Lunch that afternoon ended in laughter and good spirits. Plates had been cleared, wine glasses emptied, and the last traces of tension washed away with a round of espresso. Deals had been sealed, and everyone at the table left feeling as though the summer had already been a success.
Allen, ever the tireless lieutenant, gathered his notes and headed off with Gaetalo to Milanello. Their task was simple but crucial: meet with Galliani, smooth out the last details, and get Kaka's contract finalized. Arthur trusted Allen like few others. If there was paperwork to be signed, Allen's steady hand and sharp eye would see it through.
Kaka himself slipped away, his trademark grin plastered across his face as he hurried off to reunite with his wife. With a holiday looming, he wanted nothing more than to throw his arms around her and switch off from football for a while. That, Arthur thought with a smirk, was the beauty of signing a superstar—you gave them stability and freedom, and in return they gave you their best on the pitch.
Meanwhile, Raiola—round, waddling, and already plotting his next commission—took it upon himself to chauffeur Arthur to Malpensa Airport. The image of the two of them together drew stares; Raiola with his eternal sunglasses, looking like a mobster on holiday, and Arthur, sharp-suited, calm, and already thinking ten steps ahead.
For Arthur, there was a sense of relief. The two most critical signings of Leeds United's summer were done and dusted: Kaka, the jewel of Milan, and Adriano, the tempestuous powerhouse from Inter. Along with young David De Gea waiting in the wings, the backbone of Leeds' future was falling into place. For the first time in weeks, Arthur could finally breathe. He wasn't the sort of man to rest easy, but tonight, at least, he would fly home knowing the summer's foundation was secure.
The work now passed into the hands of others. Allen would continue to handle the negotiations—contracts, clauses, image rights, the endless wrangling that football deals required. And then there was Simeone, fiery as ever, taking the manager's chair for a series of exhibition matches in the Middle East. Leeds United were, after all, not just a club but a brand. The games in Saudi Arabia and neighboring countries weren't about silverware. They were about filling coffers, shaking hands, and making Leeds a household name far beyond Yorkshire.
Early June rolled around, and with it came the familiar rhythm of preseason. The training ground at Thorp Arch hummed with energy. Except for the three newcomers—Kaka, Adriano, and the young De Gea—every Leeds player reported back for duty. Even Yaya Touré and Kasper Schmeichel, whose transfers were already confirmed elsewhere, returned as professionals to finish their obligations.
Arthur admired that. Professionalism mattered. Until the ink was dry on their next contracts, they were still Leeds players. And Leeds was family.
Allen, drowning in paperwork, hadn't yet signed off the deals with Manchester United and Barcelona, so those transfers weren't official. That meant Touré and Schmeichel couldn't take part in the upcoming "money-making adventure," as Arthur cheerfully called it. They would train, yes, but when the squad flew out, they would stay behind.
Arthur didn't hesitate. He waved his hand as if he were Caesar ordering a legion to march. A private jet was chartered, seats filled, and soon an entire Leeds contingent was bound for Saudi Arabia. Business and pleasure, football and finance, all rolled into one.
There was only one downside: Shakira wouldn't be coming. Arthur had dreamed, perhaps selfishly, of taking her along, showing her what it meant to lead Leeds across continents. But Shakira's own career called. She was flying to the United States for her tour. Concerts, rehearsals, fan meetings—her world was as demanding as his.
Their farewell was bittersweet. At the departure gate, Shakira clung to him, unwilling to let go, her dark eyes shimmering with unspoken emotion. Arthur, despite being a man used to pressure and distance, found it equally hard. He was no stranger to airports, to long goodbyes, but this one lingered.
"Don't overwork yourself," Arthur whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. "Promise me you'll take care. The tour will drain you if you let it."
Naya, her ever-watchful assistant, piped up with a grin. "Don't worry, Arthur. I'll make sure she doesn't run herself into the ground."
Shakira gave him another squeeze, refusing to release him until he made his own promise. "Finish quickly. Don't leave me waiting too long. I'll be moving to Leeds soon, and when I do, I want you there to meet me."
Arthur chuckled softly. He kissed her deeply, pulling her close one last time. "I'll be there. Count on it."
With that, he turned and boarded, the roar of jet engines swallowing up the moment. The image of her lingering at the window stayed with him as the plane lifted into the sky.
Hours later, the white-and-blue jet touched down in Saudi Arabia. The doors opened, and the humid desert air rushed in, heavy and dry. Leeds United had arrived.
On the tarmac stood Mr. Anderson and his entourage, beaming with the sort of enthusiasm only money could generate. Arthur descended first, flanked by players and staff, and shook hands warmly with their hosts. Polished smiles, greetings, and promises of fruitful cooperation were exchanged.
Arthur, ever the strategist, wasn't thinking only of tonight's banquet or tomorrow's match. He was thinking years ahead. Connections mattered. He looked around at the suits, the eager faces, the glint of ambition in every handshake.
He saw something others didn't yet see. In twelve years' time, he mused, this very league would be transformed. The Saudi Pro League would become a magnet for aging stars, a place where Leeds United's veterans could find one last payday. The money on offer was ridiculous, and Arthur was determined that Leeds would have a foothold in it.
For now, though, it was about building relationships, smiling for photos, and ensuring that Leeds United's presence in the Middle East wasn't a fleeting tour, but the start of something lasting.
Arthur straightened his tie, shook Anderson's hand firmly, and thought to himself: This is more than a trip. This is groundwork. And groundwork is where empires begin.
*****
June 10.
The summer transfer market was starting to stir, and in Germany, Bayern Munich were the first to make noise. Official statements rolled out one after another like cannon fire. First, they announced the arrival of Italian striker Luca Toni from Fiorentina for 11 million euros. A tall target man with the kind of old-school forward's instincts Bayern had been missing. Then came a flurry: Altintop, Schlaudraff, Sosa, and Jansen.
It was clear that being humiliated in last season's Champions League semi-final by AC Milan had left a mark. The Bundesliga giant wasn't going to sulk—they were going to rebuild, reload, and come back for blood next year.
Across the Channel in England, things weren't any quieter. The so-called mid-table clubs were proving they could open their wallets just as well as the giants.
First up was Portsmouth. Harry Redknapp, a man whose eyes lit up anytime a transfer was mentioned, dipped into the market and landed Sulley Muntari from Udinese. Ten million euros—almost a record for a club like Pompey. Redknapp was practically bouncing in interviews, calling Muntari a "statement signing." The fans believed it too.
Not long after, Newcastle made their own announcements. Big Sam Allardyce, never shy about reshaping a squad, brought in Joey Barton from Manchester City for £5.5 million. Barton—fiery, combative, unpredictable—looked set to bring both bite and headaches to St James' Park. But Newcastle weren't done. They also added Australian captain Mark Viduka, who left Arthur's Leeds United on a free transfer. A big personality, a proven scorer, and now a Magpie.
Compared with all this mid-tier excitement, England's traditional giants were eerily quiet. No new signings, no official statements. Just silence. The media didn't know what to make of it. Front pages filled with speculation, transfer rumor columns stretched thinner every day, and pundits moaned about the "strange stillness" at the top. Something, they said, had to give.
And at that exact time, Arthur was sitting at home, head resting on Shakira's shoulder as the television hummed in the background.
His phone buzzed for the third time in a week. Caller ID: David Moores, the Liverpool chairman. Arthur sighed before answering.
"Arthur, 45 million euros," Moores said briskly. "That's a serious offer. Very sincere."
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. "David, I've told you three times already—it's not about money. Fernando is at the core of my plan for next season. I can't sell him." His voice carried the sort of tired firmness of a man repeating himself for the benefit of someone who clearly wasn't listening.
The Liverpool owner didn't back down. The name on his shopping list was Torres.
And there was the irony of it all. History, Arthur thought, really had a twisted sense of humor. In the original timeline, Torres would indeed leave Atlético Madrid in the summer of 2007 for Liverpool. But Arthur had pulled the rug on that move early, snatching Torres for Leeds. And now, the ripple effects were crashing back toward him.
A few days earlier, the first call from Moores had seemed promising. Arthur had picked up cheerfully, thinking perhaps Liverpool were ready to do business. Maybe a fringe player or two, maybe a bit of easy cash. But when Moores named Torres, offering €33 million, Arthur had almost dropped the phone. His face had darkened immediately. He didn't even pause to think—he'd rejected the bid flat and hung up.
Now Moores was back, trying again with €45 million.
"Really not selling?" Moores pressed.
Arthur leaned harder against Shakira, his tone turning firm. "Unless you're ready to wire me 80 million, there's no conversation. Not a cent less. And if Torres doesn't want to leave, I'll help him stay."
Moores's only response was silence, followed by the monotonous "beep… beep… beep…" of a disconnected line.
Arthur tossed the phone onto the sofa and muttered under his breath. "Moores, you old fox. Forty-five million for Fernando? What a joke."
Shakira had listened quietly to the entire exchange, her head tilted with amusement. She gave Arthur a look, somewhere between teasing and exasperated. "Darling, isn't asking eighty million unfair? Poor Moores, you nearly gave him a heart attack."
Arthur sat up and spread his arms dramatically. "Unfair? I was being generous! I didn't ask for a hundred million. That's me being merciful."
Shakira laughed, rolling her eyes as he crawled closer. "One hundred million euros? Nobody in football history has been sold for that. You're out of your mind."
Arthur grinned wickedly. "Mark my words. Fernando's only 23 now. Give him a few years—27, 28, he'll be at his peak. And when that time comes, the Premier League won't be the same. Clubs will pay it, easily."
Shakira tried to push him away, but his hands were already tickling her sides. "One hundred million," she gasped through laughter. "You're insane!"
Arthur leaned in, eyes gleaming with conviction. "Insane? No. Ahead of the curve. You'll see. The football world is about to change."
And he meant it. He could feel it in his bones—the Premier League wasn't done growing. The money, the attention, the hunger. Soon, the market would explode, and stars like Torres would fetch sums people currently thought impossible.
A few days later, the silence at the top finally broke. The English media, starved and restless, got the bombshell they'd been waiting for.
On June 23, Spain's four biggest outlets—Marca, AS, Sport, and Mundo Deportivo—all plastered the same headline across their front pages. Thierry Henry, Arsenal captain, French legend, one of the greatest forwards of his generation, had completed a move to Barcelona. Four years, €24 million, done and dusted.
The news reverberated instantly. Henry, who had been the symbol of Arsenal for nearly a decade, confirmed it himself in an interview with L'Equipe. His reasons were cutting. Arsenal wouldn't offer him a long-term deal as he approached thirty. And to make matters worse, Wenger's own future was uncertain. Why stay when even the manager might not?
The fallout in England was immediate. Arsenal fans were devastated. First the whispers of uncertainty, then the announcement of their captain leaving, and finally Henry himself confirming it—all of it landed like a hammer.
By that evening, Arsenal's official website had crashed under the weight of furious supporters. Message boards filled with grief and rage, posts flooding in faster than moderators could delete them. The Gunners faithful were brokenhearted, and they wanted answers.
Arsenal, once again, were in chaos.