Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

"Mr. Morgan! Honestly, you shouldn't be a head coach at all," Raiola exclaimed, still half shaking his head, half laughing, as his big Mercedes rolled through Milan traffic. His sausage-like fingers drummed the steering wheel as if replaying the scene in his mind. "If you were an agent, I swear every star player in the world would already be under your command. All of them. Even Beckham would be begging to sign!"

Arthur, lounging in the passenger seat like someone who had just walked out of a boardroom victory, gave him the faintest of smiles. He didn't even look over, just kept his eyes on the passing Milanese streets. "Mino, you've got it wrong. Your vision is too narrow." He tapped a finger casually against the glass as though the whole city belonged to him. "Why would I waste time being an agent when I can gather every talent in the world straight into Leeds United as their manager?"

Raiola's jaw dropped slightly, then snapped shut. His chubby face twisted, trying to process it. "Well… uh… technically… Mr. Morgan, when you put it that way, it makes sense." He scratched his head, the fat on his neck wobbling as he did. "But still, Adriano… with the state he's in, are you really confident letting him fly back to Brazil on holiday? What if he spends a month down there drinking cachaça and comes back with a belly the size of mine?"

Allen, in the back seat, snorted so hard he nearly choked. He quickly disguised it as a cough.

Arthur chuckled, calm as ever. "Not really, Mino. He's still a professional player, underneath all that mess. He's agreed to my plan, and once a man buys into a vision, he'll restrain himself. I trust him to do that."

What Arthur didn't say aloud was that he'd already checked his little secret weapon—the "system." He'd tried to activate one of the recovery cards on Adriano right after they left the house, but the blasted thing refused, flashing an irritating prompt: Target is not yet a Leeds United player. Function unavailable.

Arthur had wanted to kick the dashboard when he saw that message. But fine, rules were rules. Once the deal was signed at Inter Milan's headquarters, then he could use it. He smirked inwardly. Give Adriano a clean slate, rid him of the depression chains, and the big Brazilian would rediscover his hunger. After all, Arthur had painted him a vision so vivid he could practically taste it. Once he bit into that dream, he wouldn't dare spit it out.

The conversation carried them quickly through Milan's buzzing streets until Raiola eased the car to a stop outside Inter Milan's headquarters, a grand building that radiated wealth and tradition. The kind of place that made you straighten your jacket even if no one asked you to.

Inside, they were led through polished corridors until the conference room doors swung open. Waiting for them, leaning casually with the air of a man who owned not just the building but half of Italy, was Massimo Moratti. Gold-rimmed rimless glasses perched on his nose, his suit crisp, his smile warm and practiced.

"Arthur, good afternoon," Moratti greeted, stepping forward with his hand already outstretched.

Arthur matched the energy, grasping his hand firmly, his face breaking into a broad smile. "Good afternoon, Massimo."

They shook hands like old acquaintances, though in truth, they had only brushed past each other briefly at the Champions League round of 16 draw months ago. Back then, Arthur had been preoccupied chatting with Ferguson, while Moratti had barely registered him. But a string of phone calls since then had changed that. Moratti was a sociable man, quick to bring people into his orbit, and Arthur—well, Arthur had a way of skipping straight past formalities.

Now, they greeted each other with the ease of men who'd shared far more than polite nods.

"Just arrived in Milan?" Moratti asked, glancing at his watch before his eyes flicked toward Raiola, then back to Arthur. There was a teasing undertone in his voice. "Or… have you already been busy?"

Arthur caught the hint. He smiled knowingly, gesturing at Raiola. "I landed around ten this morning. After lunch, I went straight to Adriano's house with Mino and Allen here. We had a talk. Then they brought me here."

Moratti's eyes widened. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. "Hisssss… That's it? Already finished? In less than two hours, you've convinced him?"

Arthur's smile widened ever so slightly, like a magician who'd just pulled a rabbit from a hat and wouldn't bother explaining how the trick worked.

Moratti, however, wasn't smiling. He'd been well-briefed by his staff. He knew Adriano's state better than anyone. When the Brazilian learned he was being sold, the man had practically collapsed from the inside out. It hadn't been sulking—it was as if the spark that made him Adriano had vanished overnight.

Moratti could still recall the panicked reports: Adriano wandering to teammates Zanetti and Córdoba, begging them to intervene, to stop the sale. He had gone from prince of the club to broken-hearted exile in the space of days. The dressing room had been dragged into a cloud of despair, morale dropping with him. And then, when he realized he couldn't change anything, Adriano had locked himself away. No training, no fitness. Just endless bottles of alcohol behind closed doors.

A "living dead" was how one staff member had put it.

And now Arthur was standing in front of him, looking as calm as a saint, claiming he'd turned that wreck of a man around in a single afternoon.

"Unbelievable," Moratti muttered under his breath, adjusting his glasses. "I honestly don't know how you did it. You must have worked miracles in there."

Raiola, still buzzing from the memory, leaned in with a grin. "Miracles? Massimo, you should've seen it. I swear to you, if Arthur weren't managing Leeds, he could've taken my job and stolen half my clients before dinner. The way he talked Adriano down, lifted him up, broke him, built him back again—it was like watching a football exorcism."

Allen burst into laughter, earning a side-eye from both Moratti and Raiola. Arthur just gave a wry smile, offering no explanation.

Because why explain magic when letting people wonder was so much more powerful?

*****

To be honest, when Massimo Moratti picked up the phone the day before and heard Arthur's voice telling him he would be coming to Milan today, the Inter president had felt an almost physical wave of relief wash over him. For weeks now, Adriano had been a shadow—no, not even a shadow, more like a collapsed statue. The player's condition was so fragile that Moratti half expected him to spiral into some embarrassing scandal at any moment. A messy headline about drunken fights, photos of him passed out on nightclub couches, reporters chasing him down—those were the nightmares that had been haunting Inter's boardroom.

The idea that Arthur was actually going to step into this storm and try to fix it seemed insane. Moratti had done his homework, though. He'd heard whispers about this eccentric young coach from England, the one who had somehow dragged Leeds United up the mountain by sheer force of will and mischief. But convincing Adriano? That was a different beast entirely. If the Brazilian himself refused to move, then no amount of charm, strategy, or paperwork could force the deal through.

So when Arthur walked into Inter's headquarters today, relaxed as if he'd just come back from a spa day, and said with a faint grin, "Yes, Adriano has agreed to join Leeds United. Otherwise, why would I come here with Mr. Raiola?"—Moratti nearly fell out of his chair.

"Really? Done?!" Moratti blurted, eyebrows shooting up behind his glasses. The old tycoon actually gasped like someone had just told him oil prices had tripled overnight.

Arthur only nodded, his smile thin but confident, as if to say did you really doubt me?

"Great! Wonderful!" Moratti clapped his hands together and, in his excitement, grabbed Arthur by the arm and pulled him toward the conference table. "Tell me, tell me—how did you convince him? That boy… ahhh, he's driven me mad for months!" He shook his head, almost groaning in disbelief.

Raiola chuckled from the side. "President, you should have seen it. Arthur didn't just talk to him. He practically hypnotized him. I've never seen anything like it in all my years of swindling players—er, representing players."

Arthur smirked but kept quiet, letting Raiola dramatize things. Explaining his methods was never as effective as letting people imagine them.

The two presidents handed the actual paperwork over to their respective teams. Lawyers, secretaries, and administrators swarmed the documents like ants dissecting a sugar cube, cross-checking every clause, flipping through pages, stamping and signing where necessary. That freed up Arthur and Moratti to sit across from each other with steaming cups of espresso and have a chat.

Arthur soon realized that Moratti, despite being one of Italy's great oil magnates, wasn't the stiff, calculating type he'd half expected. The man was talkative, warm, and surprisingly sentimental. And when it came to Adriano, he was downright emotional.

For more than an hour, Moratti kept steering the conversation back to the Brazilian. He told stories about Adriano's early days, about the thunder in his left foot, about the way fans once roared his name like he was a god. He sighed heavily, again and again, lamenting how far the player had fallen.

"Arthur," Moratti said, leaning forward, his tone almost fatherly, "I want you to promise me something. If Adriano doesn't recover at Leeds, if he's still like this… you must tell me. Be honest. I don't care about pride. I'll pay whatever it takes to bring him back to San Siro. But don't let him rot. Don't abandon him." His voice cracked slightly on the last words.

Arthur, who prided himself on being a hard-nosed, pragmatic man, found himself oddly touched. He hadn't expected such sincerity from an oil baron in a tailored suit. He studied Moratti's lined face, the earnest eyes behind the glasses, and finally nodded.

"All right," Arthur said, voice quieter than usual. "If it ever comes to that, you'll be the first to know."

And just like that, Leeds United's steel-hearted manager—famous for scaring referees and shouting at billionaires—had been moved by an old Italian's love for a player.

The next morning, Arthur slept like the dead, sprawled across the hotel bed until the sun was nearly overhead. By the time he groaned awake, it was already past ten. His body had clearly decided it was done negotiating with Italians for one night.

After a lazy wash-up, Arthur skipped breakfast entirely. Raiola and Allen were already waiting in the car, and the three of them soon set off toward the outskirts of Milan.

"Meeting in the suburbs?" Arthur asked, glancing at Raiola suspiciously as the city buildings gave way to quieter streets.

"Not my choice," Raiola shrugged, adjusting his sunglasses. "Kaká's agent, Gaetano, picked the spot. But make no mistake—it was Kaká himself who insisted. Originally, he wanted you to come to his home. But with the season wrapping up and his wife Caroline visiting Milan…" Raiola wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "He thought better of it. Didn't want you walking in while they were… catching up."

Allen burst into laughter from the back seat. Arthur rolled his eyes. "Professional courtesy, then. Fine. Where are we meeting instead?"

"You'll see," Raiola said mysteriously.

In truth, it wasn't far. Barely half an hour later, the Mercedes rolled up outside a villa that looked less like a restaurant and more like some private countryside retreat. Neatly trimmed hedges lined the driveway, and the air smelled faintly of fresh grass and coffee beans.

Arthur climbed out of the car, stretching his shoulders, when he noticed two figures waiting at the front gate. Both were smiling warmly, clearly expecting him.

His eyes fixed immediately on the young man standing to the right, dressed casually in a plain white T-shirt. No flashy watch, no jewelry, no unnecessary swagger—just a quiet confidence that radiated out of him like sunlight.

And yet, in Arthur's mind, the contrast was electric. He didn't see just a young man in summer clothes. He saw the superstar described in newspapers, the midfielder who moved like light itself.

And in that instant, as Kaká stood before him, smiling with that mix of humility and brilliance, Arthur thought—this was the perfect picture of that line brought to life. (Author is homo for Kaka 💀)