third on top of that."
The words landed like a challenge. Mendes blinked, stunned for a heartbeat. Arthur wasn't joking—his voice was perfectly steady.
The air in the café thickened. Even Simeone, who had been quietly sipping his espresso at the side, looked up. Alves, seated near the window, pretended to be distracted by the street outside but couldn't help glancing over his shoulder.
Mendes opened his mouth, then closed it again. The memory of his earlier blunder—accidentally implying Arthur wasn't "qualified" enough for Cristiano—still burned like acid. He didn't want to make another mistake. He cleared his throat, searching for the right balance of caution and honesty.
"Mr. Morgan," he began carefully, "please don't take what I said earlier too harshly. You're right, you're sincere, and I can see you mean business. But… the matter with Cristiano is a little complicated. What I said earlier—if that got out—it could affect him. The press, the fans, you know how these things go."
Arthur tilted his head, his lips curving slightly. "Of course," he said smoothly. "Don't worry, Mr. Mendes. I know how to keep my mouth shut. But I think we both understand how this works. Information has value. You tell me what I want to know, and I'll make it worth your while."
There it was again—that quiet dominance. Mendes felt it pressing on him, not like intimidation, but like inevitability. He could feel the young manager wrapping the conversation around his little finger.
He hesitated a moment longer before exhaling through his nose. "Alright," he said finally, lowering his voice. "Cristiano wants to go to Real Madrid. And if nothing unexpected happens, Madrid will make a formal offer to Manchester United this winter."
Arthur leaned back in his chair again, a faint grin pulling at his lips. He didn't look surprised—if anything, he looked pleased, like a man who'd just confirmed a suspicion he'd been holding for a while.
"Sure enough," he murmured. "It seems I wasn't wrong after all."
His relaxed posture was in stark contrast to the tension that had hung in the air just moments earlier. Mendes studied him, eyebrows knitting together. How could he be so calm?
"Mr. Morgan," Mendes asked cautiously, leaning forward a little, "you… already knew about this?"
Arthur chuckled, running a thumb over the rim of his coffee cup. "Oh, come on, George," he said, calling him by his first name now, tone teasing. "You think I don't pay attention? Alex and I go way back. Every time we talk about Cristiano, he practically turns purple with anger, swearing someone's trying to steal him away. And Mr. Pérez—well, he's not exactly shy about his admiration for Cristiano either. Put two and two together, and you get the picture. It doesn't take a genius."
The casual way he said it—mixing humor and sharp insight—made Mendes chuckle despite himself. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly. Still, he muttered under his breath, "Then why make me say it?"
He hadn't expected anyone to hear, but Simeone—sitting a few seats away—burst into laughter before he could stop himself. The sound filled the room, breaking through the awkward quiet. Even Alves cracked a grin from the corner.
Arthur looked at Simeone, one brow raised, then smiled himself. The ice was broken. The atmosphere that had been taut as a wire just minutes ago now felt almost friendly.
When Simeone finally stopped laughing and wiped his eyes, Arthur turned his attention back to Mendes, his tone light but his gaze steady. "Mr. Mendes," he said slowly, "if it's Real Madrid, then fine—we can compete fairly. I'm not afraid of Pérez. You and I both know how the game works. And if you help me convince Cristiano—really convince him—I'll make sure you're well rewarded. Consider it… a thank-you fee for your efforts."
He smiled warmly, but there was something beneath the smile—steel hidden behind charm.
Mendes sat back, his mind spinning. He'd come here thinking he could control the conversation, that he could use this young manager to his advantage. Instead, he found himself being cornered—softly, politely, but completely.
Arthur Morgan was not like the other club owners. He didn't talk about history, pride, or emotion. He talked about business, value, leverage—and he did it with the calm confidence of a man who knew exactly how much power he had.
As the quiet hum of the café returned, Mendes realized something unsettling. The man sitting across from him wasn't just Leeds United's manager. He was building something bigger—a new kind of empire. And right now, he was inviting Mendes to be part of it.
*****
If this kind of promise came up during any other transfer negotiation, Mendes would probably be grinning like a cat in a cream factory. Deals like that were rare miracles in football — the kind of thing agents joked about when they wanted to cheer themselves up after a 2 a.m. call from a player demanding a private jet. Normally, this sort of talk meant an easy payday, and Mendes would've been more than happy to play along.
But this time, it wasn't just anyone.
Arthur wanted to buy Cristiano Ronaldo.
Now that was a problem.
Ever since Mendes had signed Cristiano, the Portuguese superstar had told him — repeatedly, almost religiously — that he dreamed of playing for Real Madrid. Not once or twice, but at least twenty times over the past five years. It was practically his personal gospel. Mendes could almost hear the echo of it in his head: "Real Madrid is my destiny."
And it wasn't just empty talk. Mendes knew the kid. When Cristiano said something with that fire in his eyes, he meant it.
So, sitting there across from Arthur, Mendes suddenly realized how absurd this was. Getting Cristiano to Leeds United was like convincing a seagull to live in a forest — you could try, but it was never going to happen willingly.
Still, Arthur wasn't a man you brushed off easily. Mendes could tell from the way he sat — straight-backed, calm, eyes sharp — that this was someone who didn't like the word "impossible." So, after carefully considering his words, Mendes decided honesty was the best (and safest) policy.
He leaned forward slightly, hands clasped. "Mr. Morgan, I have to tell you the truth," he began, choosing each word like a surgeon choosing his scalpel. "It's really… very difficult for you to buy Cristiano."
Arthur didn't say a thing. Not a twitch, not a frown. He simply raised his right hand — a small, subtle gesture — telling Mendes to continue.
That calmness was unnerving. The kind of calmness that made you feel like you were being measured. Mendes swallowed and pressed on.
"If you really want this transaction to go smoothly, we have to solve several problems. And to be honest… these problems are not easy ones." He paused briefly, as if organizing his thoughts. "First, there's the club. Let's not even discuss whether Ferguson would let him go — that alone is a mountain. But even if Manchester United agreed, you have to consider Cristiano's ambition. You mentioned it yourself — he's ambitious. Even if we ignore his childhood dream of playing for Real Madrid, in terms of global influence and club prestige, Leeds United and Real Madrid simply don't compare. That's reality, and there's no escaping it."
Arthur nodded quietly, expression calm. "Makes sense," he said simply. "Go on."
The tone was light, unbothered — almost encouraging. Mendes exhaled silently, feeling a bit more at ease. The man didn't seem offended or impulsive; that was a relief.
"The second issue," Mendes continued, "is Cristiano himself. You see, joining Real Madrid has been his dream since he was a boy. I've worked with him for years, and I can tell you — once he's set his heart on something, it's almost impossible to change his mind. He's not stubborn in a bad way, but when it comes to ambition… he's unshakable."
Arthur listened quietly, resting his hand under his chin, his expression giving away nothing. Mendes could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes.
"The third problem," Mendes said, shifting slightly in his chair, "is his family. Cristiano's sister and his mother, Dolores — they've had enough of England's gloomy weather. They've said it many times, in front of both Cristiano and me. They want to go back to the sunshine, to live somewhere warm, like Spain. And Cristiano listens to them. He's incredibly loyal to his family. When they say they'd prefer the Spanish sun over English rain, he takes that seriously."
Arthur stayed quiet, still watching him with that same unreadable calm. His eyes didn't waver. Mendes, growing slightly nervous again, decided to push through.
"Anything else?" Arthur asked finally, his tone measured, as though he were checking off a list.
"One last point," Mendes said, sitting back slightly.
"You say," Arthur replied, voice steady, inviting him to finish.
Mendes took a small sip of his coffee, his throat dry. He wasn't sure if it was from the talking or from the way Arthur seemed to be dissecting his every word. Then, after a deep breath, he began again, more serious this time.
"The last point — and this is the most important one. Even if we manage to solve all the problems I've just mentioned — the ambition, the family, the dream — Cristiano's contract still has three years left. If Ferguson doesn't approve the sale, there's absolutely nothing we can do. Your hope of signing him this year would be gone before it even started."
He paused briefly, watching Arthur's face. Still calm. Still unreadable.
"But let's imagine, for a moment, that we do convince United to sell," Mendes went on. "Then there's another issue — the Glazer family. Based on what I know about them, they'd never sell Cristiano quietly. They're businessmen, through and through. If they agree to sell, they'll make sure the entire world knows he's available. They'll put out the news, let it spread, and soon every major club will be in the mix — Real Madrid, Barcelona, Milan, even Chelsea. Everyone will want him."
Mendes gestured lightly with his hands as he spoke, as if trying to illustrate the chaos. "And when that happens, the price goes up, the competition gets fiercer, and everything changes."
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his tone. "In the end, things will go full circle. Facing offers from clubs with far more history, trophies, and global prestige than Leeds United… tell me, Mr. Morgan — what do you think Cristiano will choose at that time?"
Mendes let the question hang in the air like smoke, his eyes studying Arthur's expression for any hint of emotion — a frown, a sigh, a change in posture. But Arthur remained completely still.