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Madrid, Spain
Real Madrid Training Grounds – Ciudad Deportiva
The morning training session had just ended, and the players were dispersing, sweaty and tired, chatting in small groups as they headed to the showers or canteen. Wesley Sneijder, still in his boots and training vest, walked out of the gym with a towel over his shoulder, intending to grab a quick lunch before the next team meeting.
As he pushed open the locker room door, he stopped in his tracks.
Standing right there, seemingly waiting for him, was Fabio Capello. His arms were folded across his chest, his posture as rigid as ever, and his expression unreadable — that same stoic, stern look he'd worn every day since arriving in Madrid.
"Coach," Sneijder said politely, trying not to sound surprised. He shifted aside, holding the door open. "Did you want to come in?"
Capello gave a small nod and stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room. It was quiet — no other players had returned yet. Just the two of them.
Sneijder turned to leave, but before he could pull the door shut behind him, Capello's voice cut through the silence.
"Wesley, do you have a moment?"
Sneijder paused, his hand still on the door handle. He glanced back. Capello wasn't just passing through. He was here for a reason.
"Yes, coach," Sneijder said, dropping the towel on a nearby bench and walking back inside.
Capello pointed to one of the folding chairs beside the lockers. "Let's talk. Ten minutes. Won't take longer than that."
Sneijder nodded and sat down across from him. Despite having a pretty good idea what this was about, he stayed calm. He didn't fidget. He didn't shift in his seat. He just waited.
Capello wasted no time.
"Wesley, I'll be direct," he began, his voice firm but not unkind. "I wanted to speak with you alone today because I need to know — what are your thoughts on your future?"
There it was.
Not sugarcoated. Not dressed up. Just Capello in his usual form — blunt and honest.
Sneijder raised an eyebrow, but didn't flinch. "Are there clubs interested in me?"
Capello paused. He hadn't expected such a composed response. In fact, he'd prepared himself for resistance. Or maybe frustration. A denial, maybe even a passionate speech about wanting to fight for his place.
But Sneijder was calm. Almost too calm.
Capello adjusted his glasses and leaned slightly forward. "No concrete offers yet. But if you're open to the idea of leaving, the club will make it known in the next few days that you're available for transfer. And I suggest you speak to your agent."
Sneijder gave a small nod, standing up slowly. "I understand. Just one thing. I'd like to stay in one of the top five leagues."
"Of course," Capello replied.
Sneijder turned to leave.
"Wesley," Capello said again.
The Dutchman stopped.
"There's one more thing," Capello added. "Yesterday, Ramon made an offer to Leeds United. It included your name."
Sneijder blinked, caught slightly off guard.
Capello continued, "It was for Maicon. Ramon offered cash, and you, as part of the deal. Leeds rejected it."
The room went still for a moment.
Capello looked at him with careful interest. "But if a return to Leeds United is something you want… it's not impossible."
Sneijder didn't respond. He simply nodded once, then walked out, the door swinging shut behind him.
But as he stepped into the hallway, his face — still blank moments earlier — now betrayed a flicker of emotion.
A sliver of curiosity.
A ghost of a smile.
Maybe even… a spark of hope.
It had been two years since Sneijder had left Elland Road.
Back then, he was a bright young star in a team still trying to find its footing after returning to the Premier League. Leeds United under Arthur had just started to form its identity — energetic, bold, chaotic at times, but never dull. And Sneijder had loved it. The fans adored him. The system suited his playmaking style. The locker room was full of characters, but there was respect, camaraderie, and hunger.
Then came the offer from Madrid. Too big to turn down. Too grand. Too glamorous.
But it hadn't quite panned out the way he'd dreamed.
Sneijder had come with high expectations, but after a rocky season and the arrival of Capello, he found himself on the fringes. The style didn't suit him. The minutes dried up. He felt like a guest in someone else's house. And now, with the January transfer window approaching, it was clear the club had made up its mind.
But Leeds?
Could he really go back?
Sneijder knew the answer already.
Later that evening, in the quiet of his apartment overlooking the Madrid skyline, Sneijder called his agent.
"It's time to find a new club," he said calmly. "Start with Leeds United. Ask if they're interested."
His agent was surprised. "You're serious? Wesley, you've got Serie A clubs watching. Even a few Bundesliga sides—"
"I know," Sneijder said. "But I want to talk to Arthur."
*****
Leeds United Training Ground – Manager's Office
The sky outside was a dreary Yorkshire grey, the kind that made even coffee taste colder. Inside Arthur's office, though, the atmosphere was unusually… animated.
Allen, the club's general manager and resident gossip sponge, burst through the door with a look on his face that said something ridiculous had just happened — and he was loving every second of it.
"Boss," Allen announced dramatically, waving a paper like it was a lottery ticket, "Real Madrid's back. Again. Capello must've finally had it with Cicinho after getting thrashed yesterday. This time Calderón bumped the offer up by eight million euros!"
Arthur didn't even look up. He was hunched over his cluttered desk, sketching tactical formations on a whiteboard with the intensity of someone planning to invade a small country.
Allen, however, was already settling into the seat across from him, practically humming with glee.
Real Madrid had just played their final match before the winter break — a nice, supposedly easy home game against Racing Santander. The kind of match they expected to win with one boot tied. But instead of a festive win to celebrate Christmas, they'd been absolutely clobbered, 3–0, right at the Bernabéu.
And the best part? All three goals had come from counterattacks through the gaping hole Cicinho left behind every time he galloped forward like a headless horseman.
After the final whistle, Capello had stormed straight into Calderón's office and allegedly declared: "I never want to see Cicinho again unless he's buying match tickets!" Then he slammed his fist down and demanded they bring him Maicon — or at the very least, that young right-back from Brazil they'd been eyeing. The one Leeds United just happened to own.
Arthur finally glanced up, looking thoroughly unimpressed. "Reject it," he said flatly. "Didn't I already say? No deal unless it's 35 million."
Allen paused.
That wasn't unexpected. Arthur had made it very clear before: Don't even knock on my door unless there's thirty-five million on the table. But Allen didn't budge.
He leaned in, smiling like a man with a secret.
"Boss," he said slyly, "I wasn't just coming in for that. There's something else. Something important."
Arthur didn't look up this time. "Unless you're asking for Christmas leave, I'm busy."
"Nope," Allen said cheerfully. "Serious business. Wesley called me."
Arthur's pen froze mid-circle.
"Sneijder?" he said, blinking. "He called you?"
Allen nodded smugly. "Didn't want to call you directly, I think. Might be embarrassed. But he wants to come back."
Arthur leaned back in his chair, now fully interested. "Is he included in Madrid's twenty million offer?"
"Yep."
"What's his current market value?"
"About ten million," Allen replied. "Transfermarkt's last update still has him at that. But he hasn't played a full match in months."
Arthur tapped the pen against his lips, thoughtful now.
A few days ago, he'd actually pulled up Sneijder's profile in the system just out of curiosity. Statistically, the Dutch midfielder hadn't declined at all. In fact, some of his key attributes — agility, vision, short passing — were slightly improved.
It wasn't a physical issue. It was tactical.
Capello's old-school system — rigid lines, defensive structure, slow build-up — was a terrible fit for a creative midfielder like Wesley. Guti, with his patience and predictable positioning, was more Capello's speed. Sneijder? Too free-spirited. Too unpredictable.
Arthur drummed his fingers on the desk. He'd had a long conversation with Rivaldo a week ago. The Brazilian playmaker, now well into his twilight years, had quietly said he'd likely retire after the season and was interested in joining Arthur's coaching staff to "learn the ropes."
Arthur had agreed, of course. Rivaldo had been an immense asset. But it left a creative hole in the midfield — one that would need patching soon. If Wesley was serious about returning… maybe it made sense.
But Calderón's last stunt — trying to use the media to pressure Leeds United into selling Maicon — had royally pissed Arthur off. He wasn't going to be played like some naïve second-tier manager begging for Real Madrid's scraps.
He turned to Allen.
"Alright," Arthur said slowly. "Go back to Calderón. Tell him we're not interested. No negotiation unless he comes with 35 million — for Maicon alone."
Allen grinned, nodding, but Arthur wasn't done.
"Then, get in touch with Wesley," Arthur continued. "Tell him to lean on them a little. Say he's only interested in returning to the Premier League. Make them sweat."
Allen blinked. "You want to play hardball?"
Arthur smirked. "No. I want them to bleed."
He stood up, stretched, and walked over to the window, watching the rain fall on the training pitch below. Then he added, almost as an afterthought, "Also, post a statement on the club website. Something simple — just say starting tomorrow, Leeds United is open to listening to offers for Maicon. If someone meets our price, we'll consider it."
Allen's eyes widened. "That's going to get people talking."
"Good," Arthur said without turning around. "Let them talk. Let them all think Maicon's on the market. Let them panic. Meanwhile, we keep him right where we want him. We've got the best right-back in Europe. If Real Madrid wants him — or Wesley — they can pay."
Allen stood, clapping his hands together with the glee of someone watching a master troll at work. "Understood. Message received, Boss."
He paused at the door.
"You know, if this works… you'll probably drive Capello into retirement early."
Arthur shrugged. "He can retire to Sardinia with a glass of wine and a full-back who doesn't cross halfway. Everybody wins."
As the door closed behind Allen, Arthur sat back down, flicked his pen across the desk, and looked over the tactical chart one last time.
Rivaldo out, Sneijder in.
Maicon maybe staying.
Madrid panicking.
Everything was falling into place.
And the fireworks hadn't even started yet.