Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

Adriano sat slumped on the sofa like a man who'd been through ten wars and lost all of them. His unshaven beard clung to his chin like moss on an abandoned statue, and the bottle in his hand tilted dangerously, as if one more blink of his heavy eyelids would spill it all over the carpet.

Arthur, leaning forward with a calm smile, repeated his earlier question, voice steady but warm:

"You still haven't answered me, Didico. Do you still want to play football?"

The words slid through the haze of wine and gloom. Adriano's bleary eyes shifted sideways, meeting Arthur's gaze for the first time in what felt like forever. There was no mockery in Arthur's tone, no pity either—just a directness that cut through the alcohol fog like a sharp breeze on a stuffy night.

Adriano blinked slowly. For years now, people had asked him whether he was okay, whether he was eating properly, whether he needed rest, whether he should see a doctor, whether he wanted another drink. But no one—absolutely no one—had looked him in the eye and asked him the simplest question of all:

Do you still want to play football?

He let the silence hang for a moment, staring into the bottle as though the answer might float up from the bottom. His father's face flickered in his mind. The goals he once scored, the roar of the crowd, the weight of the shirt, the pride of Brazil—all of it mixed with grief, loss, and the aching emptiness he'd been trying to drown in alcohol.

And for the first time in a long time, something stirred. A thought, fragile but stubborn: Yes… I think I do.

Arthur leaned forward, watching the shift in Adriano's expression. He wasn't about to let the silence swallow him again. He pressed on, voice patient but firm:

"Haven't thought about it yet?"

The words snapped Adriano out of his trance. His lips twitched, and after what felt like an eternity, he croaked out, "I've thought about it."

His voice was weak, a whisper dragged across gravel, but it was there.

Arthur's smile deepened. Progress. Small, but real.

Meanwhile, Raiola's jaw nearly hit the floor. The round agent's eyes bulged like he'd just seen a magician pull a rabbit out of an empty pint glass. He looked from Adriano to Arthur, back to Adriano, then rubbed his eyes like maybe he'd had too much wine himself.

This isn't right! his mind screamed. I've been Adriano's agent for ages. I've tried talking to him, yelling at him, even dragging him away from nightclubs when he could barely stand. And what did I get? Silence. Nothing but silence! But this guy, this Englishman, strolls in and suddenly Adriano's answering questions like he's on a talk show?

Raiola wanted to bang his head on the coffee table, though given the pile of empty bottles, he might not survive the impact.

Arthur, unfazed by the agent's silent meltdown, kept his focus on Adriano. He leaned back comfortably and decided it was time to answer the Brazilian's earlier curiosity.

"You asked me why I'd think of buying you," Arthur said, his voice calm but carrying a weight that demanded attention. "The answer's simple: because you told me just now you still want to play football. You've got talent most players can only dream of, and I've got a team that needs strengthening. If you've still got the will, then what's the problem?"

Adriano let out a short laugh, a sound so dry and bitter it could have soured the wine in his bottle. His lips curled in self-mockery.

"Strengthen the lineup? By buying me?" he scoffed. "Arthur, you're bringing in an alcoholic. You should've seen me last night—I could barely stand. Oh, and in case you didn't know, I've got depression too. What kind of reinforcement is that, huh?"

He threw the words like darts, daring Arthur to flinch.

But Arthur didn't budge. He shook his head, his eyes firm, his tone quick and relentless—like a striker hammering shot after shot until the keeper cracked.

"You don't need to tell me about your problems, Didico. I already know your story. I know about your father, I know about the nights, I know what you've been through. I'm not here to pretend those things never happened, and I'm not asking you to forget them. You can't forget. That's not how life works."

Adriano frowned, staring at him as though the words were strange, almost offensive. But Arthur wasn't done. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice rising with conviction:

"What I am asking is simple. You just told me you still want to play football. That's all I needed to hear. So if that's true—then show me. Show me the professional player. Prove to yourself you're not finished. Prove to everyone who doubted you that you can still do it."

Arthur's voice grew sharper, each sentence hitting like a hammer on iron.

"And the first step? At least don't touch alcohol. That's not a player's life, and you know it. You want football? Then start living like you still deserve it."

The room went quiet again.

Raiola sat frozen in his chair, eyes darting back and forth between the two men. He looked like a referee caught between a furious striker and an immovable defender, wondering if he should blow the whistle or just hide behind the linesman.

Adriano, bottle still in hand, stared down at the floor. His chest rose and fell slowly. Arthur's words weren't polished speeches or dramatic persuasion—they were blunt, simple, almost annoyingly direct. But they cut through. They demanded an answer.

His grip on the bottle tightened. He could almost hear his father's voice again, urging him, encouraging him, reminding him of the joy the game once brought him.

The silence stretched, but Arthur didn't rush him. He simply sat there, waiting, calm as a man who knew he'd already won half the battle.

*****

Adriano slouched deeper into the sofa, the bottle slipping in his loose grip as though even holding it required too much strength. His eyes were heavy, his voice hoarse.

"I get the reason," he muttered, his words dragging themselves out. He tried to push himself upright with both hands planted beside him, but the effort lasted only a second. His arms wobbled like jelly, and he fell back into the cushions with a defeated sigh. "But I can't control myself. You don't get it. With the depression… I can't sleep without alcohol. Every night. Without it, my mind won't stop. Do you understand that feeling?"

Arthur sat there, his gaze steady. He didn't flinch, didn't look away. He let the silence linger a heartbeat before answering, calm but honest.

"No," Arthur admitted. "I can't understand that feeling. But I've seen it before. Leeds had a player with depression once. Do you know who I mean?"

Adriano's brow creased. His eyes narrowed, curious despite himself. "Are you talking about Sebastian?"

For the first time since Arthur walked in, there was a spark. The name wasn't just casual. At the World Cup the year before, Adriano had met Sebastian Deisler. He knew the story—that the German had suffered terribly from depression. But when Adriano saw him on the pitch in that tournament, Deisler hadn't looked broken. Quite the opposite—he'd looked free, sharp, happy. The idea tugged at Adriano's curiosity.

Arthur nodded firmly. "Yes. Him. Sebastian's depression was worse than what you're dealing with now. A lot worse. But when he came to Leeds, things started to change. Fast. You saw how he played. You saw the spark come back. He looked almost cured when he was with us."

Adriano blinked, shaking his head in disbelief. His voice grew louder, his words rushed, tangled with hope and doubt. "Why? How? As far as I know, depression doesn't just get cured!"

Arthur spread his hands with a shrug, wearing the expression of a man who'd been waiting for this exact question. "I'm no doctor, Didico. I don't have a neat answer for you. Maybe it was the environment. Maybe it was the teammates. Maybe the coaching staff. Maybe something else altogether."

He leaned back casually, as though it was all common sense, then added without a shred of irony: "Might even have been the climate."

Adriano froze. Then his face twisted into the most perfect look of disbelief Raiola had ever seen.

"Climate?" Adriano almost laughed, though it came out more like a scoff. He sat up half an inch just to glare. "You're serious? England's climate? Have you been outside? It rains nine days out of ten! If the clouds don't crush your soul, the wind will. Don't tell me that cures depression."

He rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't get stuck.

Arthur didn't miss a beat. He didn't defend himself. He didn't explain. He just leaned forward again, sharp as ever, and went for the jugular:

"Whatever it was—something worked. The point is, Sebastian was the proof. He found his way back. Why shouldn't you? Why not give yourself that chance? Don't you want to go back to those days when you were unstoppable—when they called you the King of the Meazza?"

The words hit harder than Adriano expected. They slid under his defenses, past the sarcasm, past the alcohol haze, right into the place where the ache of loss still gnawed at him.

He opened his mouth to argue, but the fight drained before it reached his lips. His throat worked as he swallowed the protest.

Of course he wanted that. He wanted it more than anything. He wanted the roar of the fans, the thrill of scoring, the joy of being alive on the pitch. He wanted to be the man he used to be. But every night, the pain and the bottle chipped away at him, dragging him deeper into the pit.

Arthur saw it. He saw the hesitation, the flicker of yearning that Adriano tried to bury. He softened his tone, leaned closer, and asked quietly:

"Do you want to?"

Adriano's chest tightened. His mouth went dry. He fumbled, his voice barely audible as he mumbled, "I… I want to…"

The words were weak, fragile, barely standing on their own.

And then Arthur pounced.

"Do you want to!!!"

The sudden roar filled the living room, bouncing off the walls like a cannon shot. The wine bottles on the table rattled with the force. Allen, who had been quietly watching from the corner, nearly dropped his notebook. Raiola jumped so high his belly almost hit his chin. Both of them stared at Arthur like he'd just turned into a raging bull in a suit.

Adriano flinched so hard he nearly spilled his bottle. His shaky attempt at sitting upright collapsed instantly, his body shrinking back into the sofa like a boy caught red-handed. Wide-eyed, stunned, he looked at Arthur as though the Englishman had just slapped the fog right out of him.

"I… I want to…" he stammered, voice trembling but clear enough this time.

The silence that followed was thick, but Arthur heard it. Every syllable.

Slowly, deliberately, Arthur let the fire in his expression fade. His jaw unclenched, his shoulders loosened, and the fierce roar melted back into the calm, steady demeanor he'd carried from the start. He stood, straightening his jacket, and extended his hand toward Adriano.

A smile, soft and genuine, tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Then welcome to Leeds United, Didico."

The handshake didn't happen right then—not yet. But the weight of the words lingered, the gesture hanging in the air like a rope lowered into quicksand. Adriano's eyes darted from the hand to Arthur's face, the disbelief still swirling with something new: a flicker of hope.

Raiola sat frozen, his mind still echoing the moment when Arthur had roared like a madman. He couldn't decide if the man was a genius or an absolute lunatic. Maybe both.

Allen just scribbled something in his notebook that looked suspiciously like Boss scares depression out of people.

But that moment—the roar, the silence, the hand—was the turning point.

Weeks later, under the lights of a Champions League night, Adriano scored twice. He was named Man of the Match, and for the first time in years, he stood tall in front of the cameras, sweat on his brow and pride in his voice.

When the reporter asked why he had chosen Leeds United, his answer came without hesitation, straight from the heart:

"Because in the darkest time of my life, the boss reached out to me. He pulled me out of the quagmire."