Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

On the morning of May 19, Arthur woke up feeling surprisingly light, almost as if the air itself knew it was a day made for football. He rolled out of bed, stretched, and was immediately greeted by the sight of Shakira humming softly in the kitchen, making coffee. She wore one of his Leeds United training tops, and even though her pregnancy was still in its early stages and not visible yet, there was a new radiance about her—something subtle but impossible for Arthur to miss. She practically glowed, and it wasn't just the sun filtering through the curtains.

"Morning, love," Arthur said, stepping in and dropping a kiss on her shoulder.

Shakira turned with a little smile, her hair tumbling over her face. "Morning. You've got that look again."

"What look?"

"The one where you're plotting football world domination," she teased, handing him a mug.

Arthur laughed. "Well, I am going to Wembley today. I've been invited to watch the FA Cup final. Bullingham personally called me—couldn't exactly say no to the FA boss."

Shakira raised her eyebrows playfully. "Or maybe you just want to watch Chelsea and Manchester United knock each other around for two hours."

Arthur grinned. She wasn't wrong. He wanted to see whether Sir Alex Ferguson's Manchester United would meet the same fate as he remembered—falling to Didier Drogba's decisive strike in extra time.

After breakfast, Arthur and Shakira set off for London. The drive was smooth, and Arthur noticed Shakira's hand kept resting gently over her stomach. He didn't say anything, just reached over occasionally to squeeze her fingers, silently promising himself he'd take care of her no matter what.

By the time they arrived at Wembley, the place was buzzing. It wasn't just a football match; it was the return of the FA Cup final to the new Wembley Stadium after years at Cardiff's Millennium. It was historic, and the energy around the place was electric. Members of the royal family were in attendance, the media was in overdrive, and fans from both Chelsea and United filled the streets with chants, flags, and nerves.

Arthur walked through the VIP entrance with Shakira on his arm, cameras flashing as usual. For once, he didn't mind the attention—he was too focused on the match ahead. He was curious, analytical, and more than a little eager to see if Ferguson and Mourinho would deliver the spectacle he was expecting.

Inside, the atmosphere was thunderous as the teams lined up. Chelsea, under Mourinho, were desperate. They'd lost the league title to United, been knocked out of the League Cup early, and eliminated by United in the Champions League. This FA Cup was their last chance at silverware. Mourinho's sharp suit and even sharper expression made it clear—today wasn't just another game; it was survival.

United, meanwhile, had their eyes on glory. Ferguson, with that trademark red rose pinned to his jacket, wasn't about to let Mourinho have the last laugh. With four days until the Champions League final, he'd still rolled out the big guns—Rooney, Ronaldo, Giggs—because for him, if you couldn't be treble winners, then you might as well secure the double.

At 3 p.m., referee Howard Webb blew his whistle, and the final began.

The opening minutes were fierce, physical, and surprisingly scrappy. Both sides pressed hard, with crunching tackles flying in all over the pitch. Every ball was contested, every blade of grass fought over. To the casual eye, it looked like war. But from Arthur's perspective, sitting comfortably in the stands, he couldn't help but frown.

"This is slow," he muttered under his breath.

Shakira glanced at him. "Slow? They're trying to kill each other down there!"

Arthur chuckled. "Yeah, but notice? No real chances in the box. It's all noise without the bite. They're playing like they're terrified to make a mistake."

And he was right. Despite all the collisions and shoves, neither team managed to properly threaten within 30 meters of goal. The ball pinged around midfield, long passes intercepted, counters broken up before they even began. The spectacle was there for the fans, but for Arthur, who saw the game with a coach's precision, it was chess at a crawling pace.

As the match wore on, Ferguson's face grew redder, Mourinho's arms flailed more, and yet neither side could find the breakthrough. Ninety minutes passed in a blur of blocked shots, wayward crosses, and referee whistles. Still 0–0. Wembley grew restless, the tension biting into every cheer.

Extra time came, and Arthur leaned forward. He knew what was coming. He could feel it.

And then, in the 116th minute, it happened. Lampard and Drogba combined with a fluidity that cut through the static of the game. A quick one-two just outside United's box, Lampard flicking a clever lob between O'Shea and Ferdinand. Drogba read it perfectly, breaking into the area like a predator on the hunt.

Van der Sar rushed out, trying to smother him, but Drogba didn't wait for the ball to settle. He caught it mid-bounce, lifting it delicately over the keeper and into the net. Wembley erupted—half in ecstasy, half in despair. Chelsea led 1–0.

Arthur slapped his knee and let out a sharp laugh. "Knew it. Absolutely knew it. Ferguson won't sleep tonight."

Shakira squeezed his arm, grinning at his excitement. "You're enjoying this far too much."

Arthur smirked. "Watching Mourinho and Drogba prove me right? Oh, I'll enjoy this all week."

United tried to push for an equaliser in the dying minutes, but their final attempts fizzled. Kalou's effort went wide, Van der Sar launched a desperate goal kick, and then Webb's whistle ended it.

Chelsea had done it. Mourinho finally lifted a trophy in what had been a brutal season, and it came thanks to his trusted talisman, Drogba. Ferguson, rose still pinned but face thunderous, had lost his second trophy in just one week.

Arthur leaned back in his seat, satisfaction written all over his face. "Well, Mourinho's saved his season. Fergie's going to be spitting nails for days."

Shakira just laughed at how invested he was, kissing his cheek.

Three days later, Arthur and Shakira were on another plane, this time bound for Athens. They arrived in style and headed straight to the luxury box at the Olympic Stadium.

Florentino Pérez was already there, lounging like a man with no responsibilities—well, he was unemployed these days, so technically he didn't have any.

The three of them greeted each other warmly. This had become something of a tradition now.

For the third year in a row, Arthur and Florentino would watch the Champions League final together, Shakira along for the ride. And as always, the little side bet of 100 euros on the winner was ready to go.

Arthur leaned forward with a grin. "So, Florentino, same rules? Loser buys dinner and coughs up the hundred?"

Florentino smirked. "Of course. But this year, don't expect me to go easy on you because you have your lover with you."

Arthur laughed, shaking his head. "I'll believe that when I see it."

Shakira giggled. "It might be difficult Mr. Perez, considering Arthur never loses when I am with him. He calls me his goodluck charm."

Florentino laughed. " It's nice to be young and in love."

And with that, the stage was set for yet another unforgettable night of football.

*****

This Champions League final felt different to Arthur. For once, he wasn't sitting in the stands smugly confident about how the script would unfold. He didn't have his usual secret "I know what happens next" grin plastered across his face. No, this year was special—because thanks to his own meddling, Liverpool weren't even here.

Originally, in that old timeline of his memory, it should have been Liverpool standing opposite AC Milan tonight. The repeat of Istanbul. Gerrard lifting his team. That drama. But no. Liverpool had been cut off from even qualifying for the Champions League this season, thanks largely to Arthur's decisions and Leeds United shaking up English football. So instead, it was Sir Alex Ferguson's Manchester United stepping out against AC Milan.

And Arthur? He couldn't predict it. He didn't know who'd walk away with the trophy tonight. United looked strong, young, and hungry. But AC Milan had Kaka—the one player Arthur admired enough to build half his dreams around.

So when Florentino Pérez pulled out the little slip of paper for their traditional 100-euro bet, Arthur didn't even hesitate. "I'm putting mine on AC Milan."

Florentino gave him a sidelong look, raising one of those thick eyebrows. "Straight for Milan, huh? That's pure sentiment talking. You're betting with your heart."

Arthur leaned back in his chair inside the luxury box of the Athens Olympic Stadium, throwing him a smug grin. "Maybe. Or maybe I just know genius when I see it. And Kaka's about to remind the world why he's untouchable."

Florentino's jaw tightened slightly. Arthur knew why. The Spaniard had always had his eye on Kaka, always dreamed of bringing the Brazilian star to the Bernabéu as the next Galáctico jewel. The problem was, Kaka was already in Arthur's pocket—Leeds United's newest, brightest signing.

Arthur glanced at him, eyes twinkling with mischief. If only you knew, Flo. If only you knew Kaka was already mine. You'd probably cough up three liters of blood right here in this luxury suite.

He nearly laughed out loud at the thought, but the whistle from the pitch below saved Florentino from his internal mockery. Tonight's referee, Herbert Fandel, lifted his whistle to his lips and blew. The Champions League final of 2007 had begun.

And from the very first kick, Manchester United came roaring out of the gates.

Only 30 seconds in, Ryan Giggs, still gliding down the left flank like he'd found the fountain of youth, lifted a curling ball to the far post. It was perfect—measured, teasing, begging to be finished. Cristiano Ronaldo darted into the box, hair gelled, swagger intact, but he was a fraction too slow. The ball sailed just past his boot. The chance vanished.

Arthur slapped the armrest, half-laughing. "That could've been one-nil in thirty seconds. Ferguson will be chewing gum like it's beef jerky now."

Shakira, sitting next to him, leaned in with a smile. "You're more excited than the fans."

Arthur smirked. "Because I know Ferguson's already losing his temper. That poor gum doesn't stand a chance."

Milan, on the other hand, looked sluggish. Their old guard—Maldini, Nesta, Gattuso—still had class, but they weren't spring chickens. For the first ten minutes, they sat back, absorbing wave after wave of United's pressure. Ronaldo cut inside, Scholes probed, Rooney bullied defenders, but nothing quite broke through.

Nine minutes in, Jankulovski committed the kind of mistake that makes coaches throw chairs. He miscontrolled the ball on the edge of Milan's box. Paul Scholes pounced like a fox, stealing it clean, and instantly threaded a pass to Ronaldo. The Portuguese winger unleashed a rocket of a shot, but Dida was equal to it, diving low and palming the ball away.

Arthur whistled. "United look sharper. Milan need to wake up, or this'll be over before it starts."

Finally, in the 17th minute, Milan stirred. Jankulovski redeemed himself, floating a pass into the middle where Kaka waited. The Brazilian cushioned it on his chest, flicked it delicately past Ferdinand with the outside of his boot, and set up a shot for himself. He struck cleanly, testing Van der Sar, but the big Dutchman sprawled across goal to deny him.

"Now we're talking," Arthur muttered, leaning forward. "Kaka's here. Game on."

Beside him, Florentino sighed heavily. "They rely too much on him. The rest of that team—pfft. Old legs everywhere. Without Kaka, they look… spent."

Arthur chuckled. "Oh, don't start crying about Milan's age. Serie A's still got bite. And let's not pretend you're not drooling over him for Madrid."

Florentino gave him a narrow look. "You brat. You've been spying on me, haven't you? Sending someone to tail me in Madrid?"

Arthur smirked slyly, lowering his voice. "Did I hit a nerve?"

The old man's expression said it all. Arthur had guessed correctly. Florentino was still working behind the scenes, trying to engineer his return as Real Madrid president.

Arthur leaned closer, grinning. "So? Did you get it done? When's the coronation, Mr. President?"

Florentino rolled his eyes, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Arthur knew he'd nailed it.

Down on the pitch, the battle raged on. United kept pushing through Rooney's strength and Ronaldo's trickery, but Milan clung stubbornly, their midfield shielding the defense with grit and guile. Kaka floated between the lines, every touch of his boot dripping with elegance. The stadium roared with every swing in momentum, and Arthur sat back, a man torn—tactician's brain analyzing every movement, fan's heart rooting unashamedly for his Brazilian maestro.