"Acting?"
"Yes!" Arthur nodded unconsciously, the single syllable carrying more amusement than explanation. He sat back against the soft hotel chair, voice steady as if the whole idea were trivial theatre rather than a crafted move in a larger game. "Mr. Perez, I'm in Switzerland at the moment."
"Switzerland?" Florentino's voice, filtered over the line, held an edge of puzzlement. There was an image of the old man's brow furrowing on the other end of the call—an audible, human reaction that made the conversation feel immediate and small in the way only phone calls between conspirators ever do. "Switzerland? Why Switzerland all of a sudden?"
Arthur let the name hang for a beat, enjoying how the syllable landed. It was a neutral fact, almost casual—yet the casual considered the entire chessboard. "Well, Mendes is here too. I just ran into him for a cup of coffee." He said it almost breezily, the kind of remark that could be filed away as nothing by those who weren't looking for secrets.
Florentino's intake of breath was audible. "What the hell!? Mendes is here too?" The surprise sharpened. You could hear the incredulity in his voice, like a man who'd just found two of his rivals in the same room and suddenly needed to re-evaluate his position on the board. "Arthur! You're at it again behind my back, aren't you? It's not enough to poke me, now you're poking Ferguson too! Be careful—you'll have the English media on your neck before you know it!"
Arthur smiled into the phone, the line not carrying the expression but carrying the relaxed cadence of a man who delighted in dependable disruption. "Meet by chance! We just met by chance!" he said lightly, and even the phrasing was an art—equal parts truth and plausible deniability. "Interlaken is a tourist city, after all. I was on vacation. Mendes was traveling too. We're all people in the same circle—it's only natural to sit down and have a cup of coffee, right?"
"Get out! You're lying!" Florentino barked, a laugh shot through with the sort of irritation that only comes when plans tangle with pride. He pushed back, refusing the comfortable fiction Arthur presented. Yet despite his tone, he listened. He always listened. "So… you and Mendes have reached an agreement?"
"Basically, yes." Arthur's answer was crisp, measured. He didn't embellish; there was no grandstanding. He let that short admission sit like a pebble dropped in still water, then watched the ripples. "That's why I need your help, Mr. Perez. Mendes mentioned that Cristiano has always dreamed of joining Real Madrid, and Calderón is eager to bring him in as well. If Real Madrid officially makes a move this winter, my plan to bring him to Leeds will likely fail before it even begins."
There was a long beat on the line. Florentino had spent decades immersed in the politics of a top club; he felt moves like tremors. "Damn! You move fast!" he said finally, both irritated and a touch impressed. He remembered the bold accusations Arthur had thrown months ago—accusations that had landed like pebbles in a calm pond and then turned the surface to ripples. Arthur had a tendency to orchestrate those ripples with a surgeon's patience. He was, despite protestations, effective.
Florentino's voice tightened as he tried to be practical. "Then I can't help you. The winter break is just over a month away. Even if I move quickly, I can't remove Calderón from office in just over a month. It's impossible."
Arthur's chuckle drifted across the line, casual and unhurried. "Mr. Perez, don't be so anxious. Mendes can help delay Calderón's offer. After this winter, he likely won't have the bandwidth to focus on Ronaldo, right?"
There was a thoughtful silence. Florentino, weighing the feasibility, considered the window. "Yes… a general offensive should be launched in March at the latest," he admitted, conceding the timetable as if the timeline were a thing that could be pushed and pulled like a curtain.
"That's the point. So you don't need to worry. The help I need is very simple. After you return to power, just make it public: Real Madrid has no intention of introducing Cristiano."
"Ah?" The exhalation from Florentino underlined his immediate concern. It was the sound of a man whose strategic options were being quietly narrowed. Publicly renouncing pursuit of a superstar is the sort of action that reshapes campaigns and alliances. For someone of Florentino's stature, such a statement could feel like cutting off a lifeline at the moment it was most useful.
Arthur watched the hesitation like one might watch a player pause at the edge of the box—dangerous, calculative, ready to exploit. He could almost picture Florentino's face, the quick movement behind the eyes as the old man ran scenarios. Arthur stayed soft, patient. "Mr. Perez, can you help me with this?" he asked lightly, letting the tone suggest triviality while the content remained seismic.
Florentino's reply carried the tug-of-war within himself. "Ah… help… I can help." There was an audible reluctance in the confession. "But… Arthur, Cristiano is important to me!"
Arthur's follow-up was immediate. "Is it because of the superstar policy?"
The question landed right where it had to. Florentino inhaled, then conceded with weary candor. "Exactly. After Calderón steps down, I need to go through the election to take office. Kaka and Cristiano are in my plan. But Kaka… you bought him. He's off the table for now. That leaves only Cristiano. If you do this favor for me, you're helping me manage my own campaign." There it was: the bare mechanics of politics—promises, placations, trophies as currency.
Arthur listened, not interrupting. He had predicted that grievance, that pragmatic attachment to marquee signings. He let Florentino have the space he needed to confess, to name the stakes, because once the stakes were on the table, Arthur could trade them better. He had already imagined the contours of the deal in his head: how to extract concessions without breaking the surface tension. He smiled inwardly, satisfied.
"This is not a problem, Mr. Perez!" Arthur said with an ease that suggested he saw no obstacle that couldn't be smoothed. He let his voice edge playful, almost coaxing. "If you want a star, Leeds United has plenty. I can pick one at random right now! Isn't a choice like that far more significant than Cristiano?"
The pause on the line lengthened as Florentino mulled the notion, weighing the weirdness of being offered a star as if one might be plucked from a garden. Arthur continued, adding context in the understated way he always did—placing facts as punctuation to a logic that moved inevitably forward.
"Ronaldo's peak season with Manchester United was 2007–2008," Arthur said plainly, and his voice carried the memory of games, stats, nights under floodlights. "He carried them to the Community Shield, the League, and the Champions League with nearly perfect performance. But last season, Leeds United intervened, and now he's missing the honors he should have had. This season… with Leeds in play, his value doesn't even compare to some players on my roster!"
Florentino's reaction was audible: a shift in tone from tactical to personal, because managers and presidents measure legacy in trophies and headlines. "Then next summer… you will bring Kaka?" he asked, the hope in the question marginally more honest than the rest of his calculation.
Arthur's response was immediate and firm. "Don't even think about it! Kaka is staying at Leeds United for at least two to three years." The refusal was gentle but absolute, the kind of answer a man gives when the outcome is already decided. "But besides Kaka, I can offer Zlatan or Fernando up front, and midfielders too. I can sell you a player if you like."
There was a small expletive—a human sound, a flash of frustration—on the other end. "Damn, I knew it… Well… Fernando is unlikely, coming from Atlético Madrid's youth system. Zlatan… that might be possible." Florentino's calculus kept shifting, catching on possibilities as they came within reach.
Arthur said nothing, savoring the private victory. He listened while Florentino muttered and mused, the other man's improvisation giving away as much as it revealed: which deals he considered attainable, which names made his pulse quicken. Arthur let the old man work his own tentacles into the possibility, content to watch the threads intertwine.
He let the call run a few more beats, hearing Florentino's voice thin into contemplation. The old strategist's mumbling was a window into alliance-building—one of those quiet bureaucratic ballets that ran behind every headline about transfers. And Arthur, never one to interrupt a man plotting his own salvation, simply smiled on his end of the line.
Arthur did not disturb him, but just listened quietly to Florentino's mumbling, with a smile of success on his face...
*****
The call with Florentino ended on a cheerful note — the kind of cheerful that only happens when two schemers discover they're perfectly aligned. Arthur had played his cards with a grin and a promise: two of his brightest stars were up for grabs if Florentino would, in turn, back his grand plan. The old man didn't just agree — he nearly purred through the phone, his giddy laughter sounding like champagne being uncorked.
Arthur hung up feeling like a man who'd just sold air for gold.
Florentino Pérez — the man who once assembled an entire galaxy of football stars just because he could — was now his ally. That was like befriending a banker who never said no. Arthur remembered clearly that when Florentino returned to Real Madrid in his previous life, the man had blown through 261 million euros like a child with pocket money in a candy shop. With a wallet like that behind him, Arthur didn't need to worry about whether his players would sell. The question was merely how high the bidding would go.
He could already imagine the press headlines:
"Mr. Morgan's Leeds: Factory of Football Gold."
The next day, after a surprisingly pleasant trip to Switzerland (pleasant meaning Arthur didn't have to attend another UEFA dinner full of bureaucrats who talked about "fair play" while signing sponsorships with betting companies), he and his three trusty companions returned to England.
At Thorp Arch, the training grounds were beginning to hum again. The players who hadn't been called up for international duty were trickling back, looking both rested and guilty — that unique combination of "I've had too many barbecues, boss" and "I promise I did some light jogging."
Arthur, never one to overwork a good mood, decided to let Simeone and Rivaldo run the sessions for a couple of days. Both men had their strengths — Simeone was the drill sergeant, Rivaldo the philosopher-artist — and together they made sure the lads remembered that football, despite the glamour, was still mostly sweat and repetition.
Arthur, meanwhile, decided to give himself a small holiday. Two blissful days with Shakira — his Colombian sunshine. They spent them the way normal people wish they could: late breakfasts, aimless drives, and music that filled the house. She teased him about his coaching stress wrinkles; he retaliated by pretending to choreograph her next music video using football tactics.
By the third day, Arthur was recharged and back at work, his usual spark in place. And it was good timing, because Leeds United had a packed week ahead.
October 20 — Elland Road, Leeds United vs. Portsmouth.
On paper, it looked simple: Leeds, the rising juggernaut, playing at home against Portsmouth — a team that had punched above its weight so far but wasn't exactly terrifying. The problem? Most of Arthur's key players had just returned from international duty on the 18th, exhausted, jet-lagged, and in some cases, still smelling of airport coffee.
And four days later, they'd be flying to Ukraine to face Dynamo Kyiv in the Champions League. The schedule was brutal.
Arthur stood in his office that morning, coffee in hand, staring at the lineup board. The magnets with his starters' names seemed to glare back at him, begging for rest. He sighed and muttered, "You lads played ninety minutes for your countries; I'll give your hamstrings a day off."
He decided to rotate heavily — rest the main stars, give the benchwarmers a shot. It was risky, sure, but in his mind, Portsmouth at home was manageable.
The pundits agreed. The fans agreed. Even the tea lady at Thorp Arch told him, "Easy three points, Mr. Morgan."
Oh, how wrong they all were.
From the first whistle, things went sideways. Portsmouth didn't arrive at Elland Road to admire the stadium; they came to mug Leeds for points. Within twenty minutes, Arthur was on the touchline muttering words that would have made a sailor blush.
Two–nil down. At home.
And to make matters worse, Portsmouth's second goal came from a penalty after Cannavaro — yes, that Cannavaro, World Cup hero, defensive rock, veteran extraordinaire — went in for a desperate slide tackle that was about as subtle as a chainsaw. He clipped Benjani's heels clean off, and the referee didn't hesitate. Red card. Penalty. Disaster.
Arthur's jaw clenched as he watched the Italian trudge off.
He'd sensed trouble early. Cannavaro had looked sluggish from the start, struggling to cope with Portsmouth's lightning-fast forwards — John Utaka and Benjani were tearing around like caffeinated greyhounds. The first goal had already come from Utaka skinning Cannavaro alive down the flank and crossing for a tap-in. Arthur had considered substituting him at halftime. The red card made that decision for him.
Cannavaro, to his credit, didn't argue. He raised his hands, looked at the referee, and for a second seemed ready to protest — then sighed and dropped it. His shoulders sagged as he trudged toward the bench. When he reached Arthur, he paused.
"Sorry, boss," he muttered, voice thick with regret. "I thought I could get the ball."
Arthur gave him a long look — the kind that said, you've been brilliant for me, but you're not immortal. He patted him on the shoulder.
"It's alright, Fabio. Everyone misjudges once in a while. Go hit the showers."
Cannavaro nodded and walked off, the weight of age visible in every step. Arthur exhaled. Rivaldo's recent chat about "players losing their fire" flickered in his mind, but there was no time for reflection now. They were two down and a man short.
He turned to Simeone. "Right, Diego, time for damage control. Reus off, Hummels in. Tighten the backline, go compact. Tell the lads to stop pretending they're Barcelona."
Simeone grinned, half-crazed as always. "Defend like devils, then?"
"Exactly. And leave Poldi up front — he can chase shadows for a bit."
The message was clear: bunker down, counter when possible, and pray.
The next twenty minutes were pure survival. Portsmouth, sensing blood, pressed hard. But De Gea — still baby-faced but already frighteningly composed — pulled off a couple of solid saves. Alves barked orders in defense like a man possessed. Leeds managed to limp into halftime without conceding again.
Arthur stormed into the dressing room like a thundercloud.
"What was that?" he barked. "You lot play like you've never met each other! Portsmouth! Two goals! At home!"
The room fell silent, broken only by the sound of Simeone pacing like a hyena.
Arthur jabbed a finger toward Podolski. "And you — I've seen lampposts move faster. You're off."
Podolski scowled but said nothing. He knew better.
Arthur pointed to Adriano, who was stretching by the wall. "You're on. Go out there and remind everyone what a striker looks like."
Adriano smirked. "About time."
Arthur cracked a reluctant grin. "If you score, dinner's on me. If you don't, I'm feeding you to Diego."
"Motivating as always, boss," Adriano laughed.
The second half began with Leeds defending deep, waiting for their chance. Portsmouth, still with the numerical advantage, pressed forward — perhaps too eagerly.
By the 70th minute, Arthur was starting to think a 0–2 loss wouldn't be the end of the world — until fate decided to throw him a bone.
Portsmouth launched another attack. Utaka cut inside and unleashed a shot from the edge of the box. De Gea saved it cleanly, then immediately hurled the ball halfway up the pitch toward Adriano, who was lurking near the halfway line like a coiled spring.
Adriano muscled Campbell aside — the Portsmouth veteran looked like he'd just tried to tackle a rhinoceros — spun, and sprinted toward goal.
Arthur could only gape. "Go on, son, go on!"
Adriano powered into the box, the defenders trailing behind like bad memories. James, the Portsmouth keeper, rushed out to close the angle. Adriano faked left, slid right, and with the calm of a man tying his shoelaces, rolled the ball into the empty net.
2–1.
Elland Road exploded.
Arthur punched the air, nearly spilled his coffee, then turned to Simeone. "Did you see that? That's why I pay him in steak dinners!"
"Forget steak," Simeone roared. "Give him a statue!"
But Arthur wasn't celebrating long. Portsmouth's coach, Mousinho, clearly panicked by the shift in momentum, started waving his arms and yelling for his players to drop back. Within minutes, their entire team had retreated behind the halfway line.
Arthur couldn't believe his eyes. "They've parked the bus! We're the ones with ten men!"
Sure enough, the sight was almost comic — Portsmouth defending deep with everyone, including their strikers, while Leeds, down a man, suddenly looked like the attacking side. Alves and Hummels pushed high, the midfielders pressed up, and Arthur's dugout turned into a tactical warzone.
He could feel the seconds bleeding away. Every half-chance fizzled. Adriano was double-marked, Camoranesi was kicking corners into a sea of blue shirts, and Arthur's throat was hoarse from shouting.
Then came stoppage time. One final corner.
Arthur stood on the sideline, arms folded, muttering, "Alright, one last miracle."
Camoranesi jogged over, placed the ball, and sent in a perfect curling delivery toward the near post — right where Adriano had positioned himself.
Adriano, still wrestling with Distin, leapt like a man possessed. The header was brutal — pure power, pure timing. The ball slammed past James into the top corner.
2–2.
The roar that followed shook the stadium. Adriano sprinted toward the corner flag, arms out, grinning like a child on Christmas morning. His teammates mobbed him, and even the normally stoic Hummels leapt onto his back.
Arthur just stood there, arms wide, laughing. "Unbelievable! Ten men and we're the ones scoring in stoppage time!"
The referee barely let Portsmouth touch the ball again before blowing the final whistle.
Leeds United 2, Portsmouth 2.
A point rescued from the jaws of humiliation.
As the players trudged off, Arthur clapped Adriano on the back. "You saved my dignity out there, mate. I was already composing my resignation letter."
Adriano chuckled. "Keep it. You'll need it after Kyiv."
Arthur grinned. "Cheeky. But you've earned yourself a steak, no salad."
He looked around at his team — tired, sweaty, but smiling — and couldn't help but feel proud. It wasn't pretty, but it was Leeds. Scrappy, relentless, stubborn to the end.
And as he left the pitch, Arthur thought to himself, Maybe this is how champions are built — one ugly miracle at a time.