Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

Arthur leaned back in his seat, eyes flicking between the pitch and the older man beside him. Manchester United and AC Milan were still in a stalemate, but Arthur's attention wasn't just on the football. There was something he wanted to pry out of Florentino Pérez, and the best way to do it was to bait him with a little nudge here and there.

"What are you talking about? What power?" Florentino said smoothly, his trademark smile plastered across his face. It was the kind of smile that could charm a boardroom into handing him the keys to the vault while still believing it was their idea. He didn't answer Arthur directly, of course. He never did.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Come on, Florentino. Don't play dumb with me. We've come too far for you to keep dancing around it. Even I know Calderon's been up to shady business. And you expect me to believe you don't?" He smirked, almost daring him to deny it.

The older man didn't flinch, though. Florentino simply kept his gaze on the match, following the ball as if the sight of Giggs and Kaka exchanging possession was more interesting than Arthur's poking.

But Arthur knew he had him.

Inside Florentino's head, things were stirring.

He did, in fact, know Calderon wasn't squeaky clean. How could he not? For over a decade, Florentino had ruled Real Madrid like a king with a very expensive toy box, and even now, after stepping down, he still had eyes and ears in every corner of the Bernabéu. Groundskeepers, office secretaries, youth coaches, even a couple of board members owed him favors. Information flowed back to him like streams into a river.

And yes, some of that information painted Calderon in a less-than-holy light. Deals whispered about in hotel bars, money trails that didn't quite add up, a few questionable promises made to agents. Rumors, mostly. Nothing that could be nailed to the wall as evidence. But enough to make Florentino frown whenever he thought about it.

The trouble was, Calderon had timing on his side. The man's presidency wasn't a revolving door; his term was set in stone. And with Real Madrid starting to claw their way back in La Liga, closing the gap with Barcelona, Calderon's position was only getting stronger. Overthrowing him with nothing but gossip? That was like trying to stop Cristiano Ronaldo with a polite handshake—it just wasn't going to happen.

Florentino sighed inwardly and decided not to chase Arthur's bait too quickly. He didn't want to reveal his hand. Still, curiosity tugged at him. The young manager's smirk was too deliberate. Arthur clearly knew more than he was letting on.

Finally, Florentino turned his head slightly, his voice casual, his smile unshaken. "Arthur," he said warmly, "why don't you explain it more clearly?"

Got him.

Arthur's grin widened instantly, a predator's smile hidden beneath boyish mischief. He leaned forward, lowering his voice like they were sharing state secrets. Inside, he was giddy. The old fox had bitten down on the hook, and now it was just a matter of how hard he wanted to reel him in.

This was why Arthur had steered the conversation in this direction. It wasn't idle chatter—he was setting up a long game. Florentino's desire to return to the presidency of Real Madrid was no secret to him. In fact, Arthur knew it better than anyone. He had done his homework, mapped out the old man's ambitions, and now he wanted one thing in return: a promise.

The idea made him almost laugh. Here he was, a young upstart manager sitting in the stands of a Champions League final, trying to wring a pledge from the man who once built the Galácticos. But Arthur wasn't intimidated. If anything, it thrilled him.

He glanced back at the pitch briefly. Scholes was battling hard in midfield, Rooney barking instructions, and Kaka was gliding forward with that effortless elegance that made defenders look like they were running through mud. Arthur's own player soon, he thought smugly. Kaka had already been secured.

And that thought brought him to his next target: Cristiano Ronaldo.

Two years from now, Florentino would return to Real Madrid's presidency through an election. Arthur knew it as clearly as if he'd read it in tomorrow's newspaper. Florentino would run unopposed, armed with his famous promise to rebuild the Galácticos. And when he did, his shopping list would have two names written in bold ink: Kaka and Ronaldo.

Arthur chuckled quietly to himself. Sorry, Florentino. One of those names is already mine.

He remembered how, not too long ago, Berlusconi's finances had taken a nosedive. Milan needed money, and Arthur, ever the opportunist, had swooped in at the perfect moment. Timing was everything in football—not just on the pitch, but off it too. He had played the timing game like a master. Kaka was practically wearing Leeds colors already.

Now came the harder part: Ronaldo.

Money wouldn't be enough to pry him away. Not from Manchester United, not from Ferguson, and certainly not when Florentino himself was lurking in the shadows with Real Madrid's treasure chest. If Arthur wanted Ronaldo, he'd have to fight for him. And the biggest obstacle standing in his way wasn't Sir Alex or Old Trafford—it was the man sitting right next to him in this stadium.

Florentino Pérez.

Arthur leaned back again, masking his scheming behind a relaxed smile. He could almost picture it: Florentino two years down the line, striding back into Real Madrid like a conquering hero, making his grand speeches about restoring the glory of the Galácticos. And then finding out—too late—that the two brightest jewels in his crown, Kaka and Ronaldo, had slipped through his fingers.

Arthur almost laughed out loud at the mental image. The great Florentino, left sputtering in disbelief, maybe even coughing up blood in frustration, while Arthur casually strolled away with the treasures.

But that was for later. Right now, it was all about keeping the old man talking.

Florentino, still wearing that calm smile, waited for Arthur's elaboration. He didn't know it yet, but he was already dancing to Arthur's tune.

*****

Arthur leaned back in the luxury box, letting the hum of the Champions League final fill the air. The roar of the crowd, the occasional shout from the pitch, the flashes from photographers—it all created a perfect background for one of Arthur's favorite pastimes: playing chess with people who thought they were in control.

He glanced at Florentino Pérez, the man beside him whose smile could sell sand in the desert. Arthur knew exactly what he was doing. Kaka was already secured, waiting in Leeds' locker room. Now came the bigger challenge: Ronaldo. The history was clear in his mind—Ronaldo would eventually leave Manchester United for Real Madrid in 2008, drawn by ambition, dreams of glory, and Florentino's relentless charm and willingness to pay a record-breaking fee. But Arthur had no interest in waiting for all that to unfold. If he wanted Ronaldo to join him in the future, he had to cut off the old man's plans right at the source.

"So, what's this about Calderon buying Maicon for 40 million euros?" Arthur asked lightly, letting the words drop casually as though discussing the weather. "The money's already in Leeds United's account, isn't it? Calderon shouldn't be too greedy."

Florentino's eyes flicked toward him, sharp and calculating. Arthur knew he had hit a nerve. The old man, seasoned in the subtleties of football business, immediately understood what Arthur was hinting at.

"You kid," Florentino said with a grin, shaking his head. "You really don't want to suffer losses wherever you go." He leaned back slightly, his tone teasing but wary. "Just tell me what you want. Money's not the problem—I only have a finite amount left, anyway."

Arthur chuckled, tilting his head and letting a slow, amused smile spread across his face. "Money? Nah, Mr. Pérez, not this time. It's much simpler. I want a promise. One day, in the future, when I need your help… you won't hold back. You'll give me everything you can."

Florentino raised an eyebrow but nodded, almost indulgently. "No problem," he said smoothly. "As long as you're not asking me for arms or anything violent, I think I can manage other things—if it's solvable with money or influence, I can help."

Arthur laughed softly. "Not even close, nothing like that. If all goes according to plan, the help I'll need is right here in the world of football. Nothing more dangerous than strategy, transfer windows, and a little bit of leverage." He waved his hands, emphasizing his words as if painting the scene in the air. Then, with a sly tilt of his head, he leaned toward Florentino and whispered: "Mr. Pérez… have your people checked Calderon's private spending… and maybe keep an eye on the club's scout team?"

Florentino's frown deepened. His sharp eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?" he asked, disbelief coloring his voice.

Arthur's smile only widened. He loved this part—the confusion, the flicker of unease in the experienced man's eyes. "Oh, you know," he said lightly, letting the words hang. "Little things… expenses that might not be fully accounted for. Players scouted, transfers managed quietly. Just the usual stuff that, if overlooked, can make a big difference down the line."

Florentino shook his head, chuckling despite himself. "Arthur… you've got quite the imagination. Calderon is not short of money, and the scouts… well, I can assure you, nothing is hidden from the club. Performance is visible to all. These things you suggest… nonsense, really."

Arthur leaned back, feigning casual disinterest while secretly thrilled. "Of course, of course," he said with a shrug, still smiling mysteriously. "I didn't say anything definite. I just thought… if someone were watching closely, eventually, something would show up. Perhaps sooner rather than later."

Florentino's frown lingered. Arthur had planted a seed, and now it was up to the older man to decide whether to water it or not. Arthur returned his attention to the pitch, as if the match itself was more interesting than the subtle power game he was playing beside him.

The reason Arthur had phrased it this way was simple: he couldn't give specifics. The events hadn't happened yet. Calderon's eventual dismissal—two years later—would involve misuse of club funds, secret player transfers, and fraud allegations in front of the members' council. None of it was tangible yet, but Arthur knew the pattern. He knew that with Florentino's capabilities and network, if the older man were nudged in the right direction now, he could discover evidence sooner rather than later.

Arthur's mind wandered briefly to the future: Calderon would eventually be ousted, and Florentino would reclaim the presidency of Real Madrid. And at that moment, when the Galácticos era was reborn, Kaka would already be safe in Arthur's squad, and Ronaldo… well, that would be the next conquest.

He allowed himself a small, private smile. It was delicious to think that Florentino, standing beside him now as an ally in conversation, was unknowingly playing into his plan. One day, the old man would realize it, but by then it would be too late.

Back on the pitch, the players moved with the precision and drama only the Champions League final could provide. Every pass, every sprint, every challenge was a reminder that football was as much about timing and strategy as any boardroom maneuver. And Arthur, always the tactician, saw it mirrored perfectly in his off-field game.

Florentino finally broke the silence, voice calm but tinged with curiosity. "Arthur… I have to ask. Are you suggesting… that Calderon is more… distracted than we thought? Or is this just speculation?"

Arthur allowed himself a small laugh, light and unassuming. "Let's just say I have my ways of knowing. And if you have the right people looking, Mr. Pérez, I think you'd find things that make a difference." He tilted his head, eyes glinting with playful mischief. "It's all in the timing, and, well… the right leverage."

Florentino considered this for a long moment, letting the words settle. He knew Arthur wasn't just teasing; there was a plan here. The young manager's understanding of football, business, and influence was far beyond his years. He had a way of planting ideas that felt casual but were deadly precise.

Arthur leaned back, content. He had done what he needed. The old man's curiosity was piqued, the seed planted. The future of Real Madrid's presidency, the destiny of the Galácticos, even the eventual acquisition of Ronaldo—everything was now slightly nudged in his favor.

And all the while, the match continued, oblivious to the high-stakes game of wit and strategy being played in the luxury box. Arthur watched, smiled, and let Florentino stew in the possibilities.

Yes, the next two years would be very interesting indeed.