Arthur had barely pressed the phone to his ear when the unmistakably irritated voice of Calderon spilled out like cold soup.
"Hello, Mr. Morgan."
Arthur leaned back in his chair, smirking slightly. His tone, however, was anything but warm. "Mr. Calderon," he said coolly, "what a surprise. After our last chat, I figured we had absolutely nothing left to discuss."
There was a brief pause on the other end, then Calderon spoke again, this time with the tone of a man trying to pretend everything was perfectly fine — like someone who'd just accidentally reversed over his neighbour's cat and was now offering them fresh-baked cookies.
"Oh come now, Arthur. Let's not be like that. Business is business. No such thing as eternal enemies, right?"
Arthur's eyebrow arched. The man was laying it on thick. Still, he played along, just for the fun of it.
"Is that so? Then I take it you're not here to exchange holiday greetings," he said, voice dry. "You're calling to talk business?"
"Exactly!" Calderon jumped at the chance to get back on script. "Arthur, I've heard that Leeds has officially put Maicon on the transfer list. Word around Europe is, you've been taking offers. Now, I know we didn't reach an agreement last time—"
"You threatened me last time," Arthur interrupted lightly, almost laughing. "You tried to strong-arm me into submission over a player under contract. That wasn't negotiating. That was... well, amateur hour."
If Calderon heard the insult, he didn't take the bait. "Look, I'm calling today with sincerity. Real sincerity. And I believe, as a fair club, you won't refuse to listen to a new offer from Real Madrid."
Arthur grinned, stretching his legs beneath the desk. The trap had worked. His preemptive strikes — swooping Marcelo from right under Calderon's nose, and snatching Alves as a follow-up — had clearly rattled the man. The pieces were falling into place, and Calderon was now crawling back, hat in hand.
But Arthur wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily.
"Of course," he replied with mock generosity. "Leeds will listen to all formal offers. But you should know — competition is fierce. And I can assure you, they've all brought their checkbooks."
That was a little jab. Just enough to remind Calderon he wasn't the only vulture circling.
Calderon caught the message loud and clear — a veteran himself, he knew exactly when someone was pressing down on his pride. But for once, he swallowed it. The situation was too delicate now for macho bravado.
He exhaled through his nose, composed his voice, and said, "Arthur, I know. Believe me, I do. But Real Madrid fears no competition. I'm calling today with our best and final offer. You named your price before. Thirty-five million euros. I'm ready to meet it."
Arthur's smirk froze, then twisted upward into something resembling a wolfish grin. He knew this call was coming — but to hear it out loud, from Calderon of all people, was particularly satisfying.
Still, he couldn't resist adding a twist to the dagger.
"I'm afraid," Arthur replied with a polite sigh, "that was the previous price."
There was silence. Arthur could practically hear Calderon blinking in disbelief on the other end.
"You see," Arthur went on, tone as pleasant as a Christmas carol, "with the holiday period upon us, prices tend to rise a little. Seasonal inflation and all that. I'm sure you understand."
There was another long pause — longer this time.
Calderon slowly pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it, as though checking whether he'd misdialed and somehow ended up speaking to a butcher at the local market.
Seasonal inflation?
Was this man seriously increasing the transfer price like he was selling hams in December?
On the other end of the call, Arthur leaned back and waited for the inevitable explosion. He'd baited Calderon just the right amount. And now came the fireworks.
Back in Madrid, Calderon's face turned crimson as he slapped the phone back to his ear.
"Are you joking with me!?" he barked. "Is this how you conduct business? Am I buying a footballer or shopping for vegetables!?"
Arthur didn't respond immediately — mostly because he was chuckling silently, covering his mouth with the back of his hand to keep it from escaping into the call.
Calderon wasn't finished.
"I offer you exactly what you asked for, and now you tell me the price has gone up because it's Christmas!?"
Arthur composed himself just enough to reply in a deadpan tone. "Well, you know how it is. Everyone's shopping around this time of year. Supply's low, demand's high. You should've locked in that offer when it was fresh."
Calderon looked like he was about to explode.
He had offered it when it was fresh. It was Arthur who'd played games, dancing around negotiations, swooping players out from under him, and now — now! — he was telling him that the same player cost more just because Santa was on his way? Is this guy even human !
Calderon nearly launched the phone across his office.
****
After mentally calling Arthur every name under the sun (and inventing a few new ones), Calderon took a deep breath and fought to calm his rising blood pressure.
"Arthur," he said, forcing a smile that even the phone couldn't mask, "this joke isn't particularly funny. From what I've heard, our 35 million euro offer is the highest you've received for Maicon."
Arthur leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly as if he were sipping wine instead of talking to a fuming club president. "Oh, I'm not joking, Mr. Calderon," he replied, almost sweetly. "Prices always go up during the holidays. It's a cherished tradition where I come from."
He paused, then added with a touch of mock courtesy, "Of course, I'm not forcing you to buy. You're welcome to make a new offer after the holidays — say, next summer. Although by then, Maicon might already be at another club. As you know, demand's rather... competitive at the moment."
Calderon clenched his jaw so tightly it almost cracked. You smug little—
If he could've leapt through the phone and throttled Arthur, he would've done it right there. He didn't have until summer. Capello was breathing down his neck, Real's defense was begging for a proper right-back, and he'd already been publicly humiliated by Arthur's early swoops for Marcelo and Alves.
But just as he was about to lose it, Arthur struck again — calmly, casually, like he was discussing the weather.
"Well," Arthur said, "I'll be generous. Forty million euros, plus Sneijder — and we'll close the deal today."
Calderon went silent.
Arthur waited, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the desk. He could practically hear the gears turning in Calderon's head, the muffled sound of a forehead being massaged in frustration.
"This is impossible, Mr. Morgan," Calderon finally muttered, voice tight with restraint. "I can stretch to forty million. But adding Sneijder on top... that's too much."
He hesitated, then threw in the usual political shield: "You understand, Sneijder is worth around ten million. My board of directors would never approve a deal that looks this... lopsided."
Arthur smiled knowingly. Ah, the board of directors. The universal excuse for saying no when you don't want to look weak.
He wasn't buying it for a second. Calderon didn't give two hoots about Sneijder — the Dutchman was out of Capello's plans and halfway out the Bernabéu door already. The problem wasn't the player; it was appearances. Calderon couldn't afford to look like he'd just been mugged by a young upstart from Leeds.
Arthur didn't press. Instead, he shifted gears.
"I understand, Mr. Calderon," he said smoothly, as if suddenly sympathetic. "Then how about this: forty million euros is the transfer fee for Maicon, clean and clear."
"And?"
Arthur leaned forward slightly, the smile never leaving his voice. "Then, I loan Sneijder from Real Madrid for two million until the end of the season. Starting in the summer window, I purchase him outright for five million more. During the loan period, his wages are fully covered by Leeds United. It's neat. Your board won't complain — they're not losing ten million in one go, and Real saves on salary too."
Calderon didn't respond right away.
On the other end of the line, Arthur leaned back in his chair again, steepling his fingers. He let the silence hang, confident that it was working. Calderon had been outplayed every step of the way in this transfer saga — and now he was being offered a path to save face.
Calderon, meanwhile, stared blankly at the wall of his office, replaying the numbers in his head. It did make sense. On paper, it wasn't a loss — it was a loan followed by a fair sale. The board wouldn't blink. Capello would get his right-back. And Calderon, for once, would walk out of a deal with his dignity intact.
He tapped his desk with a pen, weighing the last fragments of pride he had against the reality of the situation. Then, with a deep breath, he spoke.
"Hm... let me think about it."
Arthur didn't say a word. He knew that tone. That wasn't the sound of a man thinking — that was a man conceding, inch by inch.
Thirty seconds passed. Forty.
Then Calderon finally said, "Mr. Morgan... I believe we have a deal."
Arthur didn't gloat. Not outwardly, anyway.
"I'm pleased to hear that."
"At the latest, next week," Calderon continued, "I'll send someone to Leeds to meet with Mr. Allen and sign the contract."
Arthur smiled, but this time with genuine satisfaction.
"Perfect. I look forward to it."