Chapter 115: Liverpool poaching again?

To be honest, Arthur's caution was completely unnecessary. Given Leeds United's meteoric rise this season, European giants were already circling like sharks. The moment the domestic season wrapped up, it felt like every major club wanted a slice of Leeds United's talent before the World Cup even kicked off. Alan had practically turned into a human fire extinguisher, trying to put out the flames of transfer inquiries that were pouring in from all directions. Arthur's phone buzzed with messages from Alan at all hours of the day, sometimes with four or five emails just in a single morning. Manchester United wanted one of the midfielders. Inter Milan had been poking around their teenage winger. Even Bayern had sent someone just to "talk casually" over coffee. Arthur, however, wasn't budging. "Reject them all," he told Alan, calmly and confidently. "Let's wait until the World Cup starts next month. If our boys do well there, their prices won't just rise — they'll double." Alan had sighed heavily over the phone. "You're a ruthless negotiator." "No," Arthur replied. "I'm just not stupid." By mid-May, with the season finally over, Arthur took a long-overdue breather at home. A full week without training, matchday prep, or media duties felt like a vacation. But that didn't last long. On the morning of May 17th, he landed in Paris. It wasn't just a casual visit. He had dinner plans with Florentino Pérez — former president of Real Madrid — and afterward, they'd be heading to the Stade de France to watch the Champions League Final: Arsenal vs. Barcelona. Arthur had known Florentino for over a year now. The two had hit it off during last summer's transfer window when Real Madrid had briefly shown interest in one of Leeds' academy players. They stayed in touch ever since, often sharing thoughts on football, transfers, and the chaos of managing big personalities. This season, however, hadn't been kind to Florentino. Real Madrid's disappointing campaign came to a head when they were knocked out by Arsenal in the Champions League Round of 16. By February, the pressure was too much, and Florentino stepped down from his post. When Arthur heard the news, he had called immediately, offering support and empathy. That simple gesture earned him the old man's respect. Tonight, they were just two friends watching football again. Inside a private suite at the stadium, plates of steak and wine glasses clinked as they chatted about the match ahead. As tradition demanded, they made a little bet — €100 on the final result. Florentino hesitated for a moment before placing his chips on Arsenal, the very team that had embarrassed his Madrid side. Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?" he teased. "They're missing Reyes, and Henry's been carrying that team for months." Florentino gave a half-smile. "Call it emotional damage. At least if they win, I can pretend Madrid lost to the champions." Arthur chuckled and, with a sigh, reluctantly picked Barcelona. "Fine. I'll take the Catalans. Not that I want to, but someone has to win this bet." The game kicked off just as the sun began to set over the Paris sky, casting golden light across the pitch. But by the 18th minute, Florentino already looked like a man who'd made a grave miscalculation. It started with a moment of brilliance from Ronaldinho — one of those trademark turns where he glided past a defender like water through a crack. Just outside the penalty area, he slipped an incisive through ball to Eto'o, who darted between the centre-backs like a knife through butter. Jens Lehmann, charging out of goal like a madman, tried to stop the inevitable. But as Eto'o flicked the ball past him, the German keeper clipped the striker's ankle and sent him tumbling to the ground. The crowd roared, players surrounded the referee, and Giuly smashed the loose ball into the net. But the whistle had already gone. Goal disallowed. Instead, the referee reached into his back pocket and produced a red card. Straight dismissal for Lehmann. Arsenal were down to ten men, less than 20 minutes into the most important match of their season. Florentino buried his face in his hands. "Why do I do this to myself?" Arthur tried — and failed — to hide his smirk. "You had first pick, old man. Don't look at me." Wenger, on the touchline, looked furious but had no choice. He gestured to Robert Pires, who trudged off reluctantly, and brought on substitute keeper Manuel Almunia. Tactical reshuffling began immediately, with Henry dropping deeper and Ljungberg asked to cover more ground. Arthur leaned back in his seat. "Told you Barcelona were the safer bet." Florentino waved him off. "There's still time." But deep down, they both knew — the red card had changed everything. Just when Florentino had started to relax and quietly whisper that Barcelona would run away with it, something completely unexpected happened. In the 37th minute, against all odds — and with just ten men on the pitch — it was Arsenal who took the lead. A free kick was awarded out on the right flank after Eboué was brought down just past the halfway line. Thierry Henry stepped up, his face calm, focused. He glanced toward the penalty area, then whipped in a curling delivery that floated past the first defender and into Barcelona's danger zone. There, rising like a tower, was Sol Campbell. Campbell muscled past Oleguer at the far post, meeting the ball with the full force of his forehead. The header was powerful, low, and perfectly placed — smashing into the bottom corner beyond Valdés' desperate dive. The Stade de France erupted. Red-and-white scarves flew into the air. Arsenal fans went wild. Arthur, seated next to Florentino in their VIP box, blinked in disbelief. Florentino, on the other hand, stood up so fast he nearly knocked over his wine glass. "¡Vamos!" he shouted, practically punching the air. "They've done it!" Arthur tilted his head with a dry smile. "I knew you were bad luck for Barcelona." Florentino beamed like a man already counting his hundred euros. "It's destiny. Madrid lost to the champions, after all!" Arthur gave a shrug. "Still sixty minutes left. You know how this goes." Halftime came, and the conversation didn't stop. Florentino was animated now, smiling, gesturing with his hands, reliving Campbell's goal frame by frame like he'd scored it himself. Arthur listened with the patience of a man already expecting chaos. As the second half kicked off, Barcelona began pushing forward relentlessly. Henry had a golden chance to make it 2–0 not long after the restart, but Valdés got a hand to it. Still, Arsenal's lead held. Until the 76th minute. That was when Frank Rijkaard made his move — and it turned out to be the moment everything changed. Andrés Iniesta, who had been brought on in the second half, took the ball down the left and threaded a perfect pass between two Arsenal players, splitting their shape open. His timing was flawless — the kind of pass only a player like Iniesta could spot, let alone execute. Henrik Larsson, the veteran striker who'd come off the bench, received it with ease and composure. He didn't panic. He didn't blast it. He simply nudged it into the path of Eto'o, who had ghosted into space inside the left channel of the box. Eto'o didn't hesitate. From a tight angle, he fired a low, precise shot that zipped past Almunia's outstretched foot and kissed the inside of the post. Goal. Barcelona were level, 1–1. Florentino froze mid-sentence. Arthur leaned back slowly. "Still think you've won that hundred?" Florentino grumbled something under his breath in Spanish. But the nightmare wasn't over for him yet. Just five minutes later — in the 81st — Barcelona struck again. This time, it started on the right. Larsson once again showed why he was one of the most intelligent forwards of his generation. He received the ball with his back to goal, drew a defender in, then slipped a perfect square pass across the top of the box. Belletti, storming forward from right-back like a freight train, latched onto it. No one had picked him up. He took one touch, powered into the area, then blasted a shot from another sharp angle. The ball flew between Almunia's legs and into the net. 2–1. Arthur didn't even celebrate. He just turned to Florentino with a half-smile and raised an eyebrow. Florentino looked like someone had just handed him a tax audit. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered, slumping in his chair. Arthur chuckled. "This is football, Florentino. You never count your chickens in the first half." With Barcelona now in front, the energy in the stadium flipped. Arsenal tried everything. They threw players forward, pushed both full-backs high, and pumped cross after cross into the box. Henry had another half-chance, but his legs were heavy. Ljungberg darted through the middle, only to be caught by a last-ditch tackle from Puyol. Even Fabregas tried to launch a few long-range efforts, but the shots either sailed wide or were swallowed up by Valdés. The minutes ticked away. Arsenal's ten men had fought bravely, but the damage was done. When the final whistle blew, Barcelona's bench exploded with joy. Rijkaard raised both arms. Ronaldinho sank to his knees, smiling skyward. Eto'o raced toward the fans, pumping his fists. Barcelona were champions of Europe. Arthur exhaled slowly and reached across the table with a grin. Florentino groaned and handed him the €100 bill, shaking his head. "You always win these damn bets." Arthur folded the note with a grin. "It's not luck. It's just good sense." But as the stadium celebrated in blue and garnet, even Florentino had to admit: it had been a great match — one worthy of a final. **** The very next morning after returning to Leeds, Arthur finally snapped out of his post-season laziness. The sun was out, the birds were chirping, and for once, Arthur didn't hit the snooze button ten times. He shaved, dressed properly, and walked into Thorp Arch with the determination of a man who had finally remembered he was in charge of a professional football club. But just as he sat down in his office, not even managing to turn on his computer or sip the coffee on his desk, the door knocked—and in came James Milner. Arthur looked up, slightly surprised. Milner walking in unannounced wasn't unusual—he was the club captain, after all—but the timing was odd. Arthur distinctly remembered the FA confirming not long ago that Milner had been called up by Sven-Göran Eriksson for England's World Cup squad heading to Germany. That should've kept him busy. Still, Arthur greeted him warmly and handed over a glass of water. "James," Arthur began casually, leaning back in his chair, "has the national team given you your travel dates yet?" Milner nodded, somewhat hesitantly. "Yeah, boss. I'm flying out to Germany the day after tomorrow." Arthur gave him a smile. "Big summer ahead, then. So what brings you in today?" Milner shifted in his seat. He looked unsure. For someone usually calm and composed on and off the pitch, this wasn't like him. "Uh... yeah, I did want to talk to you about something," Milner mumbled, eyes down on his glass, avoiding Arthur's gaze. Arthur's brow twitched. He knew Milner well. The lad was a classic English workhorse: never flashy, but always reliable. He didn't speak much unless it mattered. When he did, it was usually straight to the point. This sudden awkwardness felt... out of character. A thought popped into Arthur's head—one he didn't like. Has someone contacted him behind the scenes? He leaned forward a little, folding his arms on the desk. Just as he opened his mouth to ask, Milner inhaled sharply, as if mentally bracing himself, and sat up straight. "Boss," he said, finally looking him in the eye. "A club has contacted my agent." Arthur's expression didn't change much, but a faint sigh echoed silently in the back of his mind. Of course, he thought. Knew it. Still, he nodded with a neutral expression. "Go on." Truth be told, the idea of losing Milner stung more than Arthur wanted to admit. Not because he was irreplaceable from a technical standpoint—Arthur had already brought in players like Alonso and Rivaldo during the winter window—but because Milner had been with him the longest. The two of them had come a long way together, and Arthur admired him: disciplined, versatile, grounded. A player you could trust whether he was playing left-back or right-wing, and who never once made a fuss about it. But now... now it was different. Milner's minutes had dropped since the winter, and Arthur had noticed it too. The kid had just turned twenty. Sitting on the bench during your prime development years could eat away at anyone. Arthur kept his tone level. "James, what's your take on this? I'm telling you honestly—you're still part of my plans. But if you feel differently, I'll respect that." Milner seemed to relax a little. Getting that off his chest had clearly lifted some weight. He ran a hand through his hair and let out a dry laugh. "I've been thinking about it for days," he admitted. "Didn't want to come here and say this. I love Leeds. I really do. I didn't think I'd want to leave." Arthur nodded, listening intently. Milner went on, his voice calm but firm. "But I want more game time, boss. That's it. I know the team's evolving, and we've brought in some great players. But I want to play, and if I can't get enough chances here... then maybe it's time." Arthur understood. Completely. It wasn't a betrayal—it was just reality. A young footballer needs the pitch more than the bench. Milner had a World Cup ahead of him. The last thing he needed was another season as a utility backup. "I hear you," Arthur said, tapping a pen against his desk. "And I don't hold it against you at all. But tell me—who's the club that contacted your agent?" Milner didn't hesitate. "Liverpool." Arthur blinked. Then leaned back in his chair, lips pursed. "Liverpool, huh." He wasn't angry, not really. Just... mildly irritated. Of all the clubs, it had to be them. Arthur ran a hand over his face. "Let me guess—Rafa wants you?" Milner nodded. Arthur chuckled dryly. "Well, that explains the timing. Spanish manager, needs someone who can play six positions and doesn't complain." He stood up, paced slowly toward the window, and stared out at the training pitch where a few youth players were messing around with cones.