Chapter 124: World Cup Ends

Arthur had barely been back in Leeds a week, and things were already piling up fast. He grumbled about it often—mostly to himself, sometimes to Allen—but deep down, he knew the moment he stepped off the plane, he was back on the clock. There was no real summer break for a club owner and manager, not when you had a Champions League title to build on and a squad filled with World Cup standouts. Offers were flying in left and right, and Arthur barely had time to breathe between reviewing contracts, taking calls, and watching scouting reports. Every morning, Allen would stroll into his office with a fresh stack of emails and updates like a mailman delivering trouble. Today was no different. Arthur was seated at his desk, nursing a mug of strong black coffee, when Allen popped in with a half-eaten sandwich still hanging out of his mouth. "Morning, boss," Allen mumbled, chewing through a mouthful of egg and toast. "Champions League prize money's gotta be looking pretty tasty right about now, yeah?" Arthur gave him a suspicious look. "What are you getting at?" Without a word, Allen slid a printed offer across the desk. His expression was as flat as the toast he was eating. "Barcelona again. They've upped the offer for Falcao by five million." Arthur picked up the paper and scanned it in silence, then leaned back, tapping the edge of the offer sheet against his desk as he thought. "Hmm..." he muttered, eyes narrowing. "What about Atletico Madrid? Did they follow up with anything new?" Allen shook his head and swallowed. "Nope. Looks like they backed off once they realized Barcelona's serious." Arthur nodded slowly. That didn't surprise him. Atletico were smart, but not reckless. Once Barca entered the race, they probably decided they weren't going to get into a bidding war. And truthfully, Arthur wasn't even planning to sell—not yet, anyway. Falcao was still a cornerstone of his attack. But the situation around the club was growing more complicated by the day. Since returning from the World Cup, Arthur had been working non-stop. New offers landed in Allen's inbox every morning like clockwork. Just last week, Manchester City had proposed a loan deal for Edin Džeko—two million euros. Nothing huge, but respectable. Around the same time, Reading, freshly promoted and desperate for firepower, came knocking for Jamie Vardy. Their offer? One and a half million euros for a season-long loan. Arthur didn't even hesitate. He called both players personally, explained the offers, and gave them the freedom to decide. Džeko was open to the move—it meant more minutes, and he wasn't getting any younger. Vardy, still raw but eager, jumped at the chance for more Premier League experience. Arthur didn't see the need to bargain or play hardball. Both deals were approved almost immediately. He wanted his squad to stay sharp, and if that meant sending a few players out on loan, so be it. But things got a bit trickier when Real Madrid came calling. They had submitted a firm offer for Philipp Lahm—27 million euros, straight cash. The German fullback had been outstanding at the World Cup, and it was clear Calderón, Madrid's new president, was keen to make a statement signing. But Arthur didn't act right away. He waited. Germany were still in the tournament at the time, and Arthur didn't want to disrupt Lahm's focus. It wasn't until after the semi-final—where Germany fell 2–0 to Italy—that Arthur picked up the phone. The tone on the other end was subdued. Lahm's voice was quiet, disappointed. The sting of a World Cup exit was still fresh. Arthur didn't press him. Instead, he offered a few words of support before gently steering the conversation toward Madrid's interest. To Arthur's surprise, Lahm didn't hesitate. "I appreciate it," Lahm said firmly, "but I want to stay in Leeds. If I move again, I'd prefer to go back to Germany. Not now, though. Not yet." Arthur smiled, leaning back in his chair. "Alright then," he said simply. "That's all I needed to hear." The next day, Allen fired off a polite rejection to Real Madrid. No fuss, no drama. Lahm was staying. Back in the present, Arthur was still holding Barcelona's latest bid for Falcao, reading through it for the third time. His fingers tapped against the desk thoughtfully. "He's not going anywhere yet," Arthur finally said, placing the offer down. "Not until someone gives us something wecan't refuse." Allen nodded. "So we wait?" Arthur grinned. "Exactly. Let them sweat." He knew Barcelona wanted Falcao badly. And with Atletico Madrid out of the picture, they had no rivals in the chase. But Arthur wasn't in the mood to rush. He didn't build this club by making impulsive decisions. Right now, the transfer market was a game of chess—and Arthur had no intention of moving his queen unless it was for checkmate. *** Atletico Madrid's situation was, to put it gently, far from ideal. Since returning to La Liga in 2002, they'd been struggling to recapture any real momentum. Hovering around mid-table, occasionally flirting with relevance, but never quite getting there. In fact, over the past two seasons, they hadn't even managed to qualify for the Europa League. That kind of mediocrity had started taking its toll—on their fanbase, their players, and especially their finances. So when they pulled out of the race for Falcao after learning Barcelona were involved, Arthur wasn't exactly surprised. Competing financially with the Catalan giants just wasn't realistic for them. In a bidding war, Atletico were never going to win. But as Arthur sat in his office, that train of thought triggered something in his mind. Atletico were a club known for one thing: their youth academy. And now, with all this transfer talk surrounding Falcao, a name popped into Arthur's head—a name that made him pause, lean forward, and pull his laptop closer. "Fernando Torres," he muttered to himself. Without wasting a second, he fired up a search engine and began typing. A few keystrokes later, a profile page loaded, and with it, a picture of a lean, sharp-eyed striker in red and white. At 22, Fernando Torres was already the captain of Atletico Madrid and their undisputed talisman. But Arthur wasn't just looking at a photo—he was also staring at a detailed player evaluation from his system. [Fernando Torres] Age: 22 Offensive Threat: 91 Defensive Strength: 39 Body Balance: 90 Long Pass Accuracy: 85 Short Pass Accuracy: 88 Shooting Accuracy: 93 Speed / Maximum Speed: 93 / 95 Talent: S Overall Assessment: A Player Evaluation: "Atletico Madrid's great hope. A natural-born striker in the midst of rapid development. Will hit his peak soon—but it may not last long." Arthur studied the numbers carefully. The offensive stats were elite. The speed was blazing. He could already picture Torres breaking behind defenders, bursting through the middle with the ball glued to his feet, smashing it into the top corner with that lethal right foot. He sat back and exhaled slowly. "Liverpool will sign him next year," Arthur thought to himself. "And he'll tear it up in the Premier League for a while. Then Chelsea will spend a fortune on him, and he'll never quite be the same." He remembered that story well. Torres' rise, his electrifying pace, the adoration at Anfield. Then came the mega transfer to Stamford Bridge... and the goal drought that became a punchline across England. But Arthur didn't care about all that. He wasn't looking to keep Torres forever. "He's got a peak coming up," Arthur said under his breath, eyes still locked on the numbers. "And I don't need him after that. Just sell him when he's hot." The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. If he could land Torres now, he could afford to sell Falcao to Barcelona without weakening the team. Sure, Falcao was the club's current spearhead, but Torres offered something just as sharp—and younger. Even if his peak was short-lived, Arthur didn't mind. He was already thinking two moves ahead. "Liverpool took Milner from me," he murmured, half-grinning. "I'm just returning the favor." With that, his decision was made. He called Allen into the office. "Send an offer to Atletico Madrid," Arthur said without hesitation. "Torres. Make it serious." Allen raised an eyebrow. "And Falcao?" "Stall Barcelona ," Arthur replied, waving a hand. "Let them wait. If Torres comes, we can talk. Until then, I'm not giving them anything." Allen nodded and left the room, already drafting the necessary emails. Arthur leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, eyes still on the profile of Fernando Torres glowing on his screen. He could already picture it: Torres in a Leeds United shirt, running down the touchline, scoring in front of a roaring Elland Road. And this time, he wasn't the one being raided. He was doing the raiding. *** While waiting for a response from Atletico Madrid about his Torres inquiry, Arthur's attention shifted—at least temporarily—from club affairs to the grandest stage of them all: the World Cup Final. The tournament had finally reached its climax. And on the very day of the final, Arthur flew straight to Berlin to catch the match live, joining Uncle Marcus and Julian in the stands. The atmosphere was electric—Berlin buzzing with anticipation, flags waving, faces painted, and entire stadium sections singing their hearts out. It felt like the entire world had come together for this one game. The match? A clash of giants. France versus Italy. As fate would have it, the same two men who played central roles in this game in Arthur's previous life—Zinedine Zidane and Marco Materazzi—took the spotlight once again. Even though Arthur knew how it would all unfold, being there, watching it live, was something else entirely. The drama kicked off early. Just five minutes into the match, Materazzi committed a reckless challenge inside the box. The referee didn't hesitate—penalty to France. As Zidane stepped up, the crowd held its breath. Instead of blasting the ball into the net, he did the unthinkable. A panenka. Zidane chipped the ball delicately, almost arrogantly, off the underside of the crossbar and into the net. It bounced just over the line and back out again, but it counted. 1–0 to France. The French section of the stadium erupted in cheers, flares igniting, chants breaking out. Uncle Marcus laughed in disbelief. Julian was on his feet, pumping his fists. Arthur just sat back and muttered, "Same as last time." But the French celebration didn't last long. In the 18th minute, Italy responded. Andrea Pirlo, ever the maestro, floated in a pinpoint corner. This time, Materazzi made up for his earlier error. Rising above two defenders, he powered a header straight into the net. 1–1. Game on. The remainder of the match was a chess game laced with tension. France had more of the ball, Zidane pulling strings, Malouda and Ribéry threatening from wide. But Italy, anchored by Cannavaro and Buffon, held firm. Pirlo dictated the rhythm, while Gattuso snapped at French heels like a dog protecting his yard. By the time 90 minutes passed, the score still stood at 1–1. Into extra time they went. As the minutes ticked by, everyone seemed to be bracing for penalties. Then, in the 108th minute, the game exploded into chaos. The referee blew his whistle, stopping play abruptly. All eyes darted around in confusion. On the pitch, Marco Materazzi was lying on the ground, clutching his chest in agony. Buffon sprinted toward the linesman, shouting animatedly. The stadium buzzed with murmurs. No one understood what had just happened. A few agonizing moments later, the replay appeared on the big screen. What the world saw stunned everyone. Zidane, walking casually away from a French attack, suddenly turned around and launched his head into Materazzi's chest. It wasn't subtle. It wasn't sneaky. It was a full-force headbutt that sent the Italian crumpling to the turf. The stadium went dead silent. Even Arthur, who already knew it would happen, was struck by the raw intensity of the moment. Around him, fans stared wide-eyed, hands covering mouths, some booing, others gasping. "What the hell was that?" Marcus exclaimed. "Heat of the moment," Arthur muttered, though he knew the truth. He'd seen the interviews before. He knew the words Materazzi had said—vile, personal insults that pushed Zidane over the edge. Still, on the biggest stage of them all, in the last game of his career, Zidane had cracked. Moments later, the referee reached for his pocket. Red card. Zidane walked past the World Cup trophy on his way to the tunnel, his face stone-cold, the boos of the Italian fans raining down around him. The image of him passing the trophy he would never lift became etched into World Cup history. The game dragged on to its inevitable end: penalties. And without Zidane, France's aura cracked. The tension inside the stadium was suffocating as both teams prepared for the shootout. The first few penalties were converted smoothly, each goalkeeper diving the wrong way, unable to stop anything. Then came David Trezeguet. He hit it well—but not perfectly. The ball smacked the crossbar and bounced down, right on the line. Then it bounced out. No goal. Trezeguet stood frozen in disbelief, hands on his head. The Italian fans went wild. France scored their remaining penalties, but it didn't matter. Italy were flawless. Five out of five. When Fabio Grosso stepped up to take the winning penalty, you could almost hear hearts pounding across the entire stadium. He ran up, struck it low and to the corner, and sent it past Barthez. Game over. Italy were world champions. The team erupted, running in all directions. Buffon dropped to his knees. Cannavaro lifted his arms to the sky. The bench stormed the pitch. Gattuso ripped off his shirt and flung it into the crowd. The French players stood numb. Trezeguet looked like a ghost. Zidane? Long gone. Arthur sat silently, taking it all in. It was the same ending he remembered, but watching it unfold again—with new context, new perspective—it still hit hard. But as the fireworks exploded and the Italian anthem rang out, Arthur's mind was already shifting gears. Because just one day after the World Cup ended... Real Madrid pulled the trigger. The 2006 summer transfer window had begun—with a bang.