Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

"Hey, Mr. Pérez! Your favorite Kaka just won Milan a free kick in a very juicy position. You sure you don't want to watch?"

Arthur's voice cut through the hum of the stadium like a cheeky commentator who had eaten too much sugar.

Florentino snapped out of his thoughts and lifted his head. Sure enough, Manchester United's players were already scrambling into position, lining up like nervous schoolboys waiting for detention.

Arthur, ever the opportunist, slung an arm around the old man's shoulders with the easy confidence of a man who knew he was being a nuisance. "Come on, Mr. Pérez," he said with a grin wide enough to annoy half of Madrid. "It's useless for you to keep thinking so much right now. Better to relax, eh? Just enjoy the match. That's what we're here for."

Florentino gave him a look that could curdle milk. Enjoy the match? he thought sourly. You're the one who planted that idea about Calderon and his shady dealings, and now my head's buzzing like a hive. And now you're telling me to relax? You little menace.

He rolled his eyes, muttered something under his breath, and reluctantly pushed Calderon out of his mind for the moment. Fine. Arthur was right about one thing: this was the Champions League final, not a boardroom meeting. He turned his gaze back to the pitch, though the corner of his mouth twitched when he saw Arthur smirking like a cat that had just stolen the cream.

Arthur, naturally, looked as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

The two of them leaned forward as the game rolled on. Arthur checked the clock. Forty-four minutes had ticked by. The match so far had been as cagey as a poker game between two paranoid gamblers. No goals, no clear dominance, just probing attacks and firm defenses.

The last sequence had been telling: Seedorf tried lofting a ball toward Inzaghi's run, but Nemanja Vidić had read it perfectly, rising to swat it away with that brick-wall forehead of his. The ball, however, didn't clear far. It dropped right into the path of Kaka, hovering just outside the penalty arc.

Kaka was quicker than anyone else in red. He spun around, chest puffed, legs gliding as if he was born to dance with the ball. Just as he looked ready to unleash one of those thunderbolt shots of his, Carrick came steaming in like an unpaid tax collector. A clumsy bump, and down went Kaka in a heap.

Whistles shrieked. Free kick to Milan, twenty-five meters out. The kind of range that made goalkeepers sweat and defenders start whispering prayers.

Arthur grinned knowingly, leaning toward Florentino. "Not bad, eh? Even gravity loves Kaka. He just needs to stand there and opponents collapse into him."

Florentino harrumphed, but couldn't suppress a twitch of pride. His "favorite" really did have a knack for pulling strings.

On the pitch, Manchester United's players were scurrying into position. Ronaldo and Rooney barked instructions, Ferdinand shuffled bodies into a wall, and Van der Sar planted himself in the middle of the goal, looking sharp and focused. The wall—Carrick, Scholes, and others—hopped about nervously, arms shielding parts of their anatomy they'd prefer not to risk.

Arthur, with his so-called "God's eye," did his own quick calculation. Twenty-five meters. Perfect shooting distance for several Milan men: Pirlo with his laser-guided feet, Seedorf with his hammer of a boot, or even Kaka himself if he wanted to be cheeky.

When the referee blew his whistle, the decoy dance began. A small crowd of Milan players stepped away, leaving only Pirlo and Seedorf behind the ball. The crowd at Wembley hushed in anticipation.

Pirlo's approach was short, smooth, deceptively relaxed. He stroked the ball low toward the bottom right corner. It wasn't his best strike—lacked a bit of venom—but it was accurate. Van der Sar, reading it perfectly, hurled himself sideways, gloves outstretched.

Normally, he would've swallowed that ball whole. But this wasn't "normally." Because in that same split second, a shadow darted across the six-yard box.

Filippo Inzaghi.

The eternal poacher, the man who lived on the offside line like a tenant refusing to pay rent, had timed his run with uncanny precision. The ball, as if magnetized, clipped his side and deflected ever so slightly.

That tiny touch was enough to send Van der Sar sprawling helplessly. The Dutch giant, already mid-dive, could only watch in horror as the ball trickled past his outstretched hand, grazing the tip of his boot, and slipped into the back of the net.

GOAL.

The red-and-black half of the stadium erupted. Flags waved, Milan fans roared, and Inzaghi sprinted off like he'd just stolen a diamond necklace, arms flapping, face glowing with delight. His teammates swarmed him, slapping his head and hugging him with the enthusiasm of schoolboys who had found free candy.

Arthur slapped his knee and burst out laughing. "Oh my days, that's classic Pippo! He probably didn't even mean to touch it, but look at him—celebrating like he planned it all along!"

Florentino, though secretly thrilled to see Milan draw first blood, sighed and shook his head. "That man… he was born offside, but somehow he always survives. Unbelievable."

Arthur nudged him with an elbow, teasing. "Well, you said Milan's old guard looked tired. But with Inzaghi around, they don't need stamina—they just need him standing in the right place, at the right time, looking vaguely useful."

Florentino chuckled despite himself. The truth was, it was vintage Inzaghi: ugly, scrappy, opportunistic, and brutally effective.

On the big screen, the replay rolled. The ball hitting Inzaghi's torso, the micro-deflection, Van der Sar's despair. Arthur shook his head in mock amazement. "You know, Pippo could fall asleep in the box and still score with his dreams."

As the whistle blew for halftime, the scoreboard glared: AC Milan 1–0 Manchester United.

And just like that, the deadlock was broken.

*****

The whistle finally pierced through the San Siro night, sharp and unforgiving. The first half was over. AC Milan led 1–0, and the Manchester United players trudged off the pitch with their heads low, while the red-and-black half of the stadium was roaring with delight.

Arthur leaned back in his chair in the luxury box, exhaling with a grin plastered across his face. "Hahaha, Ferguson is so unlucky he ran into that kind of goal!"

Florentino Perez, sitting beside him, had been convinced Pirlo was the scorer. He'd even clapped instinctively when the ball went in, appreciating the Italian's free-kick craft. But when the replay came up on the giant screen above the stadium, Perez's expression had shifted from admiration to disbelief. The footage made it clear: the ball had smacked into Inzaghi's body mid-flight and deflected into the net. A classic "Inzaghi goal"—half genius, half accident, and one hundred percent frustrating for the opposition.

Perez let out a booming laugh, his shoulders shaking. "At first I thought Pirlo had done it, but no! It's bloody Inzaghi again! A goal by accident, yet he'll celebrate like he planned it all along."

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. "Exactly. I bet Alex Ferguson's face is greener than a lime right now. He'll be fuming. If he loses this one, the treble dream he's been chasing will vanish into smoke."

Perez turned, wagging a finger with mock accusation. "Arthur, don't forget—if Ferguson really fails to win a trophy this season, you'll be one of the culprits too! You helped knock him down along the way, hahaha!"

Arthur raised his eyebrows in mock innocence. "Hey, you can't put that on me. Tell me, when you were president of Real Madrid, would you ever gift a title that was within touching distance… to Laporta at Barcelona?"

"Uh…" Perez froze, realizing he'd walked into a trap. "That's… different. That would never happen."

Arthur smirked, leaning back comfortably. "Exactly. So don't expect me to feel sorry for Alex now." He cast a glance toward the director's camera crew and added, "Shame they didn't cut to Ferguson's face when that ball went in. I'd pay good money to see his expression in slow motion."

Perez laughed again, already picturing Ferguson's famous red face in his mind. "Hah! What a pity indeed. Probably looked like a volcano about to erupt."

The fifteen-minute halftime flew by, and soon both teams re-emerged onto the pitch, the roar of the stadium rising like a storm. The players lined up again, shirts drenched in sweat, faces set in grim determination.

Arthur glanced at the Manchester United bench. "If I know Alex, he's just given them the hairdryer treatment in that dressing room."

He wasn't wrong. The whistle blew, and United came out looking like men possessed. Passes zipped faster, tackles bit harder, and their forwards pressed relentlessly. Ronaldo was charging down the wings like a man on fire, and Rooney was snapping at defenders' heels, desperate to find a way through.

But this was AC Milan. Maldini and Nesta were not just defenders—they were masters of the dark arts of positioning. They knew when to step up, when to drop back, when to lean into an attacker just enough to throw him off balance without drawing a foul. Again and again, United's promising attacks fizzled out at the boots of the two Italian legends.

Arthur leaned forward, sighing. "Ronaldo and Rooney are fighting like lions, but it's like running into a brick wall. Maldini and Nesta won't give them an inch."

Perez nodded in agreement, eyes glued to the field. "This is why experience matters. You can waste chance after chance, and Milan will punish you when the moment comes."

And punish they did.

Seventy-six minutes in, the game tilted on its axis. Ambrosini, controlling the ball near the center circle, twisted left, twisted right, searching for an opening. Nothing looked promising. Finally, he spotted Kaka darting in from the right and slid the ball across.

Kaka, gliding like a gazelle, controlled it in stride and surged forward. The United defense—Vidic, Ferdinand, and O'Shea—all seemed to hesitate for a split second. Somehow, they failed to spot the one man they should never lose sight of: Pippo Inzaghi.

Arthur slapped his thigh. "Look at him! He's ghosting in again, they've lost him completely!"

Sure enough, Inzaghi was already slipping between the cracks, timing his run to perfection. By the time Kaka threaded the through ball, Pippo was gone, tearing toward goal with only Van der Sar in his way.

The Dutch keeper, to his credit, reacted immediately. He charged off his line, spreading himself wide like a giant, determined to cut off the angle. For a moment, it looked like he might make it in time.

But Inzaghi was Inzaghi. Crafty, sly, infuriating. Instead of panicking, he touched the ball delicately with the outside of his boot, nudging it past the diving Van der Sar. The keeper sprawled helplessly on the grass as Pippo skipped by and rolled the ball into the empty net.

"GOAL! 2–0!" The commentator's voice cracked with excitement as San Siro erupted.

Arthur groaned, throwing his hands up. "Bloody hell, he's done it again! Inzaghi and his tap-ins. He's going to put Alex in an early grave at this rate."

Perez, however, was clapping like a delighted schoolboy. "Beautiful! Absolutely beautiful!" His eyes twinkled. Whether his applause was for Kaka's sublime pass or Inzaghi's opportunism, Arthur couldn't tell. Probably both.

"Manchester United are in serious danger now," Arthur muttered, shaking his head. "Ferguson's worked all year for this, and it could all end with nothing. The man won't sleep tonight."

Perez chuckled, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Come now, Arthur. You underestimate Ferguson. Failure doesn't break him—it fuels him. Mark my words, setbacks only make him stronger."

Arthur turned and raised an eyebrow, surprised by the genuine respect in Perez's voice. "Well, well, that's high praise coming from you."

Perez just smiled knowingly.

Arthur leaned back, forcing a laugh. "I was just sighing out loud. It's not over yet. Stranger things have happened. Maybe United can still claw something back."

Perez smirked, eyes narrowing as if holding onto a secret. "The odds are slim. Unless…" He trailed off, letting the suspense hang in the air, the corners of his mouth curling into a mischievous grin.

Arthur tilted his head, curious. "Unless what?"

The answer came without hesitation, and it almost knocked Arthur out of his chair laughing.

"Unless AC Milan score one more goal and make it 3–0," Perez declared, bursting into laughter, "then maybe United will finally wake up and mount a comeback! Hahahaha!"

Arthur nearly spilled his drink. "You sly old fox! That's the most twisted logic I've ever heard!"

Perez only laughed harder, slapping his knee in delight as the stadium thundered around them.

And down on the pitch, Manchester United's nightmare continued, the clock ticking away, treble dreams slipping further into the Milan night.