Even after Barcelona's official announcement and Henry himself confirming it, Arsenal initially stayed silent on the transfer of their captain. But once L'Equipe published Henry's heartfelt interview, public opinion in England boiled over, leaving the Gunners' management no choice but to respond.
Wenger stepped forward first, telling the media he would not leave Arsenal. He promised that he was already in the final stages of contract renewal talks with the club and that an agreement would be reached soon. Arsenal then followed up with a touching ten-minute video on their official website, a tribute to Thierry Henry, their captain who had given eight of his best years to the club.
Arthur sat in his office, carefully watching the video. The montage was beautiful—Henry's solo goals, his electric sprints, his calm finishes, his celebrations with the fans. But the comments under the video were another story entirely. Arsenal's fans, still raw and heartbroken, vented their anger and grief in droves. Even with Wenger himself addressing the situation, the supporters were in no mood to forgive the departure of their talisman.
While all of England's attention seemed fixed on Arsenal, another giant was quietly moving its pieces. Barcelona, having already snatched Henry, now set their sights on Leeds United.
On the morning of June 26, Barcelona's official website delivered another bombshell. They announced the signings of two Leeds United players: midfielder Yaya Touré and young defender Gerard Piqué. The fees? Twenty-five million euros for Touré and seven million for Piqué.
The Catalans, stung by their failures last season—crashing out of the Champions League before the quarterfinals and surrendering the league title—were clearly determined to rebuild. With nearly sixty million euros already spent across all areas of the pitch, Barcelona looked like a club on a mission.
Thorpe Arch Training Ground. Leeds United Manager's Office.
Alan sat at Arthur's desk, laptop open, scrolling through page after page of angry messages on the club's official website. His face was full of worry.
"Boss," Alan finally said, glancing up, "when are we announcing our new signings? The fans are restless. Every single message on the website is about this. They want news, and they want it now."
Arthur leaned back in his chair, looking entirely unconcerned. "What's the hurry? We've got time." He waved his hand dismissively.
Alan's jaw nearly dropped. "Time? The media's circling us like vultures, and the fans are ready to march on the training ground with pitchforks!"
Arthur smirked. "Then give them something. Announce the lads who've been promoted from the youth team. That'll calm them down a bit. As for the media, ignore them. Let them stew for a while."
Alan sighed, tapping a few notes into his pad. "Alright, I'll sort that later. But boss, there are two other things I need to bring up."
Arthur arched a brow. "Go on."
"First," Alan said, flipping open his inbox, "we got an email from Real Madrid yesterday. They want to buy back García."
Arthur blinked. "That soon?"
He leaned back, thinking it through. In his memory, Real Madrid wouldn't normally recall Xabi García until next year. But his own presence had already altered plenty of timelines. Maybe this was just another ripple. Either way, García's minutes at Leeds had dried up considerably with the strengthening of the midfield. A return to Spain probably suited everyone.
Alan, confused by Arthur's sudden pause, tilted his head. "What do you mean 'that soon'?"
Arthur just smiled faintly. "Nothing. Just deal with it. Follow the original buyback agreement. Don't let Calderón wriggle out of paying."
"Got it." Alan made a note. "Now, the second matter—West Ham have offered four million euros for Danny Mills. He's nearly thirty now. Do we accept?"
Arthur frowned, his expression softening slightly at the name. Mills wasn't just another squad player. He was one of the last veterans from Leeds' darkest days, a man who had stuck through thick and thin.
Alan continued, carefully, "Look, boss… apart from his age, his situation in the squad is… difficult. García at least still gets minutes. Mills doesn't. He's behind the younger full-backs, and half the time he's not even in the matchday squad."
Arthur drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking. In truth, Mills was his third-choice full-back. He had already sent Sun Jihai back to China, and the youngsters were clearly the future. From a cold, business perspective, selling Mills made sense.
But football wasn't just about cold logic.
"Not so fast," Arthur finally said. "Don't rush this. I'll speak to Danny myself. He's been through hell with us, and he deserves respect. If he wants to move, we'll let him. But I won't shove him out the door. Not him."
Alan nodded knowingly. He wasn't surprised by Arthur's answer.
His boss was a strange man—colder than a vampire when it came to business, ruthless when it came to the transfer market. But when emotions got involved, especially with the old guard who had shared the club's toughest times, Arthur could suddenly become unpredictable.
Alan rose from his seat, closing his laptop. "Alright, boss. I'll leave it with you, then."
Arthur leaned back again, staring at the ceiling for a moment. He knew decisions like these were the hardest part of management. Money could buy players, tactics could win games, but loyalty—loyalty had to be handled with care.
*****
Arthur didn't waste any time. The moment Alan closed the office door behind him, Arthur leaned forward, pulled his phone from his desk, and scrolled through the contacts until he found the name he wanted. With a sigh, he pressed call.
"Boss! Good morning!" came a familiar voice over the line.
Arthur could hear the sound of waves crashing faintly in the background. He chuckled. "Danny, where are you on holiday this time?"
"In Spain," Mills replied cheerfully. "The sun's blazing down here, boss. Perfect weather. Makes me wonder why we even play football in England half the year when it's raining sideways. What's up? You don't usually call me during vacation unless I've done something wrong."
Arthur leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly but keeping his voice calm. "Well, I do have something to talk about. Nothing bad, don't worry. The club's had an offer come in for you. I wanted to hear your opinion before we make any decisions."
There was a pause, and then Mills' voice sharpened with surprise. "An offer? For me? Seriously? Who from?"
"West Ham United," Arthur replied matter-of-factly.
On the other end of the line, Arthur couldn't see the expression, but he could hear the mood shift instantly. Mills' voice grew heavier, full of sudden grievance. "Boss… are you planning to sell me?"
Arthur nearly laughed out loud. "Hey, hey, hey! You big bald lump, use your head! If I wanted to sell you, I wouldn't be calling to ask your opinion first, would I?"
There was a beat of silence. Then Mills, in the most stubborn tone Arthur had ever heard, declared: "Then I'm not going!"
Arthur blinked. That wasn't the reaction he'd prepared himself for. Before making this call, he'd imagined a tearful Danny Mills, grateful for the years at Leeds, reluctantly agreeing to move on for the sake of playing time. He'd pictured a heartfelt goodbye. Maybe even a sniffle or two.
Instead, what he got was a firm rejection, not an ounce of hesitation.
Arthur sat up straight, frowning into the phone. Is Leeds really this irresistible?
"No, Danny, don't just decide in five seconds," Arthur said, shifting into his managerial voice. "Think it through properly. You know your situation in the squad right now. Let's be honest—you're not getting much game time. At West Ham, you'd have a much bigger role, more minutes, more chances to play. It would help your career."
Arthur thought his argument was perfectly reasonable, logical, even kind. Surely Danny would at least consider it.
But Mills shot him down instantly. "Boss, forget it. I've thought about my career enough. I'm thirty now, my best years are behind me. I haven't had a proper run in the Premier League in ages. And let's be real—West Ham isn't going to win anything. Leeds is. Even if I'm sat on the bench, even if my salary's not great, I'd rather stay here, fight for my place, and maybe lift a few trophies before I hang up my boots. That means more to me than playing every week somewhere else."
Arthur sat in silence, stunned for a moment.
Then Mills delivered the knockout blow. His voice grew more intense, almost defiant: "And I don't care if it's West Ham or Real Madrid. If you tell me Real want me, I'll still say no. I'm staying at Leeds. End of story!"
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, torn between laughing and groaning. Of all the problems he'd faced in his managerial career—angry agents, greedy players, hostile chairmen—this was a first. For years, he'd been called the black shopkeeper of English football, a man who could sell water to the ocean and convince a player's mother to pay the transfer fee herself. He'd made a career of wheeling and dealing, buying low, selling high, and never looking back.
And now? Now he couldn't sell Danny Mills… because Mills himself flat-out refused to leave.
"This is ridiculous," Arthur muttered to himself, shaking his head.
The irony of it all made him want to laugh. For three years, he'd had the reputation of ruthlessness. Now here he was, defeated not by another manager, not by a chairman, but by his own player's loyalty.
Arthur remembered that Mills had signed a new deal with the club back in January. He had been the one to hand him the pen. Mills wasn't earning much, not compared to the stars Leeds had since brought in, but Arthur hadn't cared. The man was a veteran, a survivor of the darkest days of Leeds United. And Arthur had rewarded that loyalty with a four-year contract.
It was enough to see him through to retirement, a gesture Arthur hadn't made lightly.
Now, hearing Danny swear loyalty like this, Arthur couldn't help but feel conflicted. On one hand, it was touching. Loyalty like this was rare in football. On the other hand, it was completely impractical. How could he build the squad for the future if even the veterans refused to move on when their time came?
Arthur sighed deeply into the phone. "Danny, you know you're making my life difficult, don't you?"
Mills chuckled. "Isn't that what teammates are for? Besides, boss, you'll thank me when we're lifting trophies together. You don't get rid of lucky charms this easily."
Arthur rolled his eyes, though a smile tugged at his lips despite himself. "Lucky charm, is it? You're more like a bald mascot these days."
"Hey!" Mills barked, pretending to be offended. "You'll regret saying that when I score the winner in a cup final!"
Arthur leaned back in his chair, laughing softly. "Alright, alright. Stay in Spain, enjoy your holiday. We'll sort things out when you're back."
As he hung up, Arthur let out another long sigh. He rubbed his temples, thinking of Alan's likely reaction when he told him the deal was dead.
This club, Arthur thought, shaking his head. One minute I'm fighting off Barcelona for our stars, the next I can't even offload a thirty-year-old full-back because he loves the place too much.
For once in his career, being the black shopkeeper didn't mean selling high or making profit. It meant learning to live with loyalty—and, apparently, with Danny Mills for another four years.
*****
According to Arthur's arrangement, the day moved forward with the kind of quiet efficiency that always disguised the chaos he left in his wake.
That afternoon, Leeds United's official website finally stirred from its silence, dropping its first proper update since the summer window had opened. For fans who had been refreshing endlessly—snacking, scrolling, refreshing again as though their mouse clicks could summon signings—this little update was like a tiny appetizer before the main course. A teaser to keep them from rioting in the comments.
The news appeared in two neat lines:
[Welcome Leeds United youth player James Rodriguez to join the first team.]
[Welcome Toni Kroos to end his loan period and return to Leeds United.]
That was it. No fireworks, no golden banners, no cheeky videos of players juggling water bottles while winking at the camera. Just cold, clinical announcements. Two new names, tucked into a corner of the website like a footnote.
Naturally, nobody screamed in delight, nobody fainted in the streets. After all, these weren't €50 million superstars—they were just kids. A 16-year-old and a 17-year-old.
Still, once people got past the plain formatting, the numbers started to hit them. Sixteen. Seventeen. The ages stood there like neon signs, making fans scratch their heads.
"Where the hell does Arthur find these teenagers!?" someone typed furiously on the forum.
The first one, James Rodriguez, had already been carving up defenders in the English U17 League. Thirteen goals, eighteen assists—basically tormenting every unlucky fullback who crossed his path. The second one, Toni Kroos, was even more outrageous. At 17, the kid had already been playing in La Liga on loan at Real Sociedad, sneaking into their rotation like he owned the place. Sociedad might have been relegated, but the fact Arthur snatched him back and immediately shoved him into Leeds' first team… that was pure Arthur.
Everyone already knew the man had an uncanny eye for talent. Scouts from across Europe respected it, agents feared it, and rival clubs downright hated it. The whispers were all the same: give these two lads a few years and Leeds would be raking in another truckload of cash.
But while Leeds was quietly stockpiling teenagers who looked suspiciously like future Ballon d'Or nominees, their rivals weren't sitting still.
Chelsea, for once, behaved like a man who'd just discovered budgeting. Roman Abramovich, tired of tossing gold bars around like confetti, had finally tightened the purse strings. Chelsea's "big summer moves" were… well, underwhelming. They took two free players, nabbed Alex from Eindhoven for the princely fee of one euro (yes, one euro—basically the price of a bus ticket), and then splurged only on Malouda from Lyon for 20 million. For Chelsea, this was practically restraint. Compared to the circus of the last few summers, it felt like Abramovich had swapped his bazooka for a water pistol.
Manchester United, however, had clearly decided restraint was for losers.
Sir Alex Ferguson, still scarred by last season's defensive disasters, marched to the board with smoke coming out of his ears and demanded reinforcements. The board caved, naturally. What followed was a spending spree that made Arthur raise an eyebrow when he saw the figures.
– €20 million for Schmeichel.
– £14 million for Nani.
– £17 million for Anderson.
– £17 million for Hargreaves.
One after another, the signings dropped, each headline bigger than the last. United fans practically floated out of their houses, dizzy with excitement. Some of the more radical ones immediately invaded Twitter, spamming the official accounts of Chelsea and Leeds with chest-thumping bravado and some choice swear words.
Arthur's usually calm right-hand man, Allen, nearly lost his temper scrolling through the abuse.
It was around 4 p.m. when Arthur stepped out of a meeting room at Thorp Arch, trailed by Lind, a reporter from the Yorkshire Post. Lind was already juggling his notebook and camera bag, eyes gleaming like a predator who'd sniffed a scoop.
Arthur barely had time to adjust his jacket before Allen stormed over, laptop in hand.
"Boss, finished?" Allen asked, trying to keep his voice even, though his nostrils were flaring like a bull ready to charge.
"Yeah, it's done," Arthur said, giving Lind a polite smile before turning to Allen. "What's got you sprinting around like we're on fire?"
Allen snapped the laptop open and held it out like evidence in a trial. "It's not life or death. Just… Manchester United announced their signings this afternoon, and their fans have lost their bloody minds. They're clogging our official Twitter account with insults, nonsense, memes—you name it. Do you want me to rally some of our lads to fight back?"
Arthur glanced at the screen, then waved his hand with a dismissive grin. "Let them scream into the void. I don't waste money on internet slap-fights."
Lind chuckled under his breath, scribbling in his notebook. Arthur jabbed a thumb toward him and added, "If our star journalist here churns out his article quickly, the Yorkshire Post will build the momentum for us tomorrow. That's a much better answer than trading insults with drunk Mancunians online."
Allen frowned but eventually closed the laptop, muttering something about "keyboard warriors."
Just as Arthur predicted, the next morning the Yorkshire Post dropped its bombshell headline:
[Arthur Morgan: Leeds United spent nearly €90 million on summer signings, to be officially announced in the coming days!]
The article Lind had stayed up all night writing spelled it out clearly: the €90 million wasn't smoke and mirrors, it was cold, hard cash. Leeds United had beefed up their squad across the board—goalkeeper, midfield, attack. And those midfield and forward signings? According to Lind's carefully chosen words, they were "world-class stars."
That single phrase—world-class—set the football world buzzing.
On Twitter, forums, pub discussions, everyone had an opinion.
"World-class? From Bayern? Is Kahn sneaking over? Roberto Carlos? Raul? Who's coming!?"
"Leeds is turning into Real Madrid's garage sale! What kind of monsters would even join them!?"
"Okay, €90 million. Let's say 10 million went to a goalkeeper. That leaves 80 million for two players. World-class forwards or midfielders at that price? Go on, do the maths!"
"Wait—did Arthur get Ronaldinho? Maybe he traded Yaya Touré for him!?"
"Don't be stupid. United just blew cash everywhere—do you think Barca or Milan would let Ronnie go? No chance."
"Absolutely not. Ferguson would never let Cristiano leave for Leeds!"
Speculation, mockery, daydreams—it all flooded in. And while the arguments spiraled out of control, the calendar rolled forward.
July 1st arrived.
At exactly 10 a.m., Leeds United's official website made its long-awaited update.