Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

The square outside Elland Road had become something out of a dream. After Arthur's roaring speech with the trophy high above his head, the entire place had erupted into a delirious carnival of noise and joy. Tens of thousands of fans in white shirts were jumping, hugging, crying, kissing strangers, and chanting until their throats were raw. It was a sea of humanity swaying under banners and scarves, like a single massive organism fueled entirely by adrenaline and lager.

Allen, ever the organizer, had prepared everything down to the last detail. Stalls serving drinks were lined up along the edges of the square, bands had their equipment set up and waiting, and of course, there was one secret weapon: Shakira. The ready-made Latin queen herself, shimmering under the lights, climbed on stage with a microphone in hand.

The crowd nearly imploded. The roar that greeted her was so loud Arthur was convinced half the windows in Leeds had just shattered. As the beat kicked in, she swayed her hips and began to sing, the kind of sultry, powerful performance that sent the square into another frenzy. Even the Leeds players, most of them half-drunk already, forgot about their dignity and began dancing like idiots. Zlatan twirled his shirt above his head like a matador, Torres somehow attempted breakdancing and nearly broke his ankle, while Ramos spun around like he was auditioning for Strictly Come Dancing.

Arthur laughed until his sides hurt. But there was only so much celebration his head could take. Last night's wine had been strong enough to power a small car engine, and now, with fireworks exploding, drums pounding, and fans screaming their lungs out, Arthur felt the hangover return with vengeance. His head throbbed, and even though part of him wanted to stay in the madness, another part of him reminded him there was something else—something important—waiting.

After a while, he and Shakira slipped quietly out of the square. Not because he didn't love celebrating, but because Arthur had unfinished business. Something that had been gnawing at the back of his mind since the final whistle yesterday.

The diamond treasure box.

That damned glittering chest of mystery the system had dropped into his storage after the title win. Yesterday, he'd been too drunk, too busy singing with Cannavaro and racing Diego Simeone in tequila shots, to even remember it. But now? Now it was time.

Shakira, however, wasn't about to let him go straight to nerd mode without extracting her own promise first. She had a commercial shoot scheduled for later in the evening, and as she packed her things, she wagged her finger at him.

"Arthur," she said, narrowing her eyes in mock seriousness, "you owe me. After this madness is over, you're taking me on vacation. Somewhere with beaches. Somewhere sunny. And not a football in sight, ¿entendido?"

Arthur laughed, pulled her close, and kissed her. "Done. Anywhere you want. I'm in too good a mood to argue with my woman. Besides," he added with a grin, "you cut down your work schedule just to be with me through this title run. I'd be an idiot to say no now."

Her smile softened, and she kissed him again before heading off, heels clicking, leaving Arthur alone in the quiet house.

He took a long shower, letting the steam clear the last fog of alcohol from his head. Then, towel-drying his hair, he strode into his study, shut the door, and leaned back in his chair like a man about to open Pandora's box.

"Alright, system," he muttered under his breath, rubbing his hands together. "Show me the goods."

With a thought, he summoned the interface. The storage column opened, and there it was. The diamond treasure chest. Unlike the usual dull bronze or silver rewards he'd grown used to, this one shone with multicolored light, practically humming with power. It was beautiful. It was majestic. And, most importantly, it was finally his.

Arthur actually rubbed his palms together until they were warm—his personal good-luck ritual—and then slammed his hand down on the glowing chest.

The lid burst open with a blinding flash, light so bright he had to squint. For a couple of seconds, the study looked like it had been lit by a nuclear bomb. Then the cold, mechanical voice of the system spoke in his head.

[Congratulations to the host for winning the reward: Injury Recovery Card (applicable to any player), duration: 1 year.]

Arthur froze.

"…What?"

He blinked. Had he misheard? He sat forward, staring at the message like it had just spat in his face.

"This… this is it? After all that effort? After a Premier League title? After me nearly drinking myself into a coma last night? A bloody Injury Recovery Card? I already HAVE those! Why give me more?!"

He shot up from his chair, ready to curse the heavens and throw a book at the wall. "You stingy pile of circuits! You robbing parasite of a system! That's all you've got?!"

But just as Arthur was mid-rant, the system's voice chimed again.

[Congratulations to the host for receiving the reward: Lore Card (only applicable to players with comprehensive evaluation grade A and offensive threat value of 90 points or more) x3. After use, the player's shooting accuracy and shooting power will reach the full value of 99 points! Duration: 5 minutes.]

Arthur froze again. Then his jaw dropped.

"…Oh my God."

He sat down hard, nearly falling out of the chair. Then he slapped the desk and shouted, "Now THAT'S more like it!"

His grin stretched ear to ear. A Lore Card. No—three Lore Cards. He practically bounced in his seat like a kid at Christmas.

"Maxed out shooting accuracy and power for five minutes? That's insane! That's literally a cheat code! Do you know what this means?!" He laughed like a madman. "It means if my player gets even a sniff of goal, it's basically guaranteed! One hundred percent—ball, net, goal, done!"

Arthur leaned back, running his hands through his hair in disbelief. He almost wanted to cry from happiness.

Of course, the system had to make it complicated. The fine print came back to him as he reread the conditions. Only players with an overall grade of A and an offensive threat rating of 90 or higher could use the card.

"Typical," he muttered. "Always a catch."

He started mentally running through his squad's attribute panels. Kompany? Brilliant captain, but offensive threat just over 60. Out. Bale? Excellent, but his offensive threat was only 89. So close, but no cigar.

That left a handful of stars. Zlatan Ibrahimović, Fernando Torres, Franck Ribéry, and Wesley Sneijder. All four qualified. And of course, with Adriano and Kaka about to join the club in the transfer window, there'd be even more options soon.

Arthur smirked, rubbing his chin. "Not bad. Not bad at all. Honestly, by the start of next season, I'll probably be complaining I don't have enough of these Lore Cards. Imagine Zlatan with one. He'd probably volley the ball so hard it would break the net."

He chuckled at the thought, leaning back in his chair again. The possibilities were endless.

If only he'd had these yesterday. Those final minutes against Chelsea had nearly aged him ten years. If he'd had just one Lore Card then, the stress, the pacing, the desperate prayers to the football gods—he could've avoided all of it.

Arthur shook his head, still laughing under his breath. "System, you almost gave me a heart attack, but you redeemed yourself. Injury Recovery Card, fine. But Lore Cards? You beauty. We're winning EVERYTHING next season."

He stretched his arms out, staring at the glowing cards floating before him. The diamond chest had delivered after all.

And for the first time since the final whistle, Arthur let himself relax.

*****

The morning after the wild celebrations in Leeds felt like a hangover that blanketed the entire city. The parade had ended in thunderous cheers, Shakira's impromptu concert had turned Elland Road's square into a mini-festival, and the players had drowned themselves in lager, champagne, and more questionable concoctions that someone swore tasted like "victory and regret."

By the next day, however, football reality returned. The Leeds United players, now flush with their hefty bonuses, officially kicked off their summer vacation. Arthur announced the break with a grin, and the lads nearly tore the roof down with their cheers. For once, training cones and fitness drills weren't looming on the horizon. Instead, beaches, barbecues, and bottomless pints were.

Still, there was one small catch.

"Half a month," Arthur reminded them at Thorp Arch before they scattered to the winds, "then you all report back. We've got a little business trip to Middle East."

The announcement was met with groans that could've rattled windows. Players like Ibrahimović and Ribery looked as though Arthur had just cancelled Christmas. Torres muttered something about Spain finally having decent weather and how unfair it was to waste it on endless flights. Even Bale, who usually nodded politely at anything, wore the expression of a man robbed of his surfboard.

"Boss," Kompany had said, raising a hand with mock solemnity, "with all due respect, dragging us across the world after a season like this feels cruel and unusual punishment. Geneva Convention stuff."

Arthur, leaning casually on the dugout fence, didn't even blink. "You lot are getting paid obscene amounts of money for what is basically a holiday with footballs. You play a couple of matches, wave at the crowd, pocket an easy million. Tell me again how it's cruel?"

The room went quiet for about two seconds before Ribery, ever the opportunist, shouted: "A million?! I'll carry the water bottles myself!"

The rest of the squad quickly recalculated. Sunburn in Thailand suddenly didn't sound so bad when a few extra zeroes were involved. Complaints evaporated faster than spilled beer on a summer pavement.

"Thought so," Arthur chuckled. "Only a fool says no to free money. And luckily, I don't coach fools."

That part was settled. The players would grumble a bit more for appearances' sake, but when June came around, every single one of them would be on the plane with smiles stretched as wide as their paychecks.

For Arthur himself, though, relaxation wasn't such a luxury. Where the squad could vanish to Ibiza or Dubai, he was trapped in the web of transfer business. He could barely spare two weeks of rest, and even that wasn't guaranteed.

First stop: Italy.

The Serie A season was about to wrap up, which meant Arthur needed to fly over and deal with the curious case of Adriano. The once-brilliant Brazilian striker had been living somewhere between genius and disaster for years. Inter Milan had finally agreed to sell, but Arthur's phone buzzed constantly with updates from his agent, Mino Raiola, who sounded more like an anxious babysitter than a super-agent.

"Arthur," Raiola had said on the phone just two nights ago, "you need to understand, this boy… he's fragile. If I don't watch him like a hawk, he'll vanish into some nightclub until sunrise. I've practically got him on a leash."

Arthur pinched his nose, half amused, half exasperated. "Mino, he's not a teenager sneaking out past curfew. He's supposed to be a professional footballer."

Raiola sighed dramatically, as though Arthur had no idea the burden he carried. "Professional? Ha! At the moment he's like a child. He sulks, he refuses to eat properly, and every time he sees Inter's badge, he looks like he's about to cry."

Arthur wasn't surprised. Adriano's bond with Inter ran deep. Leaving them was like ripping out roots. That was exactly what made Arthur hesitate about his trump card—the Injury Recovery Card he'd won from the system's diamond chest. On paper, it was perfect: a tool that could restore Adriano's battered body and confidence.

But if Arthur gave it to him now and the striker suddenly rediscovered his love for Milan, what then? What if Adriano dug his heels in and refused to leave, healed up and reborn for his old club?

That would be the definition of shooting himself in the foot. A wasted card and no striker to show for it. Arthur had no intention of babysitting a player who didn't want to commit fully to Leeds. Better to wait, get the contract signed, and then unleash the miracle.

Adriano wasn't the only reason Italy beckoned. Over at AC Milan, another jewel awaited: Ricardo Kaká.

Every time Arthur thought of him, he broke into a grin he couldn't hide. The Brazilian playmaker was the kind of signing that could make entire fanbases faint with envy. Just imagining Kaká threading passes to Ibrahimović made Arthur laugh out loud like a man who'd just robbed a bank and gotten away with it.

And he couldn't help but picture Galliani's bald head gleaming red with fury. The Milan director had been completely outplayed. If Arthur hadn't pushed the deal through early, Milan would've clung to Kaká with everything once they reached the Champions League final.

Because yes—AC Milan were in the final. If they beat Manchester United and lifted that trophy, Galliani would've sooner swallowed his tie than sold Kaká for less than seventy million euros. Instead, thanks to Arthur's cunning timing, the playmaker was already Leeds-bound for a fraction of that.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, smirking to himself. "I wonder if Berlusconi chewed him out. Poor sod. Probably got roasted alive."

He almost felt sorry for Galliani. Almost.

But Italy wasn't the only thing on his plate. Leeds' transfer market—the infamous "black shop," as Arthur liked to call it—was about to open for business again. Deals, negotiations, player valuations—it was all about to kick off. And business was already booming.

That very morning, Allen had barged into his office waving his laptop like a man who'd just discovered buried treasure.

"Boss, you won't believe this," Allen said breathlessly. "I opened my email today and nearly fainted. Offers. Loads of them. My inbox practically exploded overnight."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Spam?"

"No!" Allen scrolled furiously, shoving the screen under Arthur's nose. "Look—clubs from all over Europe, big ones, small ones, even Turkey's in there. At least twenty serious enquiries. I filtered out the junk, and there are still eight or nine I can't even answer without you."

Arthur glanced at the list and gave a low whistle. It was like being at an auction where everyone wanted a piece of his players.

"See," he said, leaning back with a grin, "this is why I call it a black shop. Supply, demand, desperation—it's a goldmine every time we open. And every time, we make a killing."

Allen nodded, still wide-eyed. "You really think we can keep turning this into profit, season after season?"

Arthur chuckled. "Allen, my friend, money never sleeps. And neither do fools with open wallets. We'll take their cash, strengthen the squad, and laugh all the way back to the trophy parade next year."

Of course, that meant his supposed "vacation" would be buried under scouting reports, meetings, and negotiations. Just when the champagne hangover was wearing off, he was already knee-deep in spreadsheets.

And once June rolled around, Leeds United's Asian adventure would begin. A few exhibition matches, a few waves to adoring fans, and a mountain of revenue to bring home. Arthur could already picture the stadiums packed with white shirts and banners that read "Long Live Leeds!" in languages he couldn't understand.

After sketching out the month ahead in his notebook, Arthur leaned back in his chair, sighing like a man both proud and exhausted.

"Bloody hell," he muttered to himself. "There really is no such thing as money you earn lying down…"

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