Chapter 123: Transfer Window Opens

After spending nearly two weeks enjoying the World Cup alongside Uncle Marcus and Julian, Arthur's relaxing football holiday came to an abrupt end. On June 25, the Premier League's summer transfer window officially opened. And just a day later, Arthur's phone started ringing off the hook. From June 26 onward, Allen — Leeds United's ever-busy general manager — was calling at least five times a day. Morning, afternoon, evening. Sometimes even during matches. No greetings. No pleasantries. Just straight into transfer updates and demands for decisions. "Arthur, they're pushing for a response on the loan deal." "Arthur, we have to finalize this clause now." "Arthur, pick up your phone, I swear I'll fly to Germany and drag you back myself!" The dream of watching the entire World Cup from a box seat faded fast. Arthur eventually surrendered. After catching Germany's intense quarter-final clash with Argentina, he reluctantly packed his bags and flew back to Leeds. Still, he wasn't heartless. Before flying out, he took one last detour — grabbing dinner with Mascherano, who had just suffered the sting of elimination. Argentina had fallen short, and Arthur's favorite bulldog midfielder looked crushed. So Arthur insisted on pulling him aside for a quiet meal, offering comfort, wine, and, of course, a blunt Yorkshire-style pep talk. "Next time, you'll win the damn thing. Now eat your steak." Back in Leeds, Arthur gave himself a single day to rest — and even that felt like a luxury. The following morning, Allen showed up at his door with that usual look on his face: all business, no nonsense. Together, they headed straight to Elland Road to inspect the early stages of the stadium expansion project. Arthur had been itching to see it. Allen had already handled most of the paperwork and the bidding process while Arthur was away — working tirelessly behind the scenes. Once Marcus Anderson confirmed his verbal investment agreement, Allen wasted no time. He called the construction team immediately, and they broke ground the next day. Now, standing under a grey Yorkshire sky, Arthur looked up at the skeleton of steel beams and scaffolding surrounding the stands. It was still in its early stages, but the vision was already coming to life. "Twenty thousand more seats," Allen explained, hands behind his back. "By next season, we'll have nearly double the capacity." Arthur gave a long whistle. "That's a lot more noise... and a lot more ticket money." The grin on his face was hard to hide. Leeds United wasn't just growing on the pitch — it was expanding in every direction. After walking the site and chatting with the foreman, Arthur figured it was time to relax and treat Allen to lunch. Maybe a decent steakhouse, or just a proper pub meal. He hadn't eaten all morning. But Allen had other plans. Just as Arthur turned toward the car park, Allen pulled out his phone and dialed quickly. "Lina? Two large pizzas, half pepperoni, half veggie. Office. Fifteen minutes." Arthur blinked. "Wait... what are you doing?" "We don't have time," Allen said flatly. "We're going to Thorp Arch now." Arthur stared at him. "Mate, you're dragging me to training base on an empty stomach? What kind of general manager are you?" Allen didn't even look back. "The kind who's been carrying this club while you were off sipping German beer and watching World Cup matches in VIP boxes." Arthur groaned as Allen opened the passenger door for him like a chauffeur with no mercy. "My life is my life, Allen! Can't I at least eat first?" "Sure," Allen replied dryly. "Eat in your office. In the car. On the pitch. Wherever you want — as long as we get this squad sorted today." Reluctantly, Arthur climbed in, still grumbling. "Unbelievable," he muttered, buckling in. "One month away and you've turned into a tyrant." Allen finally cracked a smile. "Good. About time someone around here acted like a professional." As the car pulled out toward the Thorp Arch training complex, Arthur slumped in his seat, half-hungry and half-amused. Leeds United was growing fast — and so were the expectations. *** Arthur slouched into his office at Thorp Arch, barely having time to sit before Alan slapped a thick folder onto his desk like a hammer on a courtroom bench. With a smug look, Alan pushed the folder toward him. "Boss, enough whining. Have a look at this — the stack of offers we've received since the window opened. While you were off touring World Cup stadiums and enjoying bratwurst, some of us were actually working." Arthur narrowed his eyes and grabbed the folder. "There better be at least a free pizza coupon in here, or I swear—" But as he flipped it open, his sarcastic muttering turned into a sharp intake of breath. "Bloody hell... this many already?!" Pages upon pages of transfer offers stared back at him — club letterheads, agent signatures, fax stamps. The transfer window had only been open for a few days, and already Leeds United were being hounded by suitors. Alan had mentioned on the phone that interest was high, but Arthur hadn't imagined it was this intense. It was clear now — the World Cup wasn't just a festival of football; it was a stock market for talent. One good performance on the global stage, and player values were skyrocketing. Arthur's eyes settled on the first document. Right there on top — FC Barcelona's offer for Radamel Falcao. 36 million euros. He raised a brow. Last season, Falcao had been nothing short of sensational in the Premier League. The Colombian had torn through defences, stayed neck-and-neck with Thierry Henry in the Golden Boot race, and finished the campaign with the Silver Boot. For Leeds, he had been the tip of the spear — sharp, dangerous, and relentlessly hungry for goals. Not far below that, Atletico Madrid had also submitted an offer — a much more modest 27 million euros. Arthur gave a scoff. "That's adorable." He turned to Alan, flicking both offer sheets into his hands like a pair of cards at a poker table. "Reject them," Arthur said casually. "But leak the Atletico bid — make sure someone whispers to Barcelona that Atletico are trying to swoop in. That should wind them up nicely. Then tell Barça I've got two words: Add. Money." Alan grinned, already pulling out his phone. "On it." In Arthur's mind, the logic was simple. Falcao had reached an A-level rating in the system, and his progress hadn't slowed down. At this rate, he'd hit S-level within a year — maybe sooner. If that happened, his transfer value could double. Why sell now for 36 million when he could sell later for 70? Besides, Arthur remembered well: in the "original timeline," Falcao had moved to Monaco from Atletico Madrid for a whopping 60 million euros — setting a Ligue 1 transfer record. Arthur wasn't going to let history outbid him. He turned back to the folder, flipping past a few more offers, then stopped at a familiar name: Manchester United. The Red Devils had submitted a 30 million euro bid for Dimitar Berbatov. Arthur burst out laughing. "Well, well, well... Sir Alex is back at it again. Trying to snatch away my lads. Gotta admit, thirty million is pretty sincere." Alan chuckled. "Seems Ferguson's not losing sleep over you, boss." "Apparently not," Arthur said, picking up the offer sheet and leaning back in his chair. He tapped the paper with his finger, lips pursed in thought. Berbatov was... tricky. The Bulgarian had class, vision, and a first touch like velvet. But Arthur had already secured Ibrahimović for next season, and Podolski was catching fire at the World Cup — a clear sign of things to come. In that setup, Berbatov might find himself relegated to the bench, or playing in a deeper creative role. He wouldn't be happy about that. Arthur didn't dislike Berbatov — quite the opposite. But holding on to an expensive backup made little business sense. He didn't say anything immediately. Instead, he stayed quiet, still staring at the offer, calculating possibilities in his head. There were tactics to consider. Replacements. Squad balance. Market value. *** Arthur sat back in his office chair, the afternoon sunlight trickling in through the blinds as he sipped his lukewarm tea. His mind, however, was already racing ahead. The folder full of transfer offers was still open beside him, but his eyes weren't on the papers anymore — they were locked on the whiteboard across the room, where the rough sketch of next season's squad was scribbled in red marker. It was obvious now: Berbatov's time at Leeds might be drawing to a close. On paper, the Bulgarian still had it — silky touch, world-class composure, and a calm, almost arrogant style that could slow down any game and bend it to his rhythm. But that was exactly the problem. Arthur's football philosophy revolved around pace, intensity, vertical movement — and Berbatov, for all his class, simply didn't fit the tempo. Besides, Rivaldo had shocked everyone by defying age and injuries to contribute in the Champions League last season. The old magician still had some fuel in the tank, and with a bit of careful rotation, Arthur figured he could squeeze one more year out of him — especially on those tense European nights where experience often outweighed youth. And now there was Kevin De Bruyne. Still raw, still learning, but the signs were there — the passing vision, the engine, the creativity. Next season, Arthur fully intended to give the young Belgian a bigger role. The midfield was evolving, and Berbatov, once the centerpiece, was quietly being edged toward the periphery. He tapped the side of his mug and sighed. In truth, the decision had been coming for months. Late in the season, Arthur had already begun preferring Podolski and Vardy — players who could stretch defences, run the channels, and press high. It wasn't a knock on Berbatov's talent, just an incompatibility. Tactics were changing, and the game was moving faster. Leeds United had to evolve with it. "Yeah..." Arthur muttered under his breath. "This one makes sense." It wasn't just about fit, either. The offer from Manchester United was decent — 30 million euros for a player approaching the latter stages of his peak. That was solid business. And honestly, Berbatov wasn't the sort to kick up a fuss or cause dressing room headaches. He wasn't a Tevez. If the deal went through, everyone could walk away satisfied. And a little goodwill with Sir Alex Ferguson? That never hurt. With his mind made up, Arthur stood and stretched. Allen was off in another room hammering away at his keyboard, replying to the flurry of emails from Barcelona and Atletico Madrid. Arthur, meanwhile, took out his phone, scrolled down to a familiar name, and hit Call. It rang twice. "Hello? Arthur Morgan?" came the unmistakable Scottish accent on the other end. Arthur smirked at the use of his full name. "Alex, I think you've got this backwards. Shouldn't you be the one asking mesomething?" There was a pause, followed by a short chuckle. "Ah. You're back in Leeds, then?" "Just got back. Alan showed me your bid," Arthur said plainly, his tone businesslike but not cold. "It's a good offer. If the player agrees to the move, I won't stand in the way." That caught Ferguson off guard. Arthur could practically hear the silence deepen on the other end. To be fair, Ferguson had expected at least a week of back-and-forth — a bit of gamesmanship, maybe some posturing. Arthur didn't exactly have a reputation for giving things away easily. Yet here he was, just handing over an agreement like it was no big deal. When the United manager didn't answer right away, Arthur laughed. "What's wrong? Changed your mind already?" That finally loosened Ferguson's tongue. "Haha, no, no. Thank you, Arthur. I'll have someone contact his agent straight away." "Good," Arthur replied, leaning back in his chair. "Pleasure doing business, Alex." They exchanged a few pleasantries — the usual nods to upcoming fixtures, training camps, and how brutally short the summer break felt — then ended the call. Arthur tossed the phone back onto his desk with a satisfied grin. Just like that, 30 million euros were in the bag — a clean deal, no drama, no complications. And with Berbatov likely off to Old Trafford, that opened space in the squad for his faster, younger replacements. Tactically, financially, even emotionally, it all added up. Arthur leaned back, folded his arms, and stared again at the whiteboard. "Alright," he muttered to himself, "one down. Let's see who's next."