"Personal treatment?" Arthur repeated, leaning forward to make his voice sound low and confidential. He could tell Mourinho was focusing only on the transactional aspects. "No, Jose, I'm not talking about money or contract length. Mr. Moratti has probably promised him a raise already—that's standard. I'm talking about loyalty and fear."
He paused, letting the dramatic words sink in. "Look, I know Wesley. He's a deeply emotional guy, just like Massimo, who values sentiment over everything. Especially after his absolutely miserable, career-crushing experience at Real Madrid, where he was essentially benched and insulted by Capello, he's terrified of going through that again. He worries that after he goes to another big club, he'll be marginalized or immediately excluded from the big matchday squad, just as he was at the Bernabéu."
"At Leeds United, he knows his value. Even though he's often Kaka's substitute, he's constantly in my plans. He's the crucial alternative. He trusts the manager who dug him out of the grave. You need to understand that this isn't about Inter Milan offering him more money; it's about Mourinho offering him professional sanctuary and tactical importance. That's the only currency he cares about."
Mourinho, being a coach himself—and one who understood player psychology better than most—immediately grasped the gravity of Arthur's explanation. The truth was simple: Sneijder was terrified of repeating his mistake and needed absolute, unwavering commitment from his next boss.
"I understand completely, Arthur," Mourinho admitted, dropping all pretense of salesmanship. "That's actually reassuring, because I've already addressed that." He sounded instantly galvanized, the true manager coming to the fore. "To be honest, I've been tracking Sneijder for a long time. I actually proposed to Chelsea this past summer that we should sell Shevchenko and use the funds to buy Sneijder. Unfortunately, Roman flat-out rejected that proposal, which, looking back, was one of the many issues that led to this unfortunate... departure."
He continued, his voice gaining confidence and clarity. "Last night, after Jorge and Moratti had their first conversation, I spent the entire night studying Inter Milan's current lineup, their deficiencies, and their system. I came to a very firm conclusion: if I take over at Inter, Sneijder will not just be a squad player; he will be an indispensable member of my lineup. He will be my undisputed tactical core and absolute main force in the number 10 role! I told Mr. Moratti exactly that on the phone this morning."
"So, Massimo directly agreed to spend the money?" Arthur asked, smiling slightly, picturing the enthusiastic Morattiagreeing to a huge check based on a single, impassioned declaration.
"Yes, Mr. Moratti takes my tactical proposals extremely seriously," Mourinho replied, a hint of cheerful pride returning to his voice. "It was frankly unexpected. I didn't think he would agree to my core request so quickly, directly over the phone. You have to remember, Arthur, I haven't even signed the contract with Inter Milan yet! That's how much conviction he has in this idea."
"Okay, Jose." Arthur gave a firm nod, finally ready to wrap up the call; his stomach was protesting violently now. "You have my word. I will not impede this process, but I will not make it easy either. You can call Massimo back and ask him to give me a formal, written offer! But I have to give you fair warning, my friend: Wesley's price is not low. We are currently second in the Premier League, top of our Champions League group, and he is crucial to our success. If the money is too little, I simply won't sell him. The offer must reflect his worth and the difficulty of replacing him in January."
Mourinho breathed a massive sigh of relief on the other end, the tension immediately draining out of him. "No problem, Arthur! That's entirely fair! Thank you for your generosity and understanding. I will convey your meaning to Mr. Moratti immediately!"
******
The conversation ended with the sudden, sharp realization that Mourinho wanted to buy Sneijder, effectively hitting the "reset" button on Arthur's appetite. Hunger forgotten, he hung up, a transfer business smile plastered on his face. However, as the residual adrenaline from the high-stakes negotiation faded, the gnawing, physical reality of missing lunch returned with a vengeance, demanding immediate caloric attention.
Arthur finally arrived at the club cafeteria, a bright, modern space at Thorp Arch that smelled overwhelmingly of roast chicken and tactical victory. Diego Simeone and Rivaldo (Ferreira) were already seated at a table, enjoying their meals with the quiet intensity of two men who understood that food was fuel for football domination.
After picking up a tray and haphazardly piling on a selection of roast beef, potatoes, and what looked suspiciously like a sad, lonely vegetable, Arthur walked over to the table and immediately began complaining to Simeone, who was currently attacking a piece of steak with the ferocity of a starved wolf.
"Diego, damn, you didn't have breakfast, did you? You're eating so fast you're going to give yourself a stitch before the afternoon session," Arthur grumbled, setting his plate down with a decisive clatter.
Simeone, caught mid-chew with an impressive quantity of unswallowed beef bulging in his cheek, blinked blankly at his boss. He gave a muffled, unintelligible grunt. "Oh, wuzzong wif yoo?"
"Okay, okay, swallow that whole farm animal before you choke, and talk later," Arthur replied, rolling his eyes dramatically for Rivaldo's benefit. He then began eating slowly, taking time to savor the beef, before leaning in conspiratorially toward his two assistants. He needed their counsel, not just their company.
"Right, here's the issue," Arthur began, keeping his voice low enough to avoid alerting the nearby fitness coach, who always seemed to be lurking nearby to discuss protein intake. "I need a quick consultation. If I sell Wesley Sneijder, do we absolutely need to add another central attacking midfielder in the January window?"
The effect was instantaneous.
"Sell!?" Rivaldo exclaimed, nearly dropping his fork.
"Sell again!?" Simeone barked, managing to swallow his mouthful of food in a single, painful gulp, his surprise overcoming his chewing instinct. Both men stared at Arthur with expressions of genuine awe and confusion.
"Yeah, well, I just got off a call with Mourinho," Arthur confirmed, spearing a potato. "He is now infinitely close to joining Inter Milan—like, signing-the-contract close. And under Massimo Moratti's instruction, he called me directly to open negotiations for Sneijder. I've told him I'm open to business."
Simeone shook his head, a mixture of grudging admiration and deep personal offense on his face. "No way, Boss. Are you playing 'wireless nesting dolls' here? You rescued Wesley from Real Madrid, built the tactical house around him, and now, less than a year later, you're willing to send him into the fire pit again? I swear, you treat players like stock market commodities."
"It's called good business, Diego," Arthur corrected dryly. "Now, back to the tactical consequences."
Rivaldo, meanwhile, had gone straight into serious planning mode, his eyes distant as he analyzed the squad list in his head. He was the pragmatic tactician of the trio.
"Boss, that truly depends on your requirements for the team this season. The variables are complicated," Rivaldo stated, setting his knife and fork down precisely. "After the new year, we will be fighting for the FA Cup. If you are serious about competing for that trophy, while simultaneously maintaining our push in the Premier League and handling the Champions League knockouts, then yes, I suggest we must fill the vacancy left by Wesley."
He tapped his temple. "We can manage, of course. We have Kaka as the starter. Kevin De Bruyne can deputize there, James Rodriguez can drop in, and even Toni Kroos can play a deeper version of that role. But if you factor in the sheer volume of games—three demanding competitions—and the inevitable injury crisis that January and February always bring, the depth will be stretched far too thin. If you don't care about the FA Cup, we're probably fine. But for the treble hunt, we need another dedicated body."
Arthur didn't need to hear another word. He was not a manager who discarded trophies. "I definitely want the FA Cup. It's prestigious, and it builds the mentality. Ferreira, give Ron (the chief scout) a call later this afternoon. Ask him specifically for any good attacking midfielders on the market right now. The requirements are: cheap—we just spent a fortune—and possessing a proven, high level of organizational skill. I don't want a goal-scorer; I want a creator."
"Understood, Boss," Rivaldo nodded, pulling a small notebook from his pocket and scribbling down the parameters.
As Rivaldo wrote, Simeone, who had been quietly shoveling more food into his mouth, suddenly slapped his own forehead with the heel of his hand, making a loud thwack. Arthur and Rivaldo turned to look at him simultaneously, annoyed by the interruption but curious about the sudden, physical gesture.
"Oh? What does that gesture mean, Diego? Did you finally remember to pay the electricity bill?" Arthur asked sarcastically.
"No, no, no!" Simeone cleared his throat theatrically, puffing out his chest with the look of a man who had just solved a riddle of the universe. "Boss, I don't think we need to buy anyone outside! I had a sudden realization!"
Rivaldo couldn't help but roll his eyes, picking up his fork again. "Oh, here we go. What is it, genius? Are you going to suggest Kevin or James? Didn't I just explain that for a three-line operation and accounting for injuries, we still need to introduce a dedicated substitute?"
Arthur nodded in agreement with Rivaldo, giving Simeone another withering look that clearly said: You think I hadn't already thought of the obvious?
Simeone got visibly agitated, seeing his moment of glory slipping away. "No, you Neanderthals! Listen! What I mean is that we can promote someone from the youth team! It's that French kid that the Boss brought back from the Continent this summer! The one with the crazy feet!"
"Pogba!?" A genuine flash of surprise—and excitement—crossed Arthur's face. The name resonated with the distant memory of a raw, gangly talent.
"Yes! That's the kid!" Simeone nodded vigorously. "I went down to watch Thomas's U17 team last week. Boss, it's only been a few months, and the kid has already become the absolute core of the U17 midfield. I've observed him closely. Apart from the slight lack of bulk and physical conditioning right now, this kid is miles ahead of his peers. His footwork, his vision, his passing range, and his football IQ—he's completely dominant at that level!"
Simeone leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of discovery. "He plays as a midfielder under Thomas, and his organizational ability is genuinely first-rate. The passes he makes… they're Sneijder-esque in their angles. But I have to admit, his body is still a little thin, and he can't provide much help on the defensive end right now... In fact, the way he glides around the pitch, he's a bit like James when he first arrived at Thorp Arch two years ago!"