Arthur and Mauro Camoranesi located a secluded booth at The Brick House Tavern, a dimly lit spot with heavy oak tables that screamed discretion. It was the perfect atmosphere for discussing the high-stakes logistics of a champion's departure.
Arthur wasted no time on pleasantries. He placed his phone face-down on the table and got straight to the point. "Camoranesi, Alan spoke to me yesterday. He said you submitted a formal transfer application to the club."
"Yes, boss. I did," Camoranesi affirmed, his voice steady. He sat with the upright posture of a man who still believed in the primacy of the spine, even at 32.
"Can I ask the reason? I need more than the standard HR line," Arthur pressed, stirring his coffee.
Camoranesi gave a half-smile, a look that acknowledged the absurdity of their predicament. "The reason is simple, Arthur, and it's a good problem for the club, but a difficult one for me. I want to be a main player. I need the minutes, the rhythm, the responsibility of starting every week. Here at Leeds United, my playing time has become too specialized, too little."
Arthur nodded, appreciating the blunt honesty. As Camoranesi's head coach, he'd already mentally drafted the same diagnosis. The Italian-Argentinian, a World Cup winner, was utterly relentless in his self-discipline and still possessed genuine professional ambition. The role of a rotation player—however vital—was utterly unacceptable to his professional pride.
"I understand that feeling, truly," Arthur conceded. "But I must be perfectly clear: you are not some disposable asset. You have been, and remain, a core part of my strategic thinking. This season, we are fighting on three aggressive fronts: defending the Premier League, pushing deep into the Champions League, and attacking the domestic cups. That requires a depth of quality, not just quantity. In that environment, I guarantee you will not have too little playing time."
Arthur leaned in, lowering his voice to emphasize the tactical gravity of his plea. "Think of our system, Camoranesi. It's a high-volume, high-sprint press built on the lungs of 20-year-olds. They run opponents into the ground for sixty minutes. But what happens on a cold night away in Europe when we're 1-0 up, the kids are running on fumes, and the opposing manager brings on a veteran playmaker to chase the equalizer?"
"That," Arthur declared, "is the moment I need you. I need your control. I need your tactical foul draw, your ability to kill the tempo by holding the ball for an extra two seconds, and your capacity to drop the whole team's heart rate by thirty beats a minute. You are my game closer, my midfield anchor for high-pressure situations. I need your twenty-five minutes of surgical precision far more than a young player's eighty minutes of panic. That is why you are in the plan."
Camoranesi listened intently, nodding along to the tactical breakdown. When Arthur finished, the veteran replied, his voice still smooth but completely unswayed.
"Boss, I respect that analysis, and frankly, I relish that role. It is a testament to what my experience is worth. But it still means I am the solution to a problem, not the creator of a strategy. I want to be the one who dictates the direction from minute one. And that is where the problem lies."
The veteran's expression grew serious. "You have cultivated a generation of talent that is too perfectly suited to your machine. My battle for a starting spot is unwinnable, Arthur, because I cannot fundamentally change my physical identity."
He began detailing the competitive landscape within the squad, specifically pointing out his direct rivals. "Take The Destroyer in defensive midfield. He operates purely on reaction and aggression. He is built for the transition. He makes sixty high-speed recoveries a game. I rely on anticipation and positional awareness to intercept. The system now prioritizes the former. I'm brilliant at finding space to receive a pass; The Destroyer is brilliant at finding space to kick someone. Both are valid, but only one is required for your opening press."
"Then consider The Winger—the new young signing. He is a marvel of constant, vertical motion. He can run full tilt for seventy minutes. I can run full tilt for forty-five, but I substitute that speed with better crossing and smarter runs into the box. But the overall volume demanded by your team is a young man's game now. Arthur, I've done the numbers: competing with them would require me to constantly push myself to a level of sustained output that is inefficient. I would rather be the main man, the central dictator, at a slightly slower club, than a high-impact luxury item here."
Arthur studied Camoranesi's firm eyes. There was no petulance, no anger, just the calm declaration of a professional who knew his worth and his limits. It was clear: he was leaving. Trying to keep him would only lead to bitterness and internal friction, and Arthur prided himself on managing his dressing room well.
Arthur smiled slightly and nodded heavily, accepting defeat with grace. "Okay, Camoranesi. You win. That is the most articulate transfer request I have ever received. I agree to your application. I'll let Alan follow up later this afternoon. As long as the other party's offer is not offensively low, I will let you go peacefully."
This brought the manager to the crucial financial pivot. In his memory, the old timeline suggested Camoranesi joined Stuttgart in the Bundesliga around 2010 for a meager €2 million. That figure made Arthur blanch. He had spent €12 million of Mr. Morgan's real money on this player. To lose €10 million on an asset who was still in superb condition would be disastrous optics.
"Just so we're crystal clear on the financial side," Arthur stated, his voice now firm and managerial. "If the offer is less than, say, seven million euros, I'm rejecting it. I'd rather you stay here, be a mentor, and leave on a free transfer when your contract ends than take an insulting hit on the balance sheet. Are we clear?"
"Perfectly clear, Arthur," Camoranesi confirmed.
"Right. Now, professional courtesy. Where is the next stop? I need to prep Alan for the kind of negotiators he'll be dealing with."
Camoranesi seemed to hesitate, a flash of awkwardness crossing his face. He fidgeted with his napkin for a moment before admitting, "Uh... It's Juventus, boss!"
Arthur's eyes went wide, and any residual thoughts about the €2 million transfer fee or the logistics of the Premier League schedule were immediately discarded.
Camoranesi quickly jumped in, anticipating a managerial meltdown. "But!" he stressed, "We did not reach any agreement in private! After I made the decision, I submitted a transfer application to the club as soon as possible, and Juventus also promised me that they would officially launch an offer after you agree! They're being very respectful of the process."
Juventus.
The sound of the name rang in Arthur's head, immediately throwing his perception of the timeline into chaos. It seems the influence of butterfly flapping its wings is getting bigger and bigger. He never thought that Camoranesi would return to Juventus after all the twists and turns!
*****
Arthur had always considered himself an expert in the awkward arts of football negotiation, but the conversation had just swerved into utterly unfamiliar territory.
Seeing Arthur's initial surprise and silence, Mauro Camoranesi's usually composed face flushed slightly. The veteran seemed genuinely embarrassed, his voice dropping to a low, slightly contrite tone. "Boss, I… I actually have one other small request."
Another request? Arthur snapped out of his internal timeline crisis. He looked at Camoranesi with renewed curiosity. "Well, you've earned the right to ask for a lot more than a discount on appetizers, Camoranesi. Spit it out."
"Uh…" Camoranesi took a moment, carefully organizing the delicate words in his mind. "It's about the transfer fee. Once the club—once Leeds United—receives the official offer from Juventus later, can you… well, can you give me a little discount?"
Arthur simply stared. He didn't know whether to laugh or call the Players' Union.
"Wait. What in the blazes did you just ask?" Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Are we doing this now? Are we in a universe where the player is now the personal bargaining agent for the buying club? Did someone from Turin ask you to come here and talk me down?"
"That is absolutely not the case!" Camoranesi insisted, shaking his head rapidly. "It's just… Arthur, I'm trying to be proactive. I'm afraid their offer won't meet your clear requirements. You know my age, and you know the situation at Juventus. They're returning to Serie A after a crippling financial and emotional blow. They simply won't have the funds to pay a premium for a player entering his mid-thirties, no matter how good his conditioning is. I'm concerned their bid will be in the region that makes you say no, and then I'm stuck."
Ah, so that's it. Arthur rolled his eyes internally, realizing Camoranesi's motive was pure, professional self-interest: he was afraid his manager's justifiable greed would veto his dream move. He was essentially pre-negotiating his freedom. It was weird, but kind of sweet in its mercenary desperation.
"So, you're afraid you can't leave, and you're trying to manage my expectations on behalf of Juventus?" Arthur summarized, leaning back with a wry grin. "You know, that's almost genius. Almost."
Arthur thought about the numbers again. His lowest, stated price to Camoranesi was around €7 million—enough to avoid angering Mr. Morgan and making the loss seem palatable. He knew Juventus would try to lowball. He could stick to €7 million and risk the deal collapsing, or he could meet Camoranesi halfway and secure the deal.
He lifted his hand, holding up six fingers. "Okay, Camoranesi, you've earned the courtesy. This is my absolute, rock-bottom psychological price. I won't take a euro less, but I will sign off on this figure immediately. Six million euros."
The six million figure was strategically chosen. It was a clear €5 million more than the phantom €2 million move he knew Camoranesi was subconsciously fearing, but it was just far enough below Arthur's stated €7 million demand to feel like a significant discount for Juventus. It was the price of a champion's dignity.
Hearing the price of €6 million, Camoranesi's relief was palpable. He visibly slumped back into the chair, the tension draining from his shoulders. "Six million. Thank you, Arthur. That is more than fair. I believe Juventus will find that acceptable." And if they don't, Camoranesi thought grimly, I'll just have to agree to a substantial pay cut myself. The idea of returning to Turin and leading the charge back to glory was worth more than a few months' salary.
The next flash of plot occurred several weeks later, on November 3rd. The twelfth round of the English Premier League had reignited, throwing up a colossal fixture that held the entire country's attention: Arsenal vs. Manchester United at the Emirates Stadium.
At Elland Road, the Leeds United players were going through their pre-match warm-up routines—stretching, passing drills, and the usual blend of nervous energy and focused intensity. The match being played far away in London, however, was providing a chaotic, tension-filled sideshow.
Arthur's assistant, Alves, a man whose passion for football bordered on manic, sprinted over to the manager's technical area, clutching his phone like a winning lottery ticket.
"Boss! You won't believe the drama!" Alves yelled, struggling to contain a massive grin that stretched ear to ear. "It's over! The game's finished, and Wenger's luck is just incredible! Gallas equalized in the absolutely last second of stoppage time! Both rivals drop points! Hahahaha!"
Arthur, who had been studying the opposition's midfield rotation on a clipboard, paused, the name catching his attention. "It's him again?" Arthur's face showed a strange, almost exhausted look of familiarity with the French defender's particular brand of high-drama chaos.
Alves roared with laughter. "Yes! The same French defender! He truly is a god and a clown, often in the same ten-minute stretch! You have to love him! He scores an own goal in first-half stoppage time, a truly beautiful, misplaced bullet into his own net—costing them the lead! Then, he redeems himself and saves the entire team in second-half stoppage time, scrambling in the equaliser from a corner kick! I swear, Arthur, after that rollercoaster, Wenger won't know whether to scream at him or kiss him when he gets back to the locker room!"
Arthur couldn't help but smile, a genuine, satisfied curl of the lip. The result was ideal: a brutal, morale-sapping draw for two of their most potent rivals. It meant both teams were now bleeding points and fighting the internal psychological battle that comes with the sheer waste of a rivalry tie. The table had just become a little less crowded at the top.
"Not bad at all," Arthur said, nodding with genuine satisfaction. He turned his attention from the drama of others to the focus of his own team. He scanned the pitch, locating his own players—fast, young, and hungry—moving through their paces.
He turned to Alves, his expression immediately serious. "Go back and brief the team on the result, Alves. Let them have a fifteen-second celebration, and then tell them to forget it. The only thing that draw does is give us a clearer shot. We need to focus, keep our heads, and make sure we win this game today."
Just a few yards down the touchline, the manager of the opposing team was a study in stillness. José Mourinho stood rigid, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his expensive coat, observing his players warm up with a distinct lack of his usual kinetic energy.
He had also just been informed of the dramatic 1-1 draw between Manchester United and Arsenal. Usually, such news—a perfect storm of rivals dropping points—would electrify him, sparking a renewed, triumphant intensity in his demeanor, ready to capitalize on the opportunity.
But today, Mourinho's heart held little fluctuation. His mind was elsewhere, locked on a conversation that had taken place just the night before.
His agent, the powerful and supremely connected Jorge Mendes, had called him. The conversation had been brief, weighted, and entirely focused on a question that had immediately cleaved Mourinho's focus: he had to start thinking about his future.
Mendes had told Mourinho that Massimo Moratti, the famously passionate and deeply impatient owner of Inter Milan, seemed to be acutely interested in securing his services.
The revelation was a psychological cannonball. Mourinho loved the fight in England, but the constant political sniping and the sheer grind of the Premier League were starting to wear him down, and he was sensing a shift in the hierarchy. The idea of moving to the Nerazzurri, to the high-stakes, high-reward environment of Serie A—a league he hadn't yet conquered—was a siren call. Moratti's interest wasn't just a job offer; it was an invitation to be the conquering hero, the savior of a sleeping giant desperate for European glory.
Mourinho stared out at his team, but he wasn't seeing his defenders. He was seeing the vast, high-ceilinged office of the Inter Milan president, the demanding eyes of Moratti, and the daunting challenge of transforming another club. He was already fighting a two-front war: the battle on the pitch today, and the battle inside his own head regarding his next continental leap.
Inter Milan's Moratti seemed to be interested in him…..