"Boss, don't leave in such a hurry!"

Arthur was halfway down the corridor, a tactical clipboard tucked under his arm, whistling a mangled version of "Don't Stop Believin'," when a breathless voice echoed behind him.

He turned around with a raised brow just in time to see Allen jogging up like he was chasing a train, waving a thick bundle of papers like it owed him money.

"Whoa, whoa, easy there," Arthur said, holding out a hand like he was calming down a charging bull. "It's barely 9 AM. Did someone light the office on fire?"

Allen finally skidded to a halt in front of him, hair slightly askew, glasses fogged up, and a fresh bead of sweat dripping down his temple. "Boss, scouting report," he wheezed, shoving the folder into Arthur's hands. "Ron's latest. Just got it in from last month."

Arthur took the bundle and gave it a casual flip-through, the papers flapping like bored birds. "Anything good?"

"There's a kid from Tottenham he really likes," Allen said, still panting. "Ron says we should snap him up quick before Spurs realize what they've got."

Arthur gave a slow blink. "Tottenham? Interesting. I'll give it a proper look later. But is it just one kid? You chased me down like we were signing the next Messi."

"Wait, boss, there's more!" Allen raised a finger dramatically, looking like a man who wasn't finished saving the world.

Arthur sighed, glancing wistfully toward the training pitch outside. "Of course there is. Alright, hit me."

Allen flicked through a few more pages in his tablet and straightened up. "Remember the two young midfielders you were adamant about? The ones we've been chasing forever?"

Arthur nodded slowly. "Casemiro and Kroos. Yeah, What about them?"

Allen smiled like a man holding winning lottery numbers. "The clubs finally agreed to sell."

Arthur's jaw dropped. "Seriously?! Finally! I thought I'd have to grow a beard and wait until retirement before Bayern gave in!"

"But" Allen raised both hands defensively. "There's a catch. The fees… kinda overshot your original budget."

Arthur squinted at him. "How overshot?"

"Well," Allen began cautiously, "São Paulo wants €1 million for Casemiro. Not too bad, all things considered. He's still got a couple more years till he's able to play."

"That's fine," Arthur nodded. "That's pocket change in football terms."

"But Bayern… they want €5 million for Kroos."

Arthur froze, then slowly turned to stare at Allen like he'd just confessed to kidnapping his cat.

" Five Million. For a seventeen-year-old?"

Allen coughed. "Beckenbauer said he's special."

Arthur muttered under his breath. "Special? For that price, he better be able to bend space-time and pass the ball to another galaxy."

He glanced down at the scouting folder again, then gave a helpless little chuckle. "You know what? Screw it. Let's do it. Have Ron fly out to Brazil, get Casemiro's deal signed ASAP. You, get ready to fly to Munich."

Allen raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Arthur grinned. "If Bayern wants to rob us blind now, they can cry later when we charge them £80 million for a retired Luke Ayling."

Allen nodded quickly. "Got it. I'll get everything sorted."

"Also," Arthur added, turning as he resumed walking toward the pitch, "send the lads' profiles to Miguel."

"Real Sociedad Miguel?" Allen asked, already tapping on his phone.

"Yup. Tell him I'll loan both of them to him next season," Arthur said. "We'll cover the wages. All I ask is that they get real playing time. No benchwarming."

Allen gave a thumbs up and jogged off, already dialing.

Arthur, satisfied, stepped out into the crisp morning air of the Thorp Arch training ground. The grass glistened with dew under the golden light. Players were scattered across the pitch doing warmups, while the coaches yelled encouragement and pointed at cones like generals overseeing a battlefield.

He took a moment to breathe it all in—top of the Premier League, Champions League next week, and now the future of his midfield was finally sorted.

His phone buzzed just as he reached the edge of the pitch.

"Yeah?" he answered without looking.

Simeone, standing nearby with a clipboard of his own, called over. "Boss, I've got something for you."

Arthur turned, eyebrows raised.

Simeone walked over and handed him a single piece of paper.

"Is this kid the one Ron was so high on?" he asked.

Arthur looked down at the paper—and that's where the moment paused.

*****

Arthur took the scouting report from Simeone and immediately chuckled when he glanced at the photo on the front page. That familiar goofy smile, like a labrador trying to look serious—yeah, it could only be one person.

"Isn't this the future England golden boy? The one who always looks like he's apologizing for scoring? What a face," Arthur muttered, grinning as he flipped through the pages. "Ron's really got a knack for this stuff."

It was a clean report—thorough, detailed, and full of praise for a certain fourteen-year-old lad from Tottenham's academy. Center forward, strong in the air, excellent technique, a great feel for link-up play. The only knock? Not the fastest sprinter. But at fourteen, who really cares?

Ron, their lead scout, had even scribbled a cheeky comment at the bottom: "This one's got the goods. Reminds me of a young Shearer, but nicer teeth."

Arthur leaned back in his chair, still chuckling. "Diego, what's your take?" he asked, tossing the report onto the coffee table in front of them.

Simeone, seated across with his arms folded, raised an eyebrow. "He's solid. Ron said his fundamentals are great, and the ball just kind of listens to him. He's not quick, but he's got a good football brain. I think we should let Thomas work with him a bit. See how he holds up in training."

Arthur nodded, rubbing his chin. "Yeah. He's only fourteen, but already 1.8 meters tall? What's he been eating, stilts?"

Simeone smirked. "British beef and baked beans, probably."

"Well," Arthur said, reaching for his phone. "Let's have Alan ring up Daniel Levy and get the ball rolling."

After a quick lunch break, Arthur didn't head back to the training pitch like he normally would. Instead, he handed off the afternoon session to Simeone and planted himself in his office, hunched in front of his computer with a tall mug of coffee and a playlist of tactical headaches: Barcelona's recent match footage.

He had a looming Champions League clash on his mind, and unlike league games, this one wasn't just about three points. It was a bloody chess match against one of Europe's most elegant executioners.

If you only looked at recent form, Arthur's Leeds United had the upper hand. Two wins on the bounce, confident squad, everyone more or less healthy. Meanwhile, Barcelona had just taken a hit in their last away game. Seemed promising, right?

But then Arthur opened the footage from that very game. And the moment he noticed Xavi, Deco, and Ronaldinho all warming the bench, he groaned out loud.

"Typical bloody Dutchman," he muttered. "Resting his entire orchestra just for us."

Frank Rijkaard had clearly treated that league match like a throwaway warm-up for the real showdown in Europe. That explained the loss. Arthur immediately closed the video. No point analyzing a Barcelona team without their spine. It was like judging a lion by watching it sleep.

So far, 23 rounds into La Liga, Barça were toe-to-toe with Sevilla at the top, only leading by goal difference—just like Arthur's own lads in the Premier League. But make no mistake: they were the real deal.

Arthur took a long sip from his mug, now lukewarm, and sighed. The sunlight pouring through the blinds told him the afternoon had slipped by unnoticed. Outside, the training ground was quiet, the players done and dusted. He stretched, cracking his back, and stepped away from the desk.

Slumping onto the leather couch, he lit a cigarette—his guilty little stress relief—and leaned back, rubbing his temples. For the last three hours, he'd devoured every Champions League match Barcelona had played so far. And one thing was clear:

They might've only qualified second in their group, but they were still terrifying.

"Bloody hell…" he muttered, smoke curling above his head.

Rijkaard's go-to this season was a fluid 4-3-3 formation. And just like Arthur, the man had capitalized on Juventus' summer implosion after the infamous Calciopoli scandal.

Zambrotta and Thuram—both scooped up from Juve—had slotted perfectly into Barcelona's defense. Experience, stability, and just enough flair to keep things ticking. Between the two of them, they'd cleaned up a lot of the defensive mess that had plagued Barça the previous season.

Arthur had to give credit where it was due: Barcelona had only conceded 20 goals in La Liga so far—second-best in the league. Only Capello's Real Madrid were better, and even then, by a single goal.

Then there was the midfield. The stuff of nightmares.

Deco—one of the most intelligent midfielders in the game. Xavi—passing machine and metronome. Ronaldinho—an artist with the ball, capable of doing things that defied physics and reason.

Arthur let out a low whistle. "And that's just the midfield. Don't even get me started on the front three…"

Barcelona's attack was pure chaos in the best way—pace, creativity, positional fluidity. The kind of movement that made defenders look like traffic cones. There were no obvious weak spots. No gaps to exploit. No lazy fullbacks to target or slow midfielders to overwhelm.

He dragged on the cigarette, holding the smoke in for a few seconds, then exhaled slowly. His mind ticked through possible counters—maybe packing the midfield? Pressing high? Sitting deep and trying to counter?

None of it felt foolproof.

He flicked the ash into the tray and muttered aloud, "There's no flaw in this…"

*****

Bang, bang, bang…

The sound of knuckles rapping on the office door jolted Arthur out of his spiral of thoughts. He blinked and glanced at the wall clock. This late in the day, there was only one person who usually came knocking: Allen.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair with a curious smirk.

"Allen? Come in!" he called out.

But the man who strolled through the door wasn't Allen at all. Instead, it was Rivaldo—flashing that iconic grin, complete with gleaming white teeth and an air of calm mischief.

Arthur froze for a second, utterly baffled.

Rivaldo?

Now that was unexpected. This guy was practically a magician when it came to disappearing right after training. Blink and he'd be gone, probably halfway to the nearest steakhouse or watching Brazilian soap operas somewhere. What on earth was he doing in Arthur's office voluntarily and—at this hour?

"Ferreira?" Arthur said, gesturing toward the sofa. "You sure you're not lost, mate? This isn't the break room."

Rivaldo let out a small chuckle and plopped down casually on the couch like he owned the place.

"I come bearing news," he said, suddenly looking uncharacteristically serious. "Something important."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. Now he was really curious. Was this a prank? Did someone mess up the training schedule? Or maybe Rivaldo just wanted to negotiate a clause that allowed mid-match coffee breaks?

"Alright, let's hear it," Arthur said, lacing his fingers together as he leaned forward. "Hit me."

Rivaldo took a deep breath and said, "Boss, I've decided. I'm going to retire at the end of the season."

For a moment, Arthur just stared at him.

"…You what?"

"I'm going to retire," Rivaldo repeated, calmer this time, but with a conviction in his tone that made Arthur sit up straighter.

Arthur blinked, trying to make sense of what he'd just heard. This wasn't completely out of the blue—he and Simeone had half-joked about it before. Rivaldo had once mentioned retirement after a light training session, casually tossing around the idea of joining Arthur's coaching staff after he hung up his boots. Simeone had brought it up to Arthur later, and Arthur—thinking it was all banter—had readily promised Rivaldo a spot on his staff.

But still. That had felt like locker room chatter.

Now here was Rivaldo, sitting across from him, talking like he'd already written his farewell letter.

Arthur leaned back, rubbing his chin. "You sure about this? You're still moving well. Hell, you've still got a better first touch than half the Premier League midfielders."

"I've thought it through," Rivaldo said, his voice low and steady. "In the last few games I've played, I've felt… good, sure. But not sharp. My body's not what it used to be. I'm running more on experience than instinct now. I used to glide across the pitch. Now I feel like I'm dragging a suitcase."

Arthur snorted. "A suitcase full of assists, maybe."

Rivaldo grinned briefly, but his eyes stayed serious. "Experience still has value, boss. Maybe not on the pitch—but off it? That's where I want to be next."

Arthur gave a slow nod, absorbing it all. "I get it," he said finally. "But if you really feel that way, why not hang around for another year? Be a mentor, ease into it. No pressure, no rush."

But Rivaldo shook his head, cutting him off with surprising firmness. "Boss, I appreciate it. Truly. But I've made up my mind. This season will be my last as a player."

Arthur let out a sigh, scratching the back of his head. The truth was, Rivaldo wasn't wrong. With Sneijder back in the squad and the younger midfielders charging up the ranks like caffeine-fueled gazelles, Rivaldo's role had become more of a veteran firefighter—someone you turned to when things got messy and you needed a wise head.

Still, it was hard to accept that one of the most elegant players he'd ever coached was walking away.

"Alright," Arthur said at last. "If your mind's made up, I won't try to change it. What are your plans then? Heading back to Brazil to open a beach bar? Or sticking around to torment the lads in training as a coach?"

Rivaldo chuckled, the tension in the room easing.

"Leeds United, of course!" he said, puffing out his chest with mock pride. "You think I'd abandon you and let Simeone run things alone? Not a chance."

Arthur burst out laughing. "Oh please, don't flatter yourself. I can pay your wages in sandwiches."

Rivaldo grinned, but then his expression shifted again. His smile faded, replaced by something far more serious. He leaned forward, eyes locking onto Arthur's like he was about to hand over the secret to the Holy Grail.

"But boss… before I go, there's one thing I need from you."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "This sounds ominous."

"I still have one regret," Rivaldo said quietly, the weight of his words settling over the room. "One thing I've never accomplished in my career. And I want you to help me finish it."

Arthur tilted his head, intrigued. "What is it? Finally getting to play as a striker?"

Rivaldo didn't laugh. He just kept his gaze steady.

Arthur sat forward. Whatever it was, he could tell this wasn't just about football. It was personal.

"You've got my attention," Arthur said. "So what's this regret of yours?"