Allen was always frighteningly good at execution. Give him a job, and before you even had time to check the clock, he'd be back with a neat report tied up with a bow. Arthur sometimes joked that if Allen had been in the military, he'd have risen through the ranks purely on his ability to get things done before the coffee went cold.
So, when Ron handed Allen the tasks Arthur had set, Arthur knew it was only a matter of time before his office door would be flung open with fresh intel. And, right on cue, it happened a few days later.
At the time, Arthur was alone in his office, poring over scouting reports and tactical breakdowns of their next opponent. The main squad hadn't reassembled yet from the holiday break, so Simeone and Rivaldo had been saddled with training duties. Arthur didn't mind; those two were like drill sergeants in football boots, so he could trust them to bark orders and crack whips while he strategized in peace.
Monday morning of the second week, as Arthur adjusted his notes with a pen between his teeth, the door suddenly burst open with a loud knock that wasn't waiting for permission.
"Boss!" Allen marched in like a man with treasure, his grin stretching ear to ear. He plopped himself into the chair opposite Arthur with all the energy of someone about to deliver great news. "You're really well-informed. You called it exactly right."
Arthur leaned back, removing the pen from his mouth. He smirked knowingly, though inside he was burning with curiosity. "Oh? What have you dug up this time, Allen? Don't tell me you've already managed to read Mancini's diary."
Allen chuckled, leaning in conspiratorially. "Not the diary, but close. I got someone to reach out to Giorgis—Mancini's agent. According to him, there's no renewal agreement yet between Mancini and Inter. They're still negotiating, but it's tough going."
Arthur's eyes lit up. "Oh? Interesting. What's the sticking point? Don't tell me they've fallen out over who gets the last biscotti at the café."
Allen grinned, clearly enjoying himself. "Nope, it's exactly what you'd expect. Giorgis thinks Mancini deserves a raise. He's won two league titles with Inter, after all, so in his view, the contract should reflect that."
Arthur leaned back and let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Two titles, my arse! Those weren't exactly earned on the pitch. If anything, the Italian Football Association handed those trophies over on a silver platter."
There was a bite in his tone, but also amusement. It was the kind of laugh that comes when you spot a con artist trying to sell you your own watch.
Allen nodded knowingly, smirking. "Agents will be agents. Giorgis is just doing his job—stretching the truth to squeeze the last euro out of a deal. They all do it. Come on, boss, you've seen worse. Raiola makes Giorgis look like a saint. Hahaha!"
Arthur snorted, tossing his pen onto the desk. "You're right about that. If Raiola were negotiating this, he'd probably demand Inter hand over the San Siro along with a personal chef for Mario Balotelli."
Allen laughed so loudly he nearly tipped back in his chair. "Exactly! Giorgis is just a warm-up act compared to him."
Arthur leaned forward, elbows on the desk, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. "Still, the fact they're haggling at all is good news for us. It means there's tension. Moratti isn't the type to let himself be held hostage by an agent's demands. If he feels Mancini's trying to squeeze him too hard, he might just decide to cut ties after the season ends."
Allen nodded, tapping a finger against the armrest. "That's exactly what I thought. And given how the last two titles came about, Moratti might secretly think Mancini's been riding his luck rather than actually masterminding anything. That gap between perception and reality could be our window."
Arthur grinned. "Exactly. Moratti's a proud man. He won't let himself be strong-armed. And once Mancini's on shaky ground, Balotelli becomes vulnerable."
The two men sat in silence for a moment, both of them savoring the implications.
Arthur leaned back, folding his arms. "You know what's funny? Agents never change. Doesn't matter if it's Giorgis, Raiola, or any other smooth talker—they all act like the entire football world owes their client a fortune. They puff up every achievement like it's the Second Coming. Mancini won a cup here, a league there, and suddenly Giorgis wants to crown him emperor."
Allen chuckled. "That's the business, boss. If managers or players did their own negotiating, maybe things would look different. But once the agents are in charge, every trophy is treated like the Holy Grail."
Arthur smirked again, shaking his head. "Two titles, eh? The first one fell in Inter's lap because Juventus got nuked in Calciopoli, and Milan were docked so many points they might as well have started the season in negative numbers. That wasn't a title win; that was a charity handout. The only real trophies Mancini's earned are the domestic cups."
Allen raised an eyebrow. "And last season?"
Arthur scoffed. "Last season? Roma were their only competition. Sure, Palermo tried to crash the party for a while, but they fizzled out by Christmas. From January on, it was a one-horse race. Mancini could've coached blindfolded, and Inter still would've walked away with it. Twenty-two points clear in the end. What kind of title race is that? That's not a triumph—it's a monopoly."
Allen laughed again, holding up his hands. "Fair enough. But try telling that to Giorgis. According to him, Mancini practically reinvented Italian football."
Arthur groaned, rubbing his temples. "And Inter are buying it? I swear, football agents are like magicians—they wave a few trophies in your face and suddenly everyone forgets how they actually came about."
Allen shrugged. "To be fair, Moratti's not completely blind. That's why negotiations are dragging. He doesn't want to pay Mancini like he's a revolutionary when, in reality, the man's just been babysitting the strongest squad in the league."
Arthur chuckled again, more softly this time, his mind already racing ahead. "Which is why we need to keep the pressure on. If Inter and Mancini keep butting heads, that divorce will come sooner rather than later. And when it does…" He let the words hang in the air, his grin widening. "We'll be right there to scoop up Balotelli."
Allen leaned forward, a sly smile on his face. "So, boss, do we play the waiting game, or do you want me to keep poking around and stirring the pot?"
Arthur smirked. "Both. Keep your ear to the ground. The more we know about these talks, the better prepared we'll be. But don't interfere directly—we don't want to spook anyone. Just… keep feeding me the cracks in the foundation."
Allen nodded firmly, already reaching for his phone again. "Consider it done."
Arthur leaned back in his chair once more, folding his hands behind his head. The pieces were lining up nicely. Mancini's contract negotiations were turning messy, Giorgis was overplaying his hand, and Moratti's patience was bound to wear thin.
For Arthur, it was perfect. Because when managers fell, players often followed—and he already knew which player he wanted most.
*****
Arthur tapped the side of his coffee mug with the back of his pen, his eyes still glued to the screen in front of him. Numbers, scouting reports, and tactical diagrams floated across his vision like a mess of arrows and dots threatening to jump off the page. He was deep in thought when Allen, his ever-efficient right-hand man, leaned forward in the chair opposite him.
"But for us, this is actually a good thing," Arthur said, his voice snapping with energy as he looked up. The smirk tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed the wheels spinning in his mind. "Let's do it this way. Keep a very close eye on those negotiations between Moratti and Mancini. Don't wait for them to send out a press release or for the papers to plaster it on the back pages. The second you see confirmation—hell, even if you just sense it's happening—I want us to move. Go straight to Inter with an offer for Balotelli. As for the price…" Arthur paused for effect, then jabbed the pen in the air. "Start with nine million euros. No more. That's plenty. We don't need to be generous."
Allen's mouth fell open, then twitched into a grimace. "Uh… boss, nine million? Isn't that… well, a bit too cheap?" He already looked as though he'd swallowed a lemon, bracing himself for Arthur's answer.
"How the hell is that cheap!?" Arthur barked, sitting upright with mock outrage. He slapped the desk for emphasis, rattling his coffee mug. "He's seventeen! Seventeen, Allen! And let's be honest here—he's got the talent of a god from the neck down, but from the neck up? There's a high chance his brain is still buffering. Nine million is generous in my book."
Allen opened his mouth but Arthur cut him off with a raised hand. "Allen, my boy, let me talk some sense into you. Where I come from, thrift is not just good sense—it's practically a virtue. A sacred art. You don't throw money around just to look flashy. You buy low, you sell high, and you do it with a smile. And as general manager of Leeds United, I'd very much like it if you'd embrace this noble way of thinking."
Allen blinked at him, stunned into silence. His wide eyes said it all: he couldn't believe his boss was dressing up penny-pinching as though it were an ancient philosophy. He leaned back in his chair, muttering under his breath. "Unbelievable… he actually made ripping people off sound righteous. You've even got the speech rehearsed, boss. Amazing."
Arthur ignored him, adjusting his collar like a man who had just delivered a sermon.
Still, Allen wasn't ready to give up. He leaned forward again, lowering his voice cautiously. "But at that price, I really don't think Inter are going to bite."
Arthur waved his hand confidently, as though brushing the thought aside. "Don't worry. If Mancini is still in charge, then sure—forget nine million, we'd probably have to sell half the stadium and throw in a lifetime supply of tea just to get him for ninety million.
But if it becomes clear Mancini isn't staying? That changes everything. Moratti will have to think practically. Balotelli might be his golden boy, but if the manager's out the door and the club's focus shifts, our nine million suddenly looks a lot more tempting than it should."
Allen studied Arthur for a moment, then sighed, throwing his hands up. He'd seen that look before—the gleam in Arthur's eye when he knew he was onto something. Once the boss reached that level of conviction, arguing was pointless. Best to just note it down and let the madness unfold.
"Fine," Allen muttered, pulling out his phone to record the instructions. He typed quickly, his fingers moving with the precision of a stenographer at a trial.
Arthur watched with satisfaction. Another seed planted. Another plan in motion.
When Allen finished, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and straightened up. "That's noted. Now, the second thing you asked me to look into the other day—I've put together a summary."
Arthur raised an eyebrow, curiosity flaring again. He finally pulled his eyes away from the laptop screen and fixed them on Allen. "Go on then. Let's hear it."
Allen scrolled through his notes, speaking slowly. "I don't know how much you already know about Manchester City's current owner. He's not actually in England right now—he's working as a visiting professor at some university in Japan. Since buying the club, he's kept a very low profile. Rarely makes public appearances."
Arthur pursed his lips, considering this. "To be honest? I know next to nothing about him. Only that he's wealthy, dabbling in politics, and somehow thought Manchester City would make a good pet project. That's about it. What about the fans? Any discontent there? He's been absent a long time, hasn't he?"
Allen shook his head. "Not really. You know how fans are—winning solves a lot of problems. City's been busy in the summer transfer window. They practically rebuilt their squad. The new owner's poured money in, and that's all most fans care about. Results on the pitch and new signings to get excited about."
Arthur grunted, leaning back in his chair. "Fair enough. Money and shiny players will keep them quiet for now. Keep watching, though. If anything changes—politics, finances, whatever—I want to know about it. Otherwise, don't waste too much time. Get back to the real work." He flicked his hand dismissively, already turning back to the screen in front of him.
"Alright, boss." Allen tucked his phone away. But he didn't leave. He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, like a man working up the courage to break bad news.
Arthur noticed the awkward pause. He didn't look up, just muttered, "What is it now?"
Allen cleared his throat. "Well… did you happen to watch the friendly match last night?"
Arthur froze, his pen hovering midair. He slowly turned his head, narrowing his eyes at Allen as if the man had just mentioned a cursed word. "Friendly match?" The way he spat the phrase out made it sound like an insult. "Allen… don't you dare tell me we've got another Sun Jihai situation on our hands." His voice was sharp, brimming with the kind of dread that comes only from bad memories.
Allen raised both hands quickly. "No, no, nothing like that. Nothing remotely close to the disaster from before."
Arthur relaxed slightly, but his relief lasted all of half a second. Because then Allen added, in a quieter voice, "That said… there are still a few injuries. Minor ones. Nothing catastrophic, but enough to be a headache."
Arthur's face darkened instantly. "Minor injuries? All minor?" He repeated the phrase like he was testing its strength, waiting for it to crumble.
Allen nodded, his expression apologetic. "Yeah. We got several faxes this morning, all from different football associations. Injury reports across the board." He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Individually, none of them are devastating. But together… well, let's just say the timing could be better."
Arthur dropped his pen onto the desk with a loud clatter. His stomach sank with that old familiar weight. Minor injuries or not, the words still carried the same bitter taste.
"Bloody friendlies," Arthur muttered, rubbing his temples. "Every year it's the same story—clubs bending over backwards for international duty and getting their lads sent back with bandages as souvenirs. Wonderful. Just wonderful."
Allen stayed quiet, wisely choosing not to prod further while Arthur's temper simmered.