Arthur slumped heavily onto the sofa like a man who had just discovered life had no mercy. He let out a long sigh, rubbing his temples as if the weight of English football, Spanish tapas, and the entire universe had been dumped on his shoulders.
Across the room, Simeone immediately spread his hands in exaggerated helplessness, looking over at Ron as though he had been personally wronged by fate. "Ron, my friend," he said with mock solemnity, "I don't mean to criticise you—well, maybe I do—but tell me honestly: in this day and age, why on earth would you print out mountains of scout reports? Why not just email them? Click, send, done! But no, you printed them out. Now Ferreira and I have to run around carrying half a library. My back's gone because of you."
Ron blinked innocently, then gave Simeone a sly grin that made him look like a schoolboy about to confess to some mischief. "I did send them," he said, letting the words drop with deliberate weight.
"You… what?" Simeone froze, his eyebrows arching in suspicion. He glanced at Ron, then slowly turned his head, only to see Arthur smirking from the sofa like a cat that had just stolen the cream.
"Hehe," Arthur chuckled, entirely unapologetic. "Yeah, I told Ron to print them. What, you think I'm going to sit here slogging through all this on my own while you three are off enjoying yourselves? No chance. If I'm working overtime, then you lot are too. Misery loves company, lads. Now stop whining. The sooner we start, the sooner we can go home."
"Capitalist!" Simeone barked with a dramatic point of the finger, leaping up from his chair like he'd just uncovered a grand conspiracy. "Ferreira, Ron, look at him! Exploiting us, squeezing our sweat, turning us into slaves! I told you—Arthur Morgan is no different from the owners upstairs!"
Arthur chuckled, lifted his leg, and gave Simeone a playful shove with his foot. "Get stuffed. You're lucky I don't start charging you rent for breathing my air."
Simeone skipped nimbly out of the way, laughing even as he went on with his mock rant. "See? Violence! Pure capitalist behaviour! First he steals our free time, then he attacks the workers. Next thing you know, he'll be banning tea breaks!"
"Enough, Che Guevara," Arthur cut him off, snatching the stack of papers from Ron. "Sit down before I fine you a week's wages for bad comedy."
Ron, shaking his head with a grin, split the mountain of reports into three equal piles and handed them out. "Alright, boss," he said, "but you'll want to pay close attention to the first one. Remember when you told me to prioritise an all-around midfielder after selling Yaya? Well, I think I've found someone who ticks all the boxes. Kid looks really promising."
"Oh?" Arthur muttered, raising an eyebrow as he flicked open the first report. His eyes landed on the photo of a tall, athletic teenager with a wide smile full of dazzling white teeth. And at that exact moment, Arthur nearly slapped his own forehead.
Paul Pogba.
Bloody hell! How could he have forgotten Pogba? The kid wasn't just promising—he was practically tailor-made for Leeds United's needs. This wasn't just potential; this was destiny staring him straight in the face.
Arthur immediately snapped into focus. His manager's brain went into overdrive, and he called up the system in his mind. Within seconds, Pogba's attributes flashed before his eyes as though he'd just unlocked a secret file in a video game.
[Paul Pogba]
Age: 14
Offensive Threat: 43
Defensive Strength: 39
Body Balance: 48
Strength: 45
Long Pass Accuracy: 41
Short Pass Accuracy: 42
Shooting Accuracy: 41
Dribbling Accuracy: 40
Shooting Skills: 40
Speed/Maximum Speed: 42/44
Injury Tolerance: B
Talent: S
Player Evaluation: A very talented midfielder with balanced left and right foot abilities. Can pass and shoot with either foot, boasting strong vision, physical fitness, and versatility. Potential to become one of the most influential midfielders in world football. Of course, it would help if he learned to control his mouth—and perhaps his family too.
Overall Assessment: E
Arthur leaned back, eyes widening slightly. The word that immediately formed in his mind was all-rounder.
This was it. This was exactly what he needed. Pogba wasn't just a midfielder; he was a future powerhouse. Strong, skilful, versatile, clever with the ball, and built like someone who could boss a midfield battle on his own. At just fourteen, the numbers already hinted at something special.
Arthur felt a warmth rise in his chest, the kind of buzz managers live for—the discovery of a hidden gem. Pogba reminded him of Yaya Touré, that same ability to dominate box to box, but with even greater versatility at a younger age.
He wasn't naïve, though. Pogba was only fourteen. He wasn't expecting the lad to march into Elland Road tomorrow and start dictating games. It would take years of nurturing, patience, and careful handling before he could make a mark on the Premier League stage. But still—this was a golden ticket, and Arthur wasn't about to let it slip away.
A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he looked up from the report. Simeone, Ron, and Rivaldo were all watching him expectantly.
"Well?" Simeone asked, drumming his fingers on his pile of reports. "Is this kid any good, or did Ron just waste more paper and my precious free time?"
Arthur slapped the paper against his knee and smirked. "Boys, if this lad turns out half as good as I think, Ron's just found us the future of Leeds United."
Simeone whistled, eyebrows shooting up. "Big words, boss. You know I'm going to hold you to that."
Arthur chuckled, leaning back on the sofa. "You'll thank me in a few years when this Pogba lad is running Europe's midfields. Mark my words."
*****
Arthur leaned back in his chair, staring at Pogba's smiling photo in the report, and memories from his previous knowledge of football history began to stir. He remembered clearly how things had unfolded. Pogba had been at Manchester United once already. Sir Alex Ferguson had grown frustrated with the lad's lack of discipline, his tendency to strut about as if the world already owed him a Ballon d'Or, and his refusal to wait for a proper chance. When Paul Scholes retired, United had a gap in midfield—but instead of promoting Pogba, Ferguson had dragged the ginger wizard out of retirement, plopping him right back into the squad. That had been the breaking point for Pogba.
Arrogant and ambitious as he was, Pogba had no intention of sitting around waiting for his chance when someone older was literally un-retiring to take up his spot. He packed his bags, swore he'd prove himself elsewhere, and walked away from Old Trafford.
And in truth? Arthur couldn't deny it. That decision had worked out beautifully for him.
Once he arrived in Juventus, Pogba had blossomed. Four years in Turin turned him into the heartbeat of their midfield. Match after match, he grew sharper, stronger, more dominant. In 178 games, he'd notched up 34 goals and 40 assists. That wasn't just a good record for a midfielder—it was the sort of output you usually only saw from a world-class playmaker. He'd gone from promising youngster to midfield general in record time.
And what did Manchester United do later? They swallowed their pride, opened their chequebook, and paid over 100 million euros to bring him back. Juventus, who had picked him up for free, walked away grinning like bandits who'd robbed Fort Knox.
Arthur let out a low whistle, his lips curling into a grin. If he played his cards right now, he could snatch this boy up long before the rest of Europe realised what he was worth. And one day, maybe he'd be the one making United cough up ridiculous money to get him back.
His eyes lit up with greedy delight. Without even bothering to finish reading the rest of the report, he tossed the papers onto the desk and turned sharply toward Ron. "This kid is good! Where's he playing right now?"
Ron blinked, taken aback. "Uh… boss, it's written right there in the report."
Arthur gave him a flat look that said, Do I look like a man who reads paperwork?
Ron cleared his throat quickly, suppressing his doubts. "He's with Le Havre's youth team at the moment. But… well, boss, I have to warn you about something. This boy has… issues."
Arthur leaned forward, intrigued. "Go on then."
Ron hesitated, frowning slightly as he tried to find the right words. "I met the lad once, face-to-face. Talented, no doubt. But his head… it's a bit all over the place. His attitude, his personality… let's just say he's not the easiest to deal with."
"You mean he's a bit… bouncy?" Arthur suggested with a raised eyebrow, already guessing what Ron was trying to say.
Ron gave a small laugh of relief. "Yes! Exactly. He's eccentric. A bit of a prick, to be honest. Even their academy director—who I know quite well—rolled his eyes when Pogba's name came up. Called him a handful."
Arthur chuckled, pointing across the table at Simeone, who was buried in another report. "A handful? Please. You think I'm worried about that? Look at Diego here! The man once started a fight with a heartthrob. Literally tried to square up with the golden boy of football. And when I invited him to England afterwards, he actually said yes! Now that's the definition of reckless."
Simeone's head shot up, his face red with mock outrage. "Boss! Are you still dragging up that story? That was years ago! And for your information, David and I have made peace!"
"Oh really? Now it's David all friendly-like, is it?" Rivaldo chimed in from the other sofa, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Simeone narrowed his eyes at him. "Shut it, Rivaldo."
Arthur and Ron burst into laughter, while Rivaldo smirked smugly, enjoying his moment of victory. Arthur actually had to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes before he could speak again.
"Listen," he said finally, leaning forward with a grin. "Leeds United has no shortage of hotheads and troublemakers. What's one more? Between Thomas and me, we'll keep the boy in line. And if he really does turn out to be uncontrollable, then fine—we sell him. A talent like this won't lose us money either way."
The mention of Tuchel's name made Ron picture the German's ever-serious, stone-faced glare. He shuddered lightly and nodded. "Fair point, boss. With Thomas around, even the wildest kid wouldn't dare act out too much."
Ron shuffled through his notes, then added, "Alright then. When Alan comes in tomorrow, I'll have him put in an offer to Le Havre. Shouldn't be too expensive. I reckon three to four hundred thousand euros will be enough to bring him here."
"Perfect," Arthur said with a sharp nod. But just as Ron was jotting that down, Arthur leaned back with a sly grin tugging at his lips. "Oh, and one more thing. Have Alan check whether the kid's got an agent yet. If he doesn't… well, tell Alan to give Raiola a ring. Let him start sweet-talking Pogba's parents."