NOVEL NEXT Chapter 261: Art of Negotiation
Arthur lounged back in his chair, phone pressed lazily to his ear, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He could practically see Ferguson's face on the other end of the line: red, veins popping, eyebrows furrowed into that permanent scowl that had terrified referees for two decades. Perfect. This was exactly the mood Arthur wanted him in.
The silence dragged just a moment too long, then came the explosion.
"I'm still bloody well here!" Ferguson barked down the line, his voice grating with restrained fury.
Arthur chuckled under his breath, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the arm of the sofa. Ferguson's temper was like a fire—you didn't throw water on it, you poured petrol. "Good, good," Arthur said, his tone light, teasing. "For a second I thought you'd gone to take a nap. You sounded so quiet. Need me to repeat the question, Alex? I don't mind. How much are you really willing to pay for Schmeichel?"
Ferguson snapped back instantly. "I heard you the first time!"
"Then why not answer?" Arthur pushed, voice as smooth as butter. "Come on, Alex. I'm waiting. How much do you want to spend to get him? Just give me a number."
That was it. Ferguson's patience finally cracked like glass under a hammer.
"Bloody hell, Arthur! If you've got the guts, march yourself down to Carrington right now, and I'll tell you face-to-face what I'm willing to pay!"
Arthur blinked at the phone, amused. "Wait—why would I waste petrol? Aren't we already talking on the phone? You could just… you know, tell me on the phone."
The old Scot's answer was a one-word eruption. "F—!" He cut himself off, but Arthur didn't need the rest. He could practically feel the spit flying through the receiver.
For Ferguson, the wounds were still raw. Just days ago, the Premier League title had been dangling right in front of him. A season of grit and grind, snatched cruelly away in the final act by the smirking rookie on the other end of this call. And now, that same rookie was not only refusing to play ball over a transfer but was mocking him.
Sir Alex Ferguson. The untouchable boss of Old Trafford. The man who bullied referees, cowed journalists, and ruled over Manchester United like a king for decades. And here he was—being toyed with like some first-year apprentice. He had never suffered such indignity. Not once in his career.
A hundred insults sprinted through Ferguson's mind, lining up at the tip of his tongue. He wanted to unload them all. To crush Arthur beneath a flood of vocabulary sharp enough to slice through steel. But just as he was about to unleash hell, Arthur's voice cut in again, calm, sharp, perfectly timed.
"Let's cut the theatrics, Alex. Your thirteen million offer? It's too low. You want the starting keeper of the Premier League champions? You'll need to add a little more."
Ferguson froze, the words he'd been about to roar suddenly choking in his throat. He swallowed them back, grinding his teeth. Focus, Alex. Don't let him drag you into the gutter. You're Sir Alex bloody Ferguson. You've got a knighthood. He's just a cheeky upstart with a big mouth.
He inhaled sharply, forcing composure into his voice. "All right then. How much?"
Arthur didn't hesitate. His voice was firm, sharp, and full of mischief. "Twenty five million euros."
Ferguson nearly dropped the phone. His jaw clenched so hard it might have cracked a molar. "Twenty five million?!" he barked. "What in God's name are you smoking over there? Do you think you're selling me Buffon?!"
Arthur leaned back, smiling at the ceiling as though he'd been waiting for that exact line. "Buffon?" he said, tone feigning innocence. "Don't get me wrong, Alex, Buffon's a fine keeper. But he's just won the Serie B title with Juventus, hasn't he? Serie B. My lad, on the other hand, is the number one goalkeeper for the Premier League champions. Tell me—why shouldn't he cost more?"
It was so simple, so logical, that for a split second Ferguson was speechless. He had the comeback ready—he always had one ready—but Arthur's reasoning was bulletproof in its cheeky simplicity. Buffon was older, playing in Italy's second tier thanks to Juventus' scandal. Schmeichel? Younger, fresher, holding a Premier League medal in his hands.
Arthur pressed the knife in deeper. "Besides," he went on smoothly, "age matters, doesn't it? Schmeichel's younger. Fresher legs. Fewer creaky bones. More years at the top ahead of him. So tell me, Alex—why wouldn't he be worth twenty five million?"
The line went quiet for a moment, filled only by Ferguson's harsh, irritated breathing. Arthur pictured the scene perfectly: Ferguson at his desk, jaw tight, face crimson, one hand gripping the phone while the other drummed furiously against the wood.
Arthur grinned. This was negotiation at its finest. You didn't just ask for money—you poked, you prodded, you rattled your opponent until they stopped thinking logically and started thinking emotionally. And an emotional Ferguson was exactly the kind of Ferguson who'd agree to pay more just to end the torment.
Arthur leaned back, his voice light, playful, the verbal equivalent of a wink. "So. What do you say, Alex? Twenty five million. It's a bargain, really. Especially for someone of your stature. Surely the mighty Manchester United can stretch to that?"
*****
Arthur sat cross-legged on his sofa, phone pressed to his ear, a playful grin plastered on his face. Negotiating with Ferguson was like poking a lion with a stick—dangerous, loud, but absolutely entertaining if you knew when to dart back.
The old Scot had just about reached the end of his patience, and Arthur could almost hear the man's blood pressure climbing.
Finally, Ferguson's voice came back, full of reluctant fire. "It's impossible to pay twenty-five million euros for a goalkeeper! If I ever did that, I'd deserve to have my head bashed by a bloody door!"
Arthur chuckled, leaning back and twirling his free hand in the air like he was conducting an invisible orchestra. That was the outburst he was waiting for. "All right, all right," he said smoothly, voice full of false magnanimity. "Let's call it twenty million, then. Not a cent lower. That's my bottom line."
Of course, twenty million had been his target all along, but what was the fun in revealing that too early? No, you had to make the other side think they'd wrestled a concession out of you. Let them believe they'd won a little battle, while you walked off with the war chest.
There was silence for a beat, then Ferguson spoke again. His voice wasn't sharp this time—it was softer, measured, the kind of tone Arthur knew well. It meant the old fox was already halfway to giving in. "Twenty million still feels steep. I paid just two million pounds for Van der Sar, Arthur. Two million. And now you're telling me to cough up twenty? At the end of the day, I'm just buying a goalkeeper!"
Arthur grinned wider, recognizing the shift instantly. Ferguson wasn't saying no anymore. He was stalling, softening the blow for himself, looking for something—anything—to justify the madness of spending that much on a keeper. Arthur knew this pattern like the back of his hand. Sir Alex wasn't truly resisting. He was just searching for a fig leaf to cover the fact that he was about to give in.
Arthur decided to hand him that fig leaf, gift wrapped and shiny. "Alex, listen," he began, his tone suddenly gentle, persuasive, the kind of voice you'd use to sell a car to a nun. "Of course Van der Sar was cheap, but he was thirty-five when he came to you! Schmeichel? He's only twenty-one. Twenty-one! That's fourteen extra years between the sticks. Think about it. If your coaching is as sharp as you like to remind people, he could guard your goal until the day you retire. Now isn't that worth something?"
Ferguson grunted, but Arthur ploughed on before the old man could bark back.
"And don't forget the family name," Arthur continued. "Peter Schmeichel—your old disciple, your beloved keeper, the man who gave you glory. Now his son, wearing the same shirt, guarding the same posts, all under your command again. Father and son, both raised under Ferguson's watch. Do you know what the papers will do with that story? They'll call it destiny, Alex. They'll call it legacy. And you? You'll look like the genius who pulled the strings."
Arthur leaned in, grinning to himself as he delivered the final push. "Frankly, when the media spin that tale, you won't even have time to thank me."
On the other end, Ferguson rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't fall out. He didn't even bother replying to the flowery sales pitch. He'd long since learned to ignore Arthur's ridiculous sugar-coating. Still… beneath the exaggeration, there was sense in what the lad was saying.
Twenty-one years old. Calm head on his shoulders. Already proven at Leeds. Reliable. Professional. And with the right guidance, maybe—just maybe—he really could carry the mantle all the way until Ferguson himself hung up his whistle. The boy wasn't his father, sure, but in some ways that was a blessing. Less wild, more controlled. Exactly the kind of temperament Ferguson valued in a keeper.
If he did the maths… twenty million wasn't cheap, but over a decade of service? It started to sound less like madness and more like an investment.
Arthur's voice cut in again, right on cue. "So, Alex? Have you thought it through?"
Ferguson let out a long, weary sigh and stared out his office window at the Carrington pitches. A wry smile tugged at his lips despite himself. "Arthur, every time I do business with you, I come out feeling like I've been mugged in broad daylight."
Arthur laughed, a full-bellied laugh that echoed through his living room. "You can't say that! I'm just a humble shopkeeper, Alex. Schmeichel's quality speaks for itself, and you know as well as I do that twenty million is money well spent."
There was a pause, then Ferguson finally surrendered. "All right. Once I get through this chaos with the FA Cup and Champions League, I'll send someone to hammer out the contract. Done." His tone was resigned, clipped, but the deal was sealed.
Arthur could hear the old man's finger hovering over the end call button. But before Ferguson could escape, Arthur slipped in one last line, his voice playful as ever. "Oi, don't be in such a rush. One more thing—Cristiano. You planning to sell him?"
There was a heartbeat of silence. Then an explosion.
"Get out!!!" Ferguson roared, so loud Arthur had to hold the phone away from his ear. The line went dead a second later, and Arthur fell back against the sofa, laughing like a maniac.
Sir Alex Ferguson, one of the greatest managers in football history, had once again walked straight into his little game. And Arthur? He'd pocketed twenty million euros and a priceless memory of winding up the old Scot to breaking point.