Chapter 111: Watching a game

On March 29, with the eyes of Europe fixed on one of the season's biggest nights, Arsenal—England's lone representative in the Champions League—prepared to face Italian giants Juventus in the quarterfinals. The first leg was set to take place at the historic Highbury Stadium, and anticipation was sky-high. As kickoff approached, the stands buzzed with excitement. Reporters lined the tunnel, TV crews scanned the terraces, and fans from all corners of the world tuned in to watch. But in the VIP box, amid the sea of club executives, legends, and sponsors, sat a familiar face—Arthur, the young owner and head coach of Leeds United. Beside him was none other than Mino Raiola, the flamboyant agent who had recently become an increasingly influential figure around Elland Road. Their appearance together didn't go unnoticed. Whispers passed through the press room, and cameras occasionally panned to the two exchanging words, looking relaxed and oddly cheerful considering they were at a rival's ground. Their relationship had blossomed quickly. Just a few weeks earlier, Arthur had made Raiola an offer that most coaches would never dream of: an open invitation to expand his agency presence within the Leeds squad. That move had already paid dividends. Since then, three of Arthur's key first-team players—Piqué, Bale, and the in-form Falcao—had all signed on with Raiola as their official representative. It wasn't just a top-level recruitment either. Allen, Arthur's trusted right-hand man in charge of youth development, had also encouraged several promising academy players to do the same. And Raiola wasn't signing anyone blindly. He'd initially only focused on the big names—the players who were already making headlines. But once he visited Leeds in person and watched a youth match, everything changed. What he saw amazed him: raw talent, technical ability, and untapped potential. Especially in a group of Belgian teenagers who played with the confidence and intelligence far beyond their years. After just one afternoon watching from the sidelines, Raiola acted fast. Contracts were drawn up, calls were made, and by the end of the week, most of that youth squad had signed with him. "These kids," he told Arthur afterward, "are going to be the backbone of Belgium's national team one day." But even with all this progress, there was one thing Raiola couldn't wrap his head around—Arthur himself. In his experience, club owners and head coaches usually kept agents at arm's length. They didn't like interference. Agents were seen as greedy middlemen, always pushing for bigger salaries or whispering about transfers behind closed doors. Many treated them as enemies to be tolerated, not allies to be welcomed. But Arthur was different. He didn't just tolerate Raiola. He invited him in, gave him access to players, and even encouraged him to negotiate. After signing a wave of Leeds talent, Raiola had marched into Arthur's office with something close to admiration—and, in typical Raiola fashion, declared his loyalty. "If any club comes sniffing around my players behind your back, I'll report it to you immediately," he said. "If you say no, it's no. I won't put pressure on the boys. I won't play games. I'll work with you, not against you." Arthur raised an eyebrow, slightly amused. "That's thoughtful," he said casually, "but really—don't bother with all that." Raiola blinked. "What?" "If someone's offering," Arthur continued, "listen to them. Negotiate. Do what you do. Just bring me the numbers. If it benefits the club, we'll sell. If not, we don't. Simple as that." It was so unexpected, so against the norm, that Raiola didn't know what to say. Most coaches would have demanded loyalty or secrecy. Arthur, instead, offered transparency and partnership. From that moment on, Raiola was all in. He left the meeting not just impressed, but fully committed to Arthur's vision. This wasn't just a team he was managing—it was a long-term project, and Raiola wanted to be part of it. And now, sitting next to Arthur at Highbury, he was already thinking of his next mission. Ibrahimović. The powerful Swedish forward, one of Raiola's most high-profile clients, had long flirted with the idea of a move to England—but never quite pulled the trigger. Arthur, always looking ahead, had quietly asked Raiola whether a move to Leeds was possible. Now, with Raiola fully bought in, he was ready to make it happen. "When I'm back in Turin," he told Arthur, leaning over during the pre-match warmup, "I'll talk to Zlatan myself. I'll get him on board." Arthur nodded, eyes still on the pitch. "Just make sure he's not coming here for a farewell tour." Raiola laughed. "Don't worry. You'll get the real Zlatan." As the players lined up for kickoff, the crowd at Highbury roared. Champions League nights in North London were always special, but for Arthur and Raiola, the real game was happening off the pitch. And if things went according to plan, Leeds United's future might soon include one of the biggest names in world football. *** A few days ago, Arthur had casually picked up his phone and dialed Raiola's number with a simple invitation. "Come to London. Watch the Arsenal game with me." It wasn't a request—it was a statement. And Raiola knew better than to take it lightly. The moment the call ended, he wasted no time. He booked the earliest flight for the next day and arrived in London ahead of schedule, determined not to keep Arthur waiting. For a man like Raiola—who prided himself on controlling situations—this kind of urgency was rare. But Arthur was different. Young, ambitious, and already changing the landscape of English football. When he spoke, people listened. Now, the two of them were seated in the VIP suite at Highbury. The atmosphere was thick with tension and excitement. The Champions League quarterfinal between Arsenal and Juventus was minutes from kickoff, but Raiola's mind was elsewhere—caught between admiration and anxiety as he replayed his last conversation with Zlatan Ibrahimović over and over in his head. Arthur stood by the large French window, arms crossed, staring down at the pitch below. His expression was unreadable. Suddenly, without turning around, he spoke. "Mino," Arthur said, his tone calm but direct. "Since our last phone call... have you spoken to Zlatan? Has his attitude changed?" Raiola straightened up immediately. This was the moment. The question he'd been preparing for. He cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly. "Arthur, he's still undecided. He's conflicted, to be honest." Arthur turned slowly, now facing him. Raiola continued, more carefully now. "It's the team. The lineup. He still thinks Juventus are more competitive. You know how he is—ambitious, driven, always chasing trophies. At his age, he's not swayed by money anymore. He wants to win." Arthur didn't reply. He simply stared, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. Raiola noticed the subtle shift and hurried to add, "But don't worry! There's still time. The season isn't over yet, and we've got the World Cup coming after. Just give me a bit more space to work. I believe I can bring him around." Arthur said nothing at first. He simply walked back to his seat and sat down, his gaze now fixed on the center circle of the pitch. He didn't look upset—but he wasn't satisfied either. Raiola could read that much. His thoughts drifted back to the dinner he'd had with Ibrahimović a few weeks ago. They had met in Turin. A quiet restaurant tucked away from the usual paparazzi spots. Over a bottle of wine and a massive plate of seafood, Raiola had finally brought up Arthur's interest. "Zlatan," he'd said, "Leeds want you. Arthur's building something real. And the salary—well, let's just say you won't complain." Zlatan didn't even look up. He simply reached for his phone, opened a football app, and checked the Premier League standings. "Leeds?" he scoffed after a glance. "They're mid-table. I'm not interested in playing for a team that can't even qualify for the Europa League." Raiola had expected that. He knew Zlatan too well—his pride, his ego, his obsession with legacy. So he didn't push. He just leaned back and sipped his wine. "I understand," he had said calmly. "But let's wait. The season's not over yet." Zlatan didn't respond, and the subject was dropped. But something about the way he put his phone down told Raiola it wasn't a definitive no. After the meal, Raiola immediately relayed the conversation to Arthur. The rejection was clear, but Arthur didn't take it personally. He understood. Football was about timing. And back then, Leeds hadn't yet exploded into form. But now? Now they were climbing fast. Momentum was on their side. And Raiola wasn't blind—he saw the shift in Zlatan's tone the next time he brought it up. This time, when he mentioned Leeds again, Zlatan didn't laugh. He didn't reject it outright. Instead, he raised an eyebrow and said, "Maybe. Let's see where they finish." It was a small change—but to Raiola, it meant everything. In this world, no player moves unless they want to. An agent could only influence, never decide. The door had been shut before. Now it was cracked open. And that crack was all Raiola needed. Back in the VIP box, with the sound of the crowd rising as the teams walked onto the pitch, Raiola turned to Arthur again. "I'm serious," he said, voice firmer now. "He's thinking about it. He won't say it out loud yet, but I can feel it. Just give me time. If you make the Champions League... I'll get it done." Arthur nodded once, eyes still on the field. "Good," he said. "Because I don't chase players, Mino. I build something they want to be a part of." Raiola smiled. That was the difference. Most clubs begged. Arthur just made them want in. And if Leeds kept climbing, if this project continued to rise, even a giant like Zlatan Ibrahimović wouldn't be able to ignore it for much longer. Arthur's expression finally began to relax after hearing Raiola's explanation. The tension in his jaw eased, and a faint smirk appeared at the corner of his mouth. He seemed to have remembered something—something he hadn't spoken about yet. Then he said, almost lazily, "It's fine. It's nearly time. Give it a month, then ask Zlatan again. I'm sure he'll agree to the contract I offered." Raiola blinked. Wait, what? A month? What kind of logic was that? Why would Zlatan change his mind in a month? He opened his mouth to ask but paused. Arthur had already turned his back again, returning to the wide window overlooking the stadium. Clearly, he wasn't in the mood to explain. Raiola sat there, scratching his head internally. Something was up. Arthur obviously knew something—he always did—but whatever it was, he wasn't sharing it today. So Raiola did what he did best: shut up, watched, and took mental notes. Then, quietly, he stood up and walked over to stand beside Arthur at the glass. The view from the VIP box was perfect. Down on the pitch, the players were beginning to emerge from the tunnel. Arsenal in their famous red-and-white kits. Juventus, decked out in black and white, looking every bit the European powerhouse. This wasn't just a match—it was a clash between two elite sides, two different philosophies, and two massive legacies. Arthur's eyes didn't blink as the roar of the Emirates crowd erupted around them. But inside, his mind was drifting—not to Zlatan, not to Raiola, but to something else entirely. When the Champions League quarter-final draw had been made, Arthur had seen the fixtures immediately. Juventus versus Arsenal. The moment he saw it, something clicked in his memory—long buried, almost forgotten. Barcelona were the eventual winners of this year's Champions League. He remembered that much. They had taken out Chelsea in the previous round. But it wasn't them he had come to see today. It was Arsenal. This Arsenal side, on this night, in this specific tie. Because this was a classic. A game that would go down in Champions League history. One of those matches you remembered even a decade later—not just for the result, but for the intensity, the drama, the sheer footballing quality on display. Arthur hadn't flown out just for Raiola. That was part of it, of course—he'd hoped to move things forward with Ibrahimović, maybe even get a face-to-face after the game. But that wasn't necessary anymore. The way things were going with Leeds, he was confident the timing would handle itself. So he decided to enjoy the show. He leaned slightly forward, eyes focused as the players took their positions. Juventus had the strongest squad in Europe at the time, filled with experienced internationals and star names across the pitch. But Arsenal had something else—speed, youth, and on this night, determination. Arthur exhaled quietly. "Let's see how they pulled this off..." And with that, the referee blew the whistle, and the game began.