Chapter 86: Season plans and transfer operations

Words : 2056 Updated : Sep 21st, 2025

Chapter 86 of "Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club" begins with suspense: After walking out of Anfield with a 4–0 win and Alonso practically gift-wrapped, Arthur returned... Don’t stop reading!

After walking out of Anfield with a 4–0 win and Alonso practically gift-wrapped, Arthur returned to Elland Road looking like a man who'd just won the lottery, then found a second ticket in his coat pocket. The mood at Leeds United was sky-high. The players were buzzing, the staff were grinning like it was Christmas morning, and even the usually grumpy groundskeeper had been seen humming a tune while mowing the pitch. Three points from Liverpool? At Anfield? It still hadn't fully sunk in for most of them. But Arthur wasn't one to let the team sit around basking in glory. As soon as they got back, he was already preparing for the next two games. Both were at home, and he made it very clear in training: "No slipping up. We beat Liverpool in their backyard—now let's make Elland Road a place teams dread." First up: Blackburn. The game wasn't even close. Leeds came out of the tunnel like they'd just been shot out of a cannon. The passing was sharp, the pressing relentless, and the goals? Beautiful. By halftime, it was already 2–0, and the Blackburn defence looked like they were playing with shoelaces tied together. Leeds added a third in the second half just to make sure the fans got their money's worth. 3–0. Job done. Then came Charlton, and Arthur didn't even need to give a big speech before kickoff. He just walked into the locker room, looked around, and said, "Same again." They delivered. Charlton barely had time to catch their breath. Leeds were faster, smarter, and had more energy than a toddler after a pack of gummy bears. Another 3–0. Another clean sheet. The fans were singing, the players were high-fiving like they'd just won the league, and Arthur? He was already updating the league table in his head. Three wins in a row. Nine goals scored. Zero conceded. Leeds now had 26 points and had climbed all the way to 6th in the table. They were just two points behind Bolton in 4th. Arthur sat in his office after the Charlton match, sipping lukewarm tea and staring at the standings. "Not bad," he muttered. "Not bad at all..." Elland Road was starting to believe again. And in the middle of this glorious stretch of footballing joy, Arthur stumbled upon something unexpected—a pleasant little surprise, like finding fries at the bottom of a fast food bag. It started after the hard-fought draw against Arsenal. Arthur opened up the system interface that only he could see—yes, that weird magical manager dashboard thing—and noticed a new pop-up: Team Buff Activated: High Morale! According to the glowing text, every Leeds United player had temporarily gained boosted morale. They trained harder, passed sharper, and even stopped moaning about cafeteria food. The buff was supposed to last two weeks. Simple enough. It would wear off after the Blackburn match. Arthur noted it and carried on. But then, something strange happened. The day after smashing Blackburn 3–0, Arthur popped open the system again out of habit and nearly choked on his coffee. The morale buff had refreshed. Not only had it not expired, but the duration had increased by another week! Arthur blinked. "Wait... what? That's not supposed to happen." He scratched his head. Ribery had once triggered a temporary morale buff after winning Man of the Match a while back—but that thing expired right on schedule, no matter how many goals he scored or stepovers he attempted. So why was this team-wide event different? Arthur narrowed his eyes like he was solving a murder mystery. "This isn't a normal buff... this is something else." He needed to test it. Prove it scientifically. Which, in Arthur's case, meant: win again and see what happens. He was originally planning to rotate the squad for the Charlton match—give the starters a break, let the backups stretch their legs, maybe even let the third-choice keeper pretend he mattered. But nope. Not anymore. Arthur kept most of his top guns in the starting eleven. The logic was simple: win again, and if the buff extended again, then boom—confirmed. And that's exactly what happened. Leeds bullied Charlton off the pitch, got another early lead, and Arthur made safe substitutions in the second half. Then, the next morning, he checked the system again. Buff: Still Active. Duration: +1 Week. Arthur slammed his fist on the desk in triumph like he'd just hacked the Premier League. Now it was clear. As long as Leeds kept winning, the buff would keep renewing. Like a free trial that never ended—as long as you didn't lose. But Arthur also knew the cold truth of English football: winning streaks don't last forever. Not in this league. Not with the FA's brutal fixture list. No team just waltzes through the season undefeated. Even invincibles stub their toes eventually. Still, with the morale boost sticking around and momentum building, Arthur leaned back in his chair with a sly grin. "Let's see how far this rabbit hole goes..." **** As Christmas crept closer, so did the most chaotic, merciless time in English football—the festive fixture pile-up. Arthur stared at the upcoming schedule on the wall of his office, quietly wondering if the Premier League schedulers had some kind of personal grudge against his spine. "Three league games and a League Cup quarterfinal in fifteen days?!" he muttered, squinting at the paper like it had just insulted his mother. The madness would start with a showdown against Manchester City. Then came two more league matches, and tucked in between, a League Cup quarterfinal. And the cherry on top? A cheerful little away trip to Stamford Bridge, where Chelsea—currently steamrolling everyone—were waiting with a smug grin and a frightening 46 points on the board. Yes, 46 points. In just 17 games. "Fifteen wins, one draw, and the only loss?" Arthur said aloud, tapping the paper. "Yeah, that was us. You're welcome, Premier League." He remembered that game fondly—Leeds United had pulled off an unlikely win against Chelsea in the opening round, and Arthur had briefly thought, Maybe I broke the timeline. Maybe I disrupted destiny. Nope. Since then, Chelsea had gone on an absolute rampage, leaving every other club in their dust. Now, they were nine points clear at the top of the table. Manchester United were a distant second, breathing heavily somewhere far behind. Leeds? Leeds were doing great—but let's be honest, not that great. Arthur sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I really thought the butterfly effect would do more than flap its wings once and take a nap." So now, facing this upcoming stretch of games, Arthur wasn't going to be caught off guard again. The last time the schedule got heavy, he'd been a little too optimistic. This time? He was going to be ruthless. If the players were running on fumes before the Chelsea game, he was willing to let it go. Chelsea could have their win if it meant Leeds stayed fresh for what really mattered—the League Cup. Yes, the League Cup. Often treated like the ugly stepsibling of the FA Cup, the League Cup didn't get much love from the big clubs. Most of them only bothered to send their B-teams or even kids straight from the academy. But Arthur saw an opening. While the giants were busy polishing their nails and ignoring the trophy, Leeds United had quietly reached the quarterfinals. Their next opponent? Bolton—one of the stronger mid-table teams this season, and currently riding a decent wave of form. Arthur respected them enough to take the match seriously. This wasn't just a sideshow. This was silverware in reach. "Let the others rest," he muttered, eyes glinting. "We're going for the cup." Arthur had already made up his mind—solid, serious, no turning back. The plan was simple: go all out against Manchester City and Birmingham. Throw everything at them. Use the full squad, maximum effort, win at all costs. Then, when it came time to face Chelsea? "Let it go," Arthur muttered dramatically, channeling his inner snow queen. "Let it gooo." Yes, he was going to completely give up on the Chelsea match, no matter what the press, fans, or angry Twitter uncles had to say about it. The main squad would rest. No last-minute heroics. No high blood pressure. He wasn't going to let Stamford Bridge ruin his December. Besides, there was another reason to keep calm and rotate players—the winter transfer window was about to swing open right after the City game. Reinforcements were coming. With some luck, the new arrivals could get some early Premier League minutes, maybe even shock their bodies into adjusting to English weather and its unique talent for being cold andwet and windy at the same time. Speaking of new signings... Arthur had been stuck for a while, chewing over names for a new right winger like it was a particularly gristly steak. He wanted someone fast, smart, creative—someone who wouldn't cost the club the next three seasons' worth of stadium light bulbs. And then, just when he was ready to give up and sign a traffic cone with a decent cross, Tuesday morning arrived. While the players were sweating through their strength training in the gym, Arthur shuffled back to his office. Lina, his ever-efficient assistant, handed him a fresh batch of scout reports from South America. Ten minutes later, Arthur was standing at his desk, clutching a report in one hand, pointing at the page with the other, yelling at himself like he'd just committed a crime against logic. "I'm such an idiot! How did I forget about him?!" Lina blinked, startled from the shoulder massage she was giving to Arthur. "Who do you mean boss?" Arthur shoved the paper at her like it was a sacred scroll. "Look at this! Look at that angelic little face!" It was Ángel Di María. Seventeen years old, barely old enough to rent a scooter, and already with that cheeky, shy smile in his scout photo like he knew exactly how good he was. Arthur immediately opened his system's profile view and checked Di María's attributes. A solid C+ already. Not bad at all. Sure, the kid probably wasn't ready to get smashed around by 30-year-old English defenders with no necks, but that didn't matter. If needed, Arthur could stash him in the youth team, bulk him up with protein shakes, and unleash him later like a Pokémon evolution. "Send the offer," Arthur said to Lina. "Now. Rosario Central. I want that boy." Lina nodded, fingers already flying over the keyboard. Just as Arthur started basking in the glow of his genius, a new email landed in his inbox like an unexpected slap—Inter Milan had submitted an offer for James Milner. "Huh," Arthur said, scratching his chin. "That's random." And just like that, his brain swerved from Argentina to Italy. It was time to dig back into Serie A. Arthur, an AC Milan loyalist in a past life, had followed Italian football obsessively. Even after the league's slow decline, he never lost track of the players or the drama. And speaking of drama... Suddenly, a name lit up in his head like a stadium floodlight. Mauro Camoranesi. Juventus' main right winger. Experienced, reliable, tough as nails, and criminally undervalued. He was in his prime and, more importantly, probably affordable. Arthur grinned. Perfect. The timing couldn't be better, either. It was the calm before the storm. In just a few months, Italy would be rocked by the infamous "Calciopoli" scandal—phone taps, match-fixing, the whole circus. Juventus would be relegated, points docked, reputations shredded like parmesan on a pasta bowl. Arthur remembered it all clearly. Juventus dumped into Serie B, 17 points docked, executives banned from football—absolute chaos. And Camoranesi? He stayed. Fought in the second division. Stayed loyal. That was the kind of player Arthur respected. "Allen," he said, picking up the phone. "Pack a bag. You're flying to Turin. Today. Go see Moggi." Allen groaned. "Why do I feel like I'm being sent into the mafia?" "Because you are," Arthur said cheerfully. "Now go find us a winger."

Chapter 86: Season plans and transfer operations

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