Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

The next morning dawned bright over Leeds, though Arthur was already awake before the first rays of sunlight had properly filtered through the curtains.

He had gone to bed fairly late, still buzzing with excitement after studying the shiny new cards the system had spat out at him. The possibilities were endless, and his brain had raced until exhaustion finally claimed him. But today was different—today was about business.

He slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb Shakira, who was still curled up under the duvet. She had stumbled home exhausted after a long evening shoot. Arthur had spoiled her with a massage until she practically melted in his arms, then, in a half-sleepy daze, she'd let him change her into nightwear and tuck her in.

Now she slept soundly, breathing softly, her dark hair a mess on the pillow.

Arthur paused for a second, smiling at the sight. A man could get used to mornings like this. Still, he had work to do. He kissed her forehead gently and tiptoed out of the room and closed the door gently behind him.

Last night, before calling it a day, Arthur had fired off a message to Allen. The poor lad was to show up in his office this morning with a neat pile of the transfer offers that had come flooding in. Arthur wanted to comb through them properly and, if anything worthwhile popped up, start negotiations straight away.

By the time Allen arrived, Arthur was already sitting comfortably in his office, waiting with the posture of a man who had both patience and caffeine reserves. Allen, on the other hand, looked like someone who had spent the night in a warzone with his inbox. His arms were loaded with printed documents, and he dropped them neatly onto the coffee table in front of Arthur like they were sacred offerings to a king.

"Boss, here's the lot," Allen said, slightly breathless. "I've filtered out the nonsense. These are the ones worth your time."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, amused at how serious Allen looked, then leaned forward and gave a short nod.

"Good lad. Now before you vanish, the tea leaves are in the drawer. Make it strong, yeah? My body's still reminding me about the drinking I did these past few days. Feels like I've been pickled."

Allen chuckled. "Got it. Strong tea, coming up."

While Allen busied himself with the kettle, Arthur picked up the stack of papers and began flipping through them. Seven, maybe eight pages in total—not overwhelming, but enough to keep him busy. Each sheet was a different club sniffing around his players.

Most had already been struck out by Allen. Arthur could see the red pen marks where his assistant had taken the liberty of saying "not a chance." He had to give Allen credit; the man knew the squad almost as well as he did. The remaining offers were the borderline cases—the ones Arthur himself would need to decide on.

But as he leafed through page after page, a slight frown grew on his face. None of the offers really thrilled him. Sure, there were some good numbers, but nothing screamed "take it now." And truth be told, Arthur wasn't desperate to sell unless the player themselves had expressed a wish to go.

After all, he had already moved on Yaya Touré and Piqué earlier in the season. Rivaldo was practically in his rocking chair, ready to call it a career. Midfield and defense were already lighter than he liked. With the Champions League on the horizon next season, Arthur was not in the mood to gut his squad just to pad the bank account.

Still… one offer caught his eye.

Sir Alex Ferguson. Manchester United. Peter Schmeichel.

Arthur placed the sheet down carefully, like it was a chess piece he was about to move into place. The timing of it all made sense.

At that moment, Allen returned, setting a steaming cup of tea on the table. Arthur picked it up, inhaled deeply, and took a slow sip. The bitterness was perfect. He let out a satisfied moan, leaned back on the sofa, and closed his eyes for a second.

"Schmeichel," Arthur murmured. "That one… that's negotiable."

He wasn't being reckless. The truth was, he had been preparing for this decision for a while. Schmeichel was reliable, no doubt. A proper A+ level keeper, seasoned and solid. But Arthur had someone else in mind for the future—someone already in his squad.

Manuel Neuer.

The German had been quietly growing under Leeds' coaching staff, honing his game in training, picking up the odd appearance in cup matches. Arthur had tracked his progress like a hawk, and the numbers spoke for themselves. From the raw talent who had first arrived, Neuer had climbed steadily, now hovering at a B+ overall rating. Another season, and Arthur was certain he'd hit A level.

Not as sharp as Schmeichel just yet, but close enough to take the mantle. And when you factored in potential? It was a no-brainer. Neuer's ceiling was S+. The man was destined to be world-class, maybe even redefine the role of a goalkeeper. Schmeichel was great, but he'd already peaked.

Arthur opened one eye and grinned. "Yeah. Schmeichel can go. Neuer's ready to be the main man."

Allen raised his eyebrows but didn't argue. If anything, he looked impressed. "So you'll accept United's offer?"

"Not without squeezing every penny out of them first," Arthur replied with a sly smile. "This is Ferguson we're talking about. He'll pay through the nose if he thinks it's the solution to his Van der Sar problem."

And that, Arthur knew, was exactly what was happening. Van der Sar was still solid, but at thirty-seven, the Dutchman couldn't go on forever. Ferguson was a genius, and geniuses always plan their succession. Schmeichel wasn't a long-term solution, but for a couple of years, he'd be safe hands until the next great keeper arrived.

Arthur sipped his tea again, the gears in his head turning.

And then another idea popped in.

"If we sell Schmeichel," he said slowly, "we'll need a backup for Neuer. Someone young, promising, and cheap. Someone who won't complain about sitting on the bench for a year or two."

Allen tilted his head. "Anyone in mind?"

Arthur smirked. "David de Gea. Atlético Madrid's kid. Seventeen. Raw as hell, but the talent's there. He'll cost peanuts right now. We grab him, tuck him behind Neuer, and boom—we've got the next decade sorted."

Allen blinked, trying to process the foresight. "Seventeen? Isn't that a bit… young for the Premier League?"

Arthur waved his hand dismissively. "So what? Goalkeepers are like wine—they get better with time. We'll nurture him. Worst case, he turns into a decent backup. Best case? He becomes a star. Either way, we win."

The plan was falling into place. Sell Schmeichel to United, let Neuer take over as Leeds' number one, and snatch up De Gea as the apprentice. Simple, elegant, and—most importantly—profitable.

Arthur leaned back fully now, balancing the cup on his knee, looking like a man who had just solved three puzzles at once.

"Allen," he said with a chuckle, "sometimes I amaze even myself."

Allen rolled his eyes but smiled. He'd seen this look before. It was the look Arthur wore right before Leeds United pulled off another transfer masterstroke.

*****

Arthur had already made up his mind. Ferguson wanted Schmeichel, and Arthur was willing to talk—but only on his terms. After all, he wasn't running a charity shop, and Leeds United's goalkeeper wasn't some bargain-bin clearance item.

From Ferguson's side, the situation made sense. Van der Sar was still holding up at 37, a wall between the posts for United, but even the toughest Dutchmen eventually feel the years. Ferguson, in his usual fashion, was trying to plan two steps ahead. He wanted someone reliable—someone who could inherit the gloves when Van der Sar finally decided enough was enough. But reliable didn't come cheap, and Arthur wasn't about to hand out loyalty discounts.

The offer from United was €13 million. Respectable, yes, but compared to what Arthur had spent—half a million—it was practically daylight robbery. A neat 25-fold profit. If he'd been any other manager, he might have rushed to sign off immediately, slapped himself on the back, and called it a good day. But Arthur wasn't any other manager.

"Thirteen million?" Arthur muttered, half amused, half insulted, as he leaned back on his sofa with the papers in hand. "They think I'm some kind of fool, don't they? Selling Howard's butter fingers fetched fifteen million, and this is Schmeichel we're talking about—the Premier League champion's main man between the sticks! If Ferguson thinks he can waltz in and grab him for thirteen, he's got another thing coming. Not a chance. Not even if God Himself picked up the phone."

The decision was instant. Schmeichel could go—but only if United coughed up the kind of fee that would make Arthur grin all the way to the bank.

With that, he pulled his phone from his pocket, thumbed through his contacts, and found the name: Sir Alex Ferguson. Without hesitation, he hit call.

The line clicked, and soon that unmistakable gruff Scottish voice answered.

"Arthur," Ferguson said dryly, "if you're not busy parading your title around Leeds, what makes you think it's a good idea to ring up your defeated opponent today?"

The tone was sharp, the words bristling. Typical Ferguson—bruised pride wrapped in sarcasm.

Arthur wasn't about to take that lying down. "Alex, that's your opening line? Really?" he shot back immediately. "If that's the case, I'll just rip up your little offer and toss it straight in the bin. Saves us both the trouble."

The bluntness caught Ferguson off guard. For a moment, he'd forgotten why Arthur might be calling in the first place. Then it clicked—the bid he'd submitted for Schmeichel. His tone softened quickly, switching from defensive to almost conciliatory.

"All right, all right," Ferguson said, clearing his throat. "I thought you were calling to gloat about your shiny new Premier League medal."

Arthur let out a small laugh. "What's there to gloat about? It's just one trophy. Anyway—next season it'll probably be yours again, won't it?"

For a brief moment, Ferguson relaxed. That sounded civil, almost respectful. But then Arthur delivered the second half of the line, deliberately separated by a pause like a carefully placed dagger.

"…Because let's be honest, Alex, who else is going to challenge you lot once we're tired of it?"

That did it. Ferguson's blood pressure spiked. His knuckles went white around the phone. He actually had to resist the urge to fling it across the room. The cheek of the man! A rookie manager, one season in the Premier League, talking to him like that!

Arthur, sensing he might have pushed a bit too far, quickly reeled the conversation back before Ferguson could explode. "Look, Alex, you've still got the FA Cup and the Champions League in play. My little league title is peanuts compared to what you might end the season with. So let's talk business. Schmeichel. How much are you actually willing to pay?"

Ferguson froze. His brows knitted, confusion plastered across his face. He actually pulled the phone away and stared at the screen, as though it might explain what he'd just heard.

"'How much am I willing to pay?'" Ferguson muttered to himself, almost in disbelief. "What the hell does he mean, how much? I already did name a price!"

It didn't compute. He'd sent over an offer. Thirteen million. Clear, straightforward. Now here was Arthur, acting like it didn't exist, as if the slate were wiped clean and Ferguson had to start again from scratch.

Arthur, meanwhile, sat on the other end of the line, frowning at the silence. He pulled the phone away, checked the screen—still connected. He brought it back to his ear.

"Hello? Alex? You there?" he called out, louder this time. "Don't tell me you've fallen asleep on me. You've not gone soft in your old age, have you?"

Still no response. Just that heavy, brooding silence.

Arthur sighed theatrically, shaking his head as though Ferguson could see it. "Come on, Alex. Don't make me shout into the phone like some lunatic. I know you're still there. Now—are we going to talk like adults, or should I really just toss this offer where it belongs?"

And on the other side, Ferguson sat in his office, phone pressed to his ear, face redder than a Manchester United kit, torn between fury and grudging admiration for Arthur's nerve.