The press conference hall had grown noticeably quieter as the clock crept toward ten o'clock.
Just minutes before, the place had been buzzing with chatter, keyboards clattering, and reporters comparing rumors in hushed tones, but now—silence. Journalists leaned over their notepads, glanced repeatedly at their watches, then back at the entrance, as if sheer anticipation could make the doors swing open sooner.
Photographers had already staked out their positions like hunters in the wild, lenses locked on the double doors, fingers itching on the shutter release. They didn't want to risk missing that one decisive moment—the first glimpse of Leeds United's mysterious new signing, the one who had been teased, hinted at, and guarded like a state secret all summer.
Every tick of the second hand seemed to stretch forever. The atmosphere thickened with expectation. Reporters straightened in their chairs, then leaned forward, then sat back again, restless but silent, like students waiting for exam results.
Then—
A faint commotion from behind the closed door. Someone moving, a muffled voice, the scrape of shoes on the floor.
Click.
The latch turned, and the door began to ease open.
Every journalist in the room immediately surged forward in their seat, bodies bent like bows pulled taut, ready to snap. A few photographers, their nerves stretched too thin, panicked and fired off their shutters at the mere sight of the widening gap. The sound of rapid-fire clicks filled the room even before a figure had fully stepped through.
But when the first person entered, a ripple of disappointment spread through the room. It wasn't Arthur, and it wasn't the secret signing either.
It was just Alan, Leeds United's general manager.
The sigh was almost audible. Reporters slumped back a little, muttering under their breath, a few rolling their eyes as if they'd just been conned into clapping for the warm-up act.
Yet the sharp-eyed journalists noticed something instantly: Alan hadn't left empty-handed this time. Earlier he had walked into the building carrying nothing. Now, in his grip, was a crisp white Leeds United jersey.
They couldn't make out the name printed above the number, but the black figure "2" was clear enough.
Two?
The murmurs began. A few journalists craned their necks, some exchanged quick, knowing glances.
"Number two? That's a defender's number."
"Central defender, maybe? Leeds spent fifty million on a center-back?"
"That's got to be a joke. Arthur's losing his mind if that's the case."
"Maybe he signed Kaka? We heard he might be leaving."
" Kaka at Leeds? Hahaha, nice joke. If Arthur can sign him, I'll eat my laptop!"
The skepticism spread quickly, feeding off itself. The idea of spending such money on a defender seemed absurd to most of them. Who in the world was worth that kind of fee in that position? Names flew around in whispers, but none of them felt right.
Alan stepped up to the podium, calm and confident, the corners of his mouth already lifting in a knowing smile. He handed the jersey to a staff member standing by, who immediately moved to hang it neatly on the stand beside the rostrum. Then Alan turned back to the crowd.
"Hello, everyone," he began, voice warm and practiced, like a man who had been waiting all morning for this moment. "Welcome to today's press conference. I am Alan, the general manager of Leeds United."
The room stayed hushed, eyes locked on him, cameras aimed and ready.
"Alright," Alan continued, not bothering with pleasantries. "Without further ado, let me introduce you to Leeds United's final signing of this summer window."
He paused deliberately, his smile broadening, letting the anticipation hang just a second longer.
"He is… the new European champion, the top scorer and best player of the 2006–2007 UEFA Champions League, the Brazilian star known son of God himself.....Kaka!"
The words landed like a thunderclap.
At the same moment, the staff member finished arranging the jersey. He turned it deliberately so that the back faced the crowd. White fabric gleamed under the lights, and there it was in bold lettering: 22.
Above the number, a single word in capital letters—KAKA'.
The effect was instant and visible.
Reporters froze mid-scribble, pens suspended above paper. A dozen mouths dropped open at once, wide enough to swallow their microphones whole.
The disbelief in the room was so thick you could practically hear brains short-circuiting.
Some stared blankly at the jersey, unable to process what their eyes were showing them.
Others swivelled toward Alan, faces twisted in a mix of shock and suspicion, as though waiting for him to shout "Gotcha!" and announce it was all a cruel joke.
A few simply gaped at the open doorway, waiting for the man himself to appear and prove this wasn't an elaborate prank.
For a moment, silence smothered the entire room. It was eerie—dozens of people packed shoulder to shoulder, and not a sound but shallow, rapid breaths.
Then....Boom!
The hall erupted. Reporters who had been frozen moments earlier suddenly came alive, shoving forward, tripping over cables, barking questions that drowned each other out.
Photographers practically blinded the front row with flashing bursts, shutters hammering like machine-gun fire. The noise swelled into a wall of sound—cheers, gasps, shouts, and the frantic clatter of typing as journalists scrambled to send the story of the year to their editors.
Because in that instant, the door opened wider.
Arthur stepped through first, composed but with the faintest curl of a smile tugging at his lips. And right behind him, the tall, graceful figure the world knew so well—Kaka himself.
The reaction was seismic.
Applause broke out, mingling with the frenzied cheers of those who couldn't contain their excitement. The sight of Arthur walking in with Kaka at his side sent the crowd into overdrive. It was no longer just a press conference—it felt like history in the making.
The photographers went berserk, leaning over one another, desperately trying to capture the perfect shot of Leeds United's manager and his superstar signing walking in together.
Reporters jostled for position, their voices rising above the din:
"Arthur, how did you pull this off?"
"Kaka! Why Leeds? Why now?"
"Is it true the deal cost fifty million?"
"Arthur, did you speak directly to him?"
The questions flew like arrows, none of them answered yet, but that didn't matter. For now, the revelation itself was enough. The legend was real, the jersey was real, and Leeds United had just rewritten the script for the season.
And in that storm of noise, applause, and flashing lights, Arthur and Kaka advanced calmly into the hall, side by side.
******
The press room was still buzzing with energy after the bombshell reveal. Kaka sat there on the podium, immaculate in his crisp Leeds United jacket, his hair perfectly styled, and his smile lighting up the room.
Every reporter in the hall had practically fallen over each other trying to get their questions in, and the microphones in front of him looked like a bouquet of steel flowers shoved up toward his face.
Kaka leaned forward, speaking in that calm, composed way that always made him sound as if he had prepared his answers months in advance.
"Why did I join Leeds United?" he repeated the question, smiling slightly as if the answer was obvious to him.
"I've been fortunate to win many honors in Italy. And after winning this year's Champions League, I had to think very carefully about my future. It was then that Arthur came to see me in Milan.
He came in person, face to face, and invited me. We had a wonderful conversation—one that really opened my mind. And now," he spread his hands toward the jersey hanging proudly beside him, "everyone can see the result of that meeting."
The flashes from cameras were relentless, flickering across his face like strobe lights at a nightclub. The reporters scribbled furiously, some nodding in appreciation of his polished answer, others just desperate to get the quotes into their articles before their rivals.
Another microphone was thrust forward.
"Do you think Leeds United can compare to Milan?"
Kaka chuckled softly, the kind of chuckle that could make even skeptical journalists lean in. "Of course. Like AC Milan, Leeds United is a team with a long history, with strong tradition and great passion. That struck me deeply when I first began to look closer, a few months ago.
At that time, Arthur described to me his vision for Leeds United's future. His ambition was… infectious, to be honest. That was one of the biggest reasons I decided to come here. I want to help this team achieve more, go beyond what was done last season. That is my goal."
Arthur, sitting beside him at the table, simply smiled. He didn't interrupt, didn't rush, just sat back with his hands folded, watching the journalists hanging on every word. He looked like a man smugly holding four aces while the rest of the table didn't even know the game had started.
Another reporter jumped in quickly:
"Did Arthur also tell you that Adriano—Didico—would be joining?"
"Yes," Kaka answered without hesitation. His eyes brightened. "At that time, we were in a small restaurant in the suburbs of Milan. Over dinner, Arthur told me Adriano would also be joining Leeds United this summer.
For me, that was wonderful news. We're teammates in the national team, and we've built a strong relationship. Coming to a new club is always easier when you have a friend already waiting there."
The press room buzzed louder at that. Two Brazilian stars in one window? Arthur wasn't just buying talent; he was building an empire.
Another question fired in immediately:
"And how is Adriano? There have been reports—"
Kaka raised a hand politely. "Yes, I've heard some of those reports as well. But let me assure you: we met recently in Rio de Janeiro, and he is in very good condition. I know some things have been written that aren't accurate, but I'm not in a position to go into details.
What I can say is simple: in a few days, when Adriano reports to the team, everyone will see for themselves how he is doing."
The reporters murmured, scribbling notes, their heads bent over laptops and recorders. Every word was gold for tomorrow's headlines.
Meanwhile, Arthur stayed quiet, watching Kaka handle the crowd like a maestro. Inside, though, he was amused. He glanced at the journalists—many of whom had spent the last 48 hours tearing him apart in their columns over the supposed "waste" of buying Adriano.
His smile grew wider, almost mischievous.
"You mocked me yesterday," Arthur thought smugly, "but today? Today you'll be staying up until midnight rewriting every word."
He sat back in his chair, looking perfectly relaxed, even as questions continued to hammer toward Kaka. He wasn't nervous in the slightest; he let his new superstar take the spotlight. For Arthur, this was better than scoring a goal in stoppage time.
Ten minutes passed in a blur. Kaka fielded every question with elegance, charm, and authority. Eventually, the flood slowed, and the reporters began to shift in their seats, realizing they hadn't yet turned their guns on the man who orchestrated all of this.
Arthur.
The room refocused, and the last question to Kaka wrapped up. A tall man wearing a press badge with The Guardian on it rose to his feet. His voice was clear, carrying across the room.
"Mr. Arthur," he said, "in an interview with the Yorkshire Post, you mentioned Leeds United had spent around ninety million euros on signings this summer. With such a large investment, I'd like to ask—what is your outlook for the coming season?"
Arthur reached over and tugged the microphone closer, the very one Kaka had just been using. He adjusted it slowly, deliberately, giving himself a moment to look out over the crowd. His eyes gleamed with that same confident, almost cocky spark that drove the English media wild.
"Outlook?" he repeated, arching an eyebrow. His grin widened. "It's not an outlook. From the first day of this new season, every player in Leeds United—and myself included—has had only one goal."
He leaned forward now, voice steady and strong. "The championship."
The room barely reacted. Not because they weren't impressed, but because they were used to it.
Arthur's bravado had long since stopped shocking the English press. They'd heard him declare titles, trophies, and triumphs in nearly every press conference since his arrival. Most reporters didn't even look up from their laptops. A few chuckled under their breath.
"Typical Arthur," one muttered, shaking his head.
Another leaned sideways to his colleague. "I don't know why that Guardian guy wasted his breath. What else did he expect him to say? Top four? Survival? Please."
Arthur fielded a few more questions casually, tossing back short, sharp replies with his trademark grin. He was in full control of the stage, and everyone knew it.
Finally, Alan, who had been hovering discreetly at the side, stepped forward to bring things to a close. He thanked the press for attending, announced the end of the conference, and ushered everyone toward the exits.
Arthur and Kaka rose together, shook hands with the staff, and departed through the side door, leaving behind a whirlwind of flashing cameras and buzzing journalists.
In their wake, the press room erupted into chatter.
"Unbelievable. Kaka at Leeds!"
"Arthur's gone mad, but he's a genius madman."
One reporter was still sitting stiffly in his chair, laptop clutched tightly to his chest. A colleague nudged him.
"Why are you hugging that thing like it's your firstborn?"
The man shifted uncomfortably. "What do you mean?"
His friend smirked. "Don't play dumb. Before the press conference started, didn't you say that if Arthur ever managed to sign Kaka, you'd eat your laptop on the spot?"
The man went silent, staring at the screen in his arms, face pale. The others around him burst into laughter, some pounding the table, others wiping tears from their eyes. The poor fellow could only mutter under his breath, already dreading what tomorrow's newsroom would bring.