Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

Arthur's head was pounding like a drum kit after a heavy metal concert. He groaned, squinting against the light spilling through the curtains. His temples throbbed, and he instinctively pressed one hand against the side of his head, rubbing it in slow circles as if that would magically erase the effects of last night's drinking spree.

"Ugh… my head hurts…" he muttered to no one in particular, though the universe already knew the truth.

With a grunt that sounded more like a man climbing a mountain than a man getting out of bed, Arthur forced himself upright. His body wasn't exactly cooperating, but sheer stubbornness carried him through.

The door creaked, and there she was—Shakira—gliding in like she hadn't just spent the previous night partying, singing, and drinking right alongside him. She carried a glass of steaming milk in her hand, her golden hair slightly tousled but her smile brighter than sunlight.

"You're awake?" she said, her voice playful, warm. "Here, have a cup of hot milk."

Arthur leaned back on his elbows, smirking even though he looked like he'd been hit by a bus. "Why drink it," he quipped roguishly, "when I could just have the factory?"

Shakira froze for half a second, then burst into laughter so rich and musical it made his headache feel almost worth it. She set the cup down on the bedside table and perched herself beside him on the bed.

"Well," she teased, brushing her hair back, "if you can still think about sex with a hangover this bad, I'd say you're not in too much trouble."

Arthur chuckled, pulling her gently into his chest. "What else am I supposed to think about? My team just won the championship, and my gorgeous girlfriend flew in to celebrate with me. Honestly, how could I not?"

Her laugh melted into a soft gasp as his hands slid lower, sneaking into the waistband of her pants. She bit her lip, whispering against his ear with that low, sultry voice of hers: "Well… we don't have much time."

Arthur grinned wolfishly, tugging at the hem of her shirt. "Then let's make the most of it."

The shirt was gone in seconds, and what followed was a storm of heat, lips, and tangled limbs—a celebration of its own, raw and unrestrained, as if they were making up for all those weeks apart.

…

Thirty minutes later.

Steam curled out of the bathroom as the two of them reappeared, freshly washed and looking much more civilized—well, as civilized as one could be after such a session. Arthur had finally wrestled his hair into something resembling order, while Shakira padded around the flat wearing one of his shirts, a look that he secretly thought was far better than any designer dress.

They sat down at the dining table, where breakfast—or at least strong coffee and leftover pastries from last night—waited for them. Shakira sipped her drink first, watching Arthur with that mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

"I haven't seen you drink so much in years," she teased, her smile widening. "Honestly, you had more last night than the first time we met in Madrid."

Arthur groaned and buried his face in his hands. "That's all Diego's fault. If Simeone hadn't dragged me into half those toasts, I'd have slipped away hours earlier."

Shakira tilted her head, amused, one hand propping up her chin. "Oh no, no, no. That won't do. You're the owner and the head coach of Leeds United. If you'd left, the whole party would have crumbled! Leeds United wouldn't even have a Premier League title without you, so don't you dare complain about celebrating it properly."

Arthur grabbed his glass of milk like it was whisky, downed it in one go, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Celebrating properly doesn't have to mean drinking like a Viking. I'm fairly sure Zlatan alone emptied three barrels by himself."

She giggled, leaning across the table. "That's Zlatan. If he ever drinks less than everyone else, he'd probably declare it an insult to his greatness."

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. "You're not wrong." Then he leaned back in his chair, the smirk returning to his lips. "By the way, are you coming with me to the parade this afternoon?"

Her eyes widened, almost sparkling with excitement. "Wait, seriously? Is that even allowed?"

She had been with him long enough to know how massive a title parade was in English football, how sacred it was to the fans. She was a fan herself now—loyal to Leeds United thanks to him—and the thought of missing this victory parade would have felt like a sin.

"Of course it's allowed," Arthur said matter-of-factly. "You're my woman. Who else would I take?"

Her grin could have lit up the entire city. She leaned forward, grabbing his hand. "I can't believe it… I've always wanted to be part of something like this."

Arthur laughed, squeezing her fingers gently. "Well, consider this your backstage pass. Just one condition."

"Condition?" she raised an eyebrow, mock-suspicious.

"Before we get to Elland Road," Arthur said with mock seriousness, "we're leaving the rooftop space for the lads. Especially Zlatan. The man loves the spotlight more than anyone I've ever met, and I'd rather not wrestle him for it while the bus is moving."

Shakira burst into laughter so hard she nearly spilled her coffee. "You're really afraid of Zlatan stealing your thunder, aren't you?"

Arthur grinned, but his tone stayed perfectly straight-faced. "Afraid? No. But if Zlatan decides he's the king of Leeds and pushes me off the top of the parade bus, I don't fancy being scraped off the pavement in front of 200,000 fans."

Shakira laughed until her eyes watered, reaching across the table to pinch his cheek. "My poor, humble champion coach. Don't worry. I'll make sure you don't get pushed off by Zlatan. I'll stand guard."

Arthur raised a brow, smirking. "You? Guarding me? What are you going to do, sing him into submission?"

Her smile turned wicked as she winked. "If it works on you, it'll work on anyone."

Arthur froze for a second, then burst out laughing so hard his headache returned. He clutched his stomach, leaning back in his chair. "God, I've missed this."

The morning light streamed through the window, the noise of the city already beginning to build outside. Leeds was waking up, preparing for the biggest parade it had seen in fifteen years. But for now, inside their quiet bubble, Arthur and Shakira simply sat together—teasing, laughing, and sharing the calm before the storm of celebration waiting for them at Elland Road.

*****

After lunch, Arthur and Shakira arrived at the Thorp Arch training ground right on time. The spring sun spilled across the pitches, the air alive with chatter, laughter, and that unmistakable buzz of a team that had just conquered England. One by one, the Leeds United players rolled in, most with sunglasses, some still looking slightly worse for wear after the celebrations, but every single one of them carried the kind of grin that said, We're champions now, and the world knows it.

The moment Arthur and Shakira stepped out of the car, a ripple of amusement spread through the squad. The reason was obvious enough—Shakira had, in her usual rush, forgotten a scarf, and the evidence of Arthur's "early morning warm-up session" was proudly decorating her neck and collarbone in the form of several faint but unmistakable hickeys.

Zlatan Ibrahimović, never one to miss an opportunity for mischief, leaned back against the hood of a car, arms folded, smirking like a cat that had just stolen the cream. "Well, well, boss," he drawled, loud enough for half the squad to hear. "Seems our manager celebrated harder than any of us last night. I think we should've given him the champagne instead of the trophy."

Arthur, rather than flinch, simply grinned wider, sliding an arm possessively around Shakira's waist and pulling her close. "What can I say, lads? When you've got a girlfriend who's better than a trophy, you don't waste time polishing silverware." He punctuated it with a wink, which only made the players roar louder.

Shakira, to her credit, blushed, but she didn't back away. Quite the opposite—she stood taller, tilted her chin up proudly, then leaned over to kiss Arthur on the cheek right in front of everyone. Her smile had the kind of sparkle that could light up a room. She whispered just loud enough for the nearby players to hear, "If you think I'm embarrassed, you're underestimating me, cariño."

That, of course, made the players explode again. Zlatan clapped slowly in mock applause. "Respect, boss. She's got more confidence than you!"

Arthur chuckled and tugged her closer. "That's why I signed her on a lifetime contract. Release clause set at infinity."

With the joking atmosphere buzzing around them, the squad began filtering toward the buses prepared for the championship parade. Today's route was straightforward but iconic: beginning at Thorp Arch, rolling through the heart of Leeds, and ending in the great square outside Elland Road, where tens of thousands of fans were already gathering.

Arthur didn't have to worry about logistics—Allen, the club's ever-reliable operations chief, had already squared everything away with the Leeds City Council. All the team had to do was bring the Premier League trophy, their smiles, and an appetite for adoration.

But as always, life had a way of throwing in a small twist before things really got rolling.

Earlier that morning, every English newspaper was plastered with Leeds United's miraculous title win. Headlines screamed about the "shock turnaround," the "miracle of Elland Road," and "Arthur's masterstroke." But one particular paper—the Manchester Evening News—was drawing a lot of attention, and not for the right reasons.

Diego Simeone, Arthur's fiery right-hand man, had been brooding all morning. Known for his intensity on the touchline, Simeone wasn't the type to let slights go, and today he was pacing around Thorp Arch like a bull ready to charge. The source of his irritation? A certain Charles Walters.

Walters, a journalist and a diehard Manchester United supporter, had made a bold bet with Arthur earlier in the season: if Leeds United somehow won the Premier League, he would publish an apology to Arthur in the Manchester Evening Newsfor thirty consecutive days. At the time, Walters had spoken with the smug confidence of a man who believed Leeds had no chance. Now Leeds had done the impossible, and today's edition of the paper contained… nothing. No apology. Not even a passing mention of the bet.

Arthur, for his part, barely remembered the man's name. He had bigger things on his mind—parades, players, Shakira, hangovers. But Simeone? Simeone remembered every word of that bet, and the fact Walters had gone silent was unacceptable.

So, as Arthur sat in his office chatting with Shakira about how surreal it felt to be champions, there came a sharp knock on the door. Before Arthur could answer, Simeone pushed it open, his expression somewhere between fury and glee.

"Boss," Simeone began, sparing Shakira a polite nod before striding forward like a man on a mission. In his hand was a copy of the Manchester Evening News. He slapped it onto Arthur's desk with the kind of dramatic flair usually reserved for courtroom dramas. "That Charles Walters, the little rat from the MEN—remember him?"

Arthur frowned, tilting his head. "Charles… Walters? Rings a bell. Oh—him. The United fan. Always had something snide to say about us, right? Didn't he also try to stick his nose into Maicon's transfer? Thought he was cleverer than he was?"

"That's the one," Simeone said, jabbing a finger at the newspaper. "This is today's edition. And do you see it? Do you see what's not there?"

Arthur picked up the paper, flipped through a few pages, and quickly realized what Simeone was on about. "Ah. No apology."

"No apology!" Simeone repeated, his voice rising. "He made a bet! He looked you in the eye, in front of cameras, and swore thirty days of public apologies. And today? Nothing. Not even a single sorry. It's disgraceful."

Arthur smirked, tossing the paper back onto the desk. "To be fair, Diego, if you hadn't stormed in here, I'd have completely forgotten about him. Bloke's not worth my time. We've got a trophy, we've got a parade, we've got Shakira, and he's got… well, nothing."

But Simeone wasn't letting it slide. "No, boss. Not this time. This isn't about him—it's about respect. He disrespected you, disrespected this team, and now he thinks he can slither away like it never happened. I can't stand it."

Arthur leaned back in his chair, folding his arms with a lazy grin. "Alright then. I remember Allen kept the video of that press conference, didn't he? Go grab him. Show him the evidence. If you want to tear Charles apart, do it properly. Make him eat those words in front of everyone. That should cheer you up."

Simeone's scowl softened into something more mischievous. "You really mean it?"

"Of course. What's the point of winning if we don't get to rub it in a little? If Charles pretends it never happened, sue him, shame him, send a letter to his editor—whatever you like. Just make sure he can't walk into Old Trafford without hearing someone shout, 'Oi, where's your apology?'"

That was all Simeone needed. His grin returned, fierce and wolfish. "Perfect. Leave it to me, boss. This Charles is going to regret ever opening his mouth. I'll go find Allen right now."

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head as Simeone stormed out with the paper tucked under his arm like a weapon. "Honestly, some people need a hobby."

Shakira, still sitting comfortably beside him, tilted her head with amusement. "He's loyal to you. He fights your battles even when you don't care to. That's rare, you know."

Arthur smiled and reached for her hand. "That's why he's here. Let him have his fun. Me? I've got bigger things to worry about—like making sure Zlatan doesn't fall off the parade bus while he's trying to crowd-surf over Leeds."

******

t was just past three o'clock, and the atmosphere around Thorp Arch had already reached fever pitch. The championship parade was about to begin, and Leeds was a city on fire with joy. Streets were lined with blue-and-white flags, car horns blared like trumpets of victory, and the air buzzed with chants that had been building all week, swelling to their climax on this perfect afternoon.

Everything was in place. The open-top parade bus, freshly painted in Leeds United's colors with "CHAMPIONS" splashed across its sides, was gleaming in the sunlight. Allen had handled every last detail, from traffic control to the stage in front of Elland Road, leaving Arthur free to enjoy the moment with his players.

Arthur, however, wasn't a man to hog the spotlight unnecessarily. As the bus rolled out of Thorp Arch, he guided the squad up to the open-air top deck. Seats had been stripped out to make room for them to move freely, dance, wave scarves, and, in Zlatan's case, showboat like he was on stage at Madison Square Garden. Arthur and Shakira, meanwhile, stayed comfortably inside the second level, enjoying the cool blast of the air conditioning.

It wasn't that Arthur didn't want to soak in the roars of the crowd. Quite the opposite—he loved the fans. But as the manager, as the man who had orchestrated this improbable triumph, he knew when to step back. This was their day, the players' day. Giving them the spotlight wasn't just generous, it was clever. Nothing builds cohesion quite like letting each of them feel like the kings of the city, adored by their people.

From outside, though, the noise was relentless. The chants rolled down the avenues like thunder.

"Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!"

The crowd screamed his name over and over, their voices echoing between the buildings. It would have been easy to pop his head out, wave, soak up the love. But Arthur stayed put, smiling faintly. He leaned back against the seat while Shakira rested her head on his shoulder. She looked out through the tinted glass as if watching a dream.

"You hear that?" she said softly, eyes sparkling. "They're calling for you."

Arthur chuckled. "Let them call. Today's about the lads. They deserve this show. My job was done on the pitch. Now it's theirs to enjoy."

Shakira tilted her head, amused. "You're humble when it suits you, cariño."

He grinned, kissed her forehead, and replied, "No, I'm strategic. Humble is just good PR."

Above them, the bus shook slightly with the chaos of Zlatan leading the others in chants, Ramos waving his shirt like a flag, and Torres dancing like a man possessed. Fans along the roads reached out with scarves, flags, even babies thrust forward in hopes of a kiss or a touch. Beers were raised from pub doorways, flares smoked blue and white, and the sound was deafening, a living wall of adoration.

And yet Arthur remained in the shadows, playing the conductor while his orchestra soaked in the applause.

It wasn't until the bus finally rolled into the vast square in front of Elland Road that Arthur stepped forward. The square was heaving—tens of thousands of fans packed shoulder to shoulder, a sea of white shirts and waving banners stretching as far as the eye could see. The bus slowed, pulling up beside the temporary stage that had been erected for the occasion.

Kompaný, towering and grinning like a proud captain, came down first, carrying the shining Premier League trophy. He turned, found Arthur at the bus door, and held it out with both hands. The gesture was symbolic, respectful. Arthur was the architect, the one who had put this team together, and it was only fitting he be the man to carry the prize onto the stage.

Arthur took it carefully, feeling the weight of it in his arms. For a second, he just looked down at the silver, its surface gleaming under the late afternoon sun. It wasn't just a trophy. It was proof. Proof of three years of sweat, risk, doubt, and brilliance. Proof that he'd been right not to sell the club, not to walk away, not to hide.

With Shakira beside him and his players flanking him, Arthur strode toward the stage. The noise swelled to an ear-splitting roar. Fans raised their arms, scarves waved furiously, and the chants now became one united cry:

"Leeds! Leeds! Leeds!"

Arthur climbed the steps, trophy in hand, and stepped to the microphone set in the center of the stage. From up here, the view nearly knocked the wind out of him. The players were scattered below, clapping, pumping fists, draping arms around each other. And beyond them, the crowd stretched in every direction—men, women, children, all in white, faces lit with tears, laughter, and pride.

Arthur paused, took a deep breath, and felt something rare. A lump in his throat. Emotion. Real, raw, unfiltered. He wasn't usually the sentimental type, but this moment was different. He had been in England for three years. The first, patching together a broken, bankrupt club, dragging it out of the mud by sheer willpower. The second, making wild, brilliant, often reckless moves to strengthen the squad. And the third… this. Conquering the Premier League, against all odds.

He gripped the microphone, his voice steady but carrying weight.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "today we gather here at Elland Road to celebrate the Premier League championship that has been away from us for fifteen long years."

A roar went up immediately, but he raised a hand, smiling, and continued.

"I'll be honest with you. Three years ago, when my father passed and left me Leeds United—a club bankrupt and broken—I thought seriously about selling it. I thought about leaving it behind, running off to live the easy life somewhere in Scandinavia. A rich man, a handsome man, without a care in the world."

The crowd laughed, and Arthur smirked, leaning into the humor. "Tempting, wasn't it? But then I realized something. This club wasn't just a burden. It was a chance. The chance to do something right. The chance to fight for something worth fighting for. And so I stayed. With your support, with your faith, we clawed our way back. We escaped bankruptcy. We returned to the Premier League. We returned to Europe. And now…"

He lifted the trophy higher, his voice rising with passion, "…now we've lifted the hardest, most glorious prize in English football! Together!"

The square erupted. The players below clapped and shouted, the fans screamed, the noise so deafening it rattled the very stage. But Arthur wasn't done.

"At this moment," he said, his voice tightening with emotion, "I have only one sentence left to say!"

He raised the trophy above his head with both hands, shining it into the sun, and roared:

"LONG LIVE LEEDS UNITED!!!"

The response was instantaneous, volcanic.

"LONG LIVE LEEDS UNITED!!!"

Tens of thousands of voices, one single cry, shaking the city to its foundations. It was a sound that would echo in memory forever.

Arthur stood there, arms raised, bathed in the roar of the people, and for the first time in three years, he allowed himself to simply feel it. This was his moment. Their moment. Leeds United's moment.