Chapter 182: Transfer Whirlwind

It was about half an hour before kickoff at Elland Road, and Arthur was just trying to enjoy a calm stroll through the mixed zone, maybe sneak a coffee before facing Blackburn. But fate, and a herd of reporters wielding microphones like spears, had other plans. He'd barely turned the corner when—bam—flashbulbs went off like a lightning storm, and microphones swarmed him like bees after a spilled soda. "Mr. Morgan! Mr. Morgan!" a voice chirped, high-pitched and relentless. "Maicon appeared at the Bernabéu earlier today and gave an interview where he mentioned some minor conflicts with you. Would you care to elaborate?" Arthur raised one eyebrow. Here we go, he thought. Another voice cut in before he could respond. "Mr. Morgan, today Real Madrid officially announced Maicon's transfer for forty million euros! Now everyone on the internet's calling Leeds United a total Rip Off shop—any comment?" And as if that wasn't enough, a third reporter joined the chaos with a smirk, "Last week you said Leeds United had plans to strengthen during the winter transfer window. Well, it's the end of day one, and your club hasn't done anything yet. What gives, Mr. Morgan?" Arthur blinked at the three of them. For a second, he genuinely considered turning around and pretending to be a ball boy. Instead, he rolled his eyes so hard they nearly did a full loop. "Are these the best questions you've got?" The reporters leaned in, grinning. Wrong move. Arthur pointed sharply at the woman who'd brought up Maicon. "You, Miss—if I recall, our general manager Allen gave a full interview to the Yorkshire Post last week. Everything about Maicon's so-called 'conflict' with me is in there. Go read it. And if you're that interested in football gossip, I recommend switching over to the entertainment channel. Maybe you'd be happier covering soap operas." The woman flushed, but Arthur was already moving on. "And as for you two gentlemen," Arthur said, jabbing his thumb at the pair still standing there with smug looks. "First off—Leeds and Real Madrid conducted a clean, normal transfer. We sold a player. They paid market price. What part of that makes us a 'Rip Off shop'? Or do you just not like it when we make a profit?" The second reporter tried to mumble something, but Arthur cut him off. "And second," he continued, "you do realize the transfer window's been open for one day, right? One. Single. Day. What exactly do you expect me to do—buy Ronaldo with an Amazon Prime account and teleport him into training?" The crowd of reporters burst into laughter. A few even nodded reluctantly. Arthur, finally done with his impromptu press battle, exhaled through his nose, gave them all a look that said, We're done here, and marched straight back toward the dressing room. He could still hear some of them shouting questions behind him, but he didn't even turn around. But while Arthur might've won the war of words, the incident had soured his mood. By the time he reached the locker room, the usual pre-match grin was gone, replaced by a tight-lipped scowl and furrowed brows. He didn't say much when he walked in. Just set his clipboard down, pointed at the tactics board, and began outlining the formation like he was sketching out a military ambush. The players could feel it. The change in atmosphere. They knew their gaffer wasn't happy, and if there was one universal truth in the Leeds United dressing room, it was this: When Arthur's in a mood, you play like your life depends on it. And so they did. From the opening whistle, Leeds United tore into Blackburn Rovers like wolves on a midnight hunt. The visitors barely had time to complete three passes before they were swarmed by a high press so suffocating you'd think Arthur had installed an invisible wall around their half. The first goal came early. A sharp Modric through ball split Blackburn's center backs like a knife through butter, and Torres, always lurking, slid in at the near post to poke it past the helpless keeper. The crowd roared. Fifteen minutes later, it happened again—this time from the right. Lahm overlapped beautifully, cut inside, and whipped in a low cross. Torres timed his run perfectly and buried the diving header. Elland Road exploded. "Gooooooooooooool! Leeds United scored again!" Eddie Gray nearly burst his vocal cords in the booth. "A brilliant diving header from Fernando Torres! That's two goals in the opening thirty minutes! He's cooking today, folks!" But Torres wasn't done. In the 33rd minute, Ribéry danced past two defenders like they were road cones, squared it unselfishly, and Torres arrived—again—like clockwork to complete his hat trick. The stadium erupted in sheer madness. Torres didn't even celebrate alone. He sprinted straight to the bench and wrapped his arms around Arthur, who finally cracked a proper smile. The entire team piled on like a group of kids tackling their big brother. But just when Blackburn thought they could regroup during the half-time break, they were introduced to the second half of Leeds' front-two nightmare: Zlatan. If Torres had been the knife, Ibrahimović was the sledgehammer. Barely five minutes into the second half, Zlatan collected a lofted pass from Modric, flicked it over a defender with his chest, and volleyed it into the top corner like it was a Sunday training session. Goal number one. Ten minutes later, he dropped deep, turned his marker with a filthy spin, and slid the ball past the advancing keeper like he was flicking a coin. Goal number two. And in the 69th minute—yes, nice—Zlatan completed his own hat trick. Modric, yet again, sliced the defense open with a laser-guided ball. Zlatan took one touch to steady, one to shoot, and the scoreboard lit up: 6-0. Six goals. Two hat tricks. Torres and Zlatan, both with match balls under their arms, beaming like kids on Christmas morning. The Elland Road crowd didn't stop singing for the rest of the night. And with that win, Leeds United—despite having played one fewer match—caught up to Chelsea with 46 points. But Arthur's happiness wasn't over yet. After dinner the next day, he kicked back in his living room, flicked on the TV, and watched two Premier League fixtures with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for lottery numbers. Manchester United were playing away. So were Chelsea. Arthur crossed his arms. "Come on, come on... just a draw. Just a little slip." And then, almost as if the universe wanted to kiss his forehead—both United and Chelsea slipped. Draws. Neither side managed more than a point. Just one. Arthur leaned back in his chair and grinned. "Well, isn't that a lovely Monday night." ***** Arthur stood at the edge of the training pitch, hands on hips, the chilly Yorkshire wind whipping through his coat. The Leeds players had gathered around, still yawning and stretching, not quite ready to face whatever madness their manager had in store for them today. Arthur, however, was fully in coach mode, already rambling about the day's session with that same lunatic gleam in his eye that meant "run until your lungs give out." "So lads, we'll start with a light warm-up," Arthur said, though his version of a "light warm-up" usually ended with someone vomiting in a corner. "Then—" "Is that... Wesley?" Schmeichel suddenly blurted, pointing over Arthur's shoulder with a look of pure disbelief. "Boss! Did you bring Wesley back?!" Arthur's head snapped around so fast it nearly unscrewed from his neck. Sure enough, striding into Thorp Arch with a sheepish smile and suitcase in tow was Wesley Sneijder, flanked by Allen like a prized racehorse returning from a confusing loan spell in Spain. The moment froze for a second, and then the team collectively broke into murmurs of surprise and excitement. Sneijder's Madrid tan was fading fast under the Leeds cloud cover, but his nervous, introverted nature was just as intact as ever. His shoulders were hunched, steps hesitant, as though he was still expecting to get booted back to La Liga any second. He finally reached Arthur and offered a shaky hug, whispering in that soft Dutch accent, "Boss... long time no see." Arthur chuckled, wrapping his arms around him in a hearty embrace that almost lifted the poor lad off the ground. "Wesley, mate. Long time indeed." When they pulled apart, Sneijder gave the squad a quick once-over. There were familiar faces—like Schmeichel and Johnson—and a fair few unfamiliar ones, too. Seeing the mix seemed to tug at his heart. His eyes got a bit glassy, like he wasn't sure whether to smile or cry. Arthur saw it immediately and clapped him hard on the back. "No tears now, mate. You're back in Leeds. It's cold, wet, and depressing as ever—but at least we play proper football." A few of the lads laughed. Sneijder managed a weak grin. "Now," Arthur continued, switching back into full manager mode, "go with Allen, get your medical done—no hiding injuries this time—and then get your boots on. You're starting in the FA Cup this weekend, so don't get comfortable." Sneijder blinked. "I just got off the plane..." "Exactly," Arthur smirked. "Nothing shakes jet lag like a few laps and a ball to the face." Sneijder sighed and trudged off with Allen, no doubt wondering why he ever left in the first place. Once they were out of earshot, Arthur yanked Allen to the side, away from prying ears. "Right," he said quickly, "where's Dani Alves? He was supposed to come in with Wesley." Allen squinted, tapped at his wristwatch dramatically like a man pretending to care about punctuality. "Should be landing in about three hours. His agent rang me just before I picked Wesley up. They were heading to the airport when I left." Arthur nodded. "Okay, get Lina to go pick him up. No press junk yet—he'll be knackered—but update the official site tomorrow morning, then contact the journos. We'll do a little presser in the afternoon. Nothing fancy. Just enough to let people know we're not messing around. Big price tag, big expectations." Allen gave a thumbs up. "Sorted. Want Dani at the press event too?" "Of course!" Arthur scoffed. "We paid what, twenty-five million euros for him? You don't drop that kind of cash and keep him hidden like a rare Pokémon. Parade him around a bit. Maybe even let him juggle something." Allen smirked. "I'll ask if he knows any tricks." "Oh, and one more thing," Arthur said, suddenly snapping his fingers. "Ron called you, right? He's back tonight?" "Yep, should land around midnight," Allen confirmed. "And he's bringing the two kids you told him to sign—those Argentine lads. Both got their paperwork in order. Well, mostly." Arthur lit up like a Christmas tree. "Perfect timing! We've got the FA Cup match this weekend and Chelsea next week in the league. I was thinking about chucking the Cup just to focus on the league game, but now... we might actually have enough bodies to survive both." Allen looked mildly alarmed. "You want to use them that quickly?" Arthur gave him a deadpan look. "Allen,Do I look like a man who cares about whether players are 'ready'?" "Fair point," Allen muttered. "So," Arthur continued, grinning now, "hurry up and get their paperwork done. If we can get them registered by Friday, I'll throw the whole damn lot of them into the Cup squad." Allen gave him a salute. "Aye aye, boss." "And yes," Arthur added, dropping his voice like he was revealing state secrets, "bring those two to the press conference too. Let's give them the star treatment." Allen tilted his head. "Seriously? They're barely out of nappies." Arthur winked. "Which is why we need to build the hype now. Flash the cameras, say some dramatic nonsense about 'generational talent,' and boom—next summer, they're worth triple what we paid. It's called marketing, Allen. Look it up." Allen just shook his head and walked off, muttering about transfer windows turning people into lunatics. Arthur turned back toward the pitch, watching the lads start their passing drills. Sneijder had rejoined them, already being welcomed back with the usual cheeky banter. "Oi, Wesley!" someone shouted. "You remember how to shoot, or did Madrid teach you to pass backwards like a coward?" Sneijder responded by rifling a ball into a nearby bin. "Alright, alright," came the chuckling reply. "He's still got it." Arthur smiled. For the first time in weeks, the squad felt alive again. The reinforcements were arriving just in time. Chelsea was looming large on the horizon, and everyone in the football world would be watching to see if Leeds were real contenders—or just a fluke with a flashy win record. One thing was certain though: Arthur wouldn't be going down quietly. He turned on his heel, wind whipping his coat again, and stomped back toward the office, already making a mental list of the chaos he was going to unleash on Chelsea's backline. This January wasn't just about transfers. It was about sending a message. Leeds United were coming.