Arthur sat in the post-match press conference room, still riding that electric afterglow only victory at Old Trafford could give. The air smelled faintly of coffee and sweat, microphones buzzed in front of him, and camera flashes popped like tiny lightning bolts. He leaned back in his chair, one hand resting casually on the table, a confident grin stretching across his face. Leeds United had just taken three points off Manchester United in their own fortress — and Arthur wasn't going to hide how much he enjoyed that.

The first question came quickly, shouted from a reporter near the front.

"Arthur! Many pundits predicted before kickoff that Leeds United would lose tonight. What do you think about those comments?"

Arthur didn't even blink. He gave a half-smile, tapped the microphone, and said in his usual dry, unbothered tone, "Sorry, I don't really spend much time worrying about what outsiders say. I only care about what my players think, and what our fans think. As for everyone else's opinions—" he paused, letting the cameras zoom in, "—I don't read them. And even if I accidentally see them, I have a very special skill."

The reporters leaned forward, curious.

Arthur smirked. "Selective ignorance."

Laughter rippled through the press room. He shrugged, the picture of smug composure. "I just focus on my team. The rest is noise."

Another journalist jumped in before the laughter faded. "So you're obviously pleased with the result, right? Any special message for your players?"

Arthur nodded, eyes twinkling. "Of course I'm happy. This is exactly what hard work earns you. The lads fought for every ball, executed the plan, and refused to back down even when Old Trafford was roaring against them. We deserved this win — every bit of it."

He sat forward slightly, fingers tapping the table rhythmically. "People always like to talk about luck, referees, tactics… but tonight, it was simply willpower. You could feel it from the bench — that refusal to surrender. That's what makes this team special."

The next question came from a journalist clutching a notebook thick with scribbles. "Arthur, about the upcoming schedule — Leeds have a very congested fixture list, Premier League, Champions League, and the League Cup all piling up. How will you manage the rotation?"

Arthur chuckled, glancing at the ceiling as if deciding how much truth he wanted to share. "Well," he said at last, "although I don't really care about paying fines, I'd better watch what I say here." He gave the cameras a playful squint, pretending to measure them with his eyes. "Let's just say… if I were to describe our fixture schedule using my eyes, it would look something like this—"

He rolled them dramatically skyward, shaking his head. The room burst into laughter.

"The truth is," Arthur continued, grinning again, "the schedule's brutal. We've faced the strongest clubs in the league back-to-back while juggling Champions League and domestic cup games. But you know what? We've survived it. And now, some of my players will finally get a well-deserved rest. That's my gift to them — a little vacation. They've earned it."

The cameras clicked rapidly, catching the Leeds manager in full, charismatic flow.

Then came the question that made him pause.

"Arthur," one reporter asked, leaning forward, "you praised your players — but what about Cristiano Ronaldo? How would you rate his performance tonight?"

Arthur had been halfway out of his seat, ready to wrap up the session. But the mention of Ronaldo made him stop mid-movement, sit back down, and rest his elbows on the table. His expression changed — not mocking this time, but measured, thoughtful. The journalists sensed it immediately; their pens hovered in anticipation.

He leaned into the microphone, voice steady. "Cristiano?" he said, with the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "He's brilliant. Truly brilliant. I mean that."

He gestured with one hand, as if replaying the goal in his head. "That first goal Manchester United scored — I watched it from the touchline. Cristiano practically tore our right flank apart single-handedly. His control, acceleration, the confidence… it was pure genius. Honestly, if it weren't for him, I don't think the match would've been that difficult for us. He changed everything with just one run."

Arthur chuckled softly. "Sometimes, I really do envy Alex. I have no idea where he keeps finding these geniuses. Maybe he's got a factory somewhere."

The room laughed again, but the tone had shifted — it wasn't sarcasm this time. There was something almost sincere in Arthur's words. He knew brilliance when he saw it, and tonight Ronaldo had given him plenty of reasons to notice.

A few minutes later, the press officer gave the usual signal — time was up. Arthur stood, adjusted his jacket, and offered one last nod to the room. "Alright, gentlemen, that's enough trouble for one night."

He turned to leave, but the Ronaldo quote lingered like perfume in the air. Reporters whispered to each other, already crafting headlines.

Moments later, Sir Alex Ferguson walked into the same press room for his post-match conference. He looked tired, frustrated, but still carried that iron authority that always seemed to silence a room. He took his seat, straightened his tie, and gave a tight smile.

"Right," he said curtly, "let's get on with it."

But he hadn't even finished adjusting his microphone when a reporter raised his hand and spoke up.

"Sir Alex, just before you came in, Arthur from Leeds praised Cristiano's performance and said he was, quote, 'really great,' and that sometimes he envies you for having such a genius in your squad. Any thoughts on that?"

Ferguson blinked. His face tightened slightly.

He gave a quick, polite smile, but his brow furrowed. "He said that, did he?"

The reporter nodded eagerly. "Yes, and quite sincerely, too."

For a brief moment, Ferguson didn't respond. He sat back in his chair, expression thoughtful, a crease forming between his brows. He looked off to the side, as if mentally calculating something.

Inside his head, alarm bells were ringing.

Damn it, he thought. It was Real Madrid last month. Now even Arthur's talking about him like that…

That creeping sense of unease — the one only managers feel when their superstar starts attracting admiring glances — began to stir. Ferguson's lips thinned.

Was Ronaldo's head being turned?

He forced himself to focus as another reporter asked a question about United's missed chances, but his answers came distractedly, automatic, like his mind was elsewhere. His famous sharpness was gone, replaced by that nagging thought he couldn't shake.

By the time the press conference ended, Ferguson's decision was already forming. As he stood and gathered his notes, one thing was clear.

Once he got back to Carrington, he'd be calling Ronaldo's agent first thing in the morning.

A new contract — and quickly.

Because when even Arthur starts praising your star like that, you know trouble's coming.

******

Arthur didn't even wait a full day to enjoy the sweet taste of victory before returning to business. The morning papers were still wet with ink celebrating Leeds United's dramatic 2–1 triumph at Old Trafford, but Arthur had already shown up at Thorp Arch, the club's training base, just after lunch. Most managers would have slept in, basked in the glory, or at least pretended to take a day off. Not him. When ambition burned like his, rest was a myth.

Alan, his loyal assistant, was already there when Arthur arrived. He knew the boss well enough to realize something was brewing the moment he saw that familiar glint of mischief in Arthur's eyes. After brewing a pot of tea—properly, because Arthur was a stickler for that—Alan carried it over to where his boss sat, cross-legged on the couch like a man plotting a coup rather than managing a football club.

"Boss," Alan said with a grin, setting the cup down, "if you had something important to discuss, you could've just called me to your office. Why come here in person?"

Arthur waved a dismissive hand. "Don't talk nonsense. I'm technically on vacation right now. If I go to the office, that's work. But if I'm sitting here—" he raised his cup with mock seriousness, "—that's leisure."

Alan blinked, trying to keep a straight face. "Ah, of course," he said, chuckling. "Leisure. Got it."

Arthur smirked, clearly pleased with his own logic. "Good. Now that we've established I'm relaxing, let's talk business."

Alan sat up a little straighter. "So, what brings you to the base today? Something serious?"

Arthur leaned back, his grin widening. "Quite serious, actually. Tell me, Alan, have you read today's papers?"

"I have," Alan said, looking puzzled. "Why?"

"Ah." Arthur took a deliberate sip of his tea, savoring the flavor and the suspense. "Because apparently, I caused a bit of a stir at the post-match press conference yesterday. I said a few kind words about Ronaldo, and this morning, the media decided to turn it into a love letter."

Alan's eyes widened slightly as the memory clicked into place. "Oh right… right! I saw those headlines. They're saying you're interested in signing him, aren't they?"

Arthur set down his cup and smiled like a man who'd just been accused of something he absolutely had done but would never admit to. "Interested? Alan, you make it sound like I'm gossiping about a celebrity crush. Let's just say… yesterday's game gave me a new appreciation for him. The boy's matured. He's no longer just a show pony doing step-overs for the cameras. Ferguson's trained him well. He's sharper now. More efficient. More… dangerous."

Alan tilted his head. "So you really are planning to poach him?"

Arthur widened his eyes, feigning outrage. "Poach? What an ugly word. I'm not stealing anyone's player! I'm simply… considering a future business opportunity."

Alan couldn't help laughing. "Right. A business opportunity named Cristiano Ronaldo."

"Exactly!" Arthur said, pointing at him with mock pride. "Now you're catching on."

Alan chuckled but then asked cautiously, "So… you want me to make an offer?"

"Don't even think about it," Arthur said immediately, waving his hand as if batting away a fly. "If we make a move now, Ferguson will slam the door in our faces. Worse, he'll panic and throw a massive new contract at Ronaldo just to spite us. Then we'll be looking at a transfer fee the size of the GDP of a small country."

He paused, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against his teacup. His expression hardened into one of quiet calculation—the kind that made Alan's stomach twist, because whenever Arthur looked like that, something big was about to happen.

"Here's the real issue," Arthur continued. "Even if we get past Ferguson, Ronaldo himself isn't easy. His head's already in Madrid. That's the real battle."

Alan nodded slowly. He knew this part of football all too well—the silent tug-of-war that happened off the pitch, the one fought with whispers, agents, and money instead of tactics and goals.

Arthur leaned forward, voice dropping. "Real Madrid's been circling for months. They've already contacted Mendes, his agent, and it's no secret Ronaldo wants to leave England. He's practically admitted it in interviews—though he tries to deny it when Ferguson's around. But the desire's there. I can see it. The boy wants the spotlight, and Madrid's offering him the entire stage."

He paused, looking thoughtful, then added casually, "Alan, how well do you know Mendes?"

Alan frowned. "Mendes? We've met, of course, but I wouldn't say we're close."

"Hmm." Arthur tapped his chin. "That's a shame. Because I think it's time we got a bit closer."

Alan blinked. "You mean…?"

Arthur's grin returned, sharper this time. "We ask him out."

"Ask him out?" Alan repeated, confused.

"Yes," Arthur said, as if explaining something obvious. "Invite him for dinner, maybe a glass of wine, a friendly chat about the weather, the market… and perhaps a few of our promising young players who could use a good agent. While we're at it, we let him… you know."

Alan squinted. "You mean 'blow the wind,' don't you?"

"Exactly!" Arthur snapped his fingers. "You're learning. We let him blow the wind toward Ronaldo's ear—subtly, of course. Something like, 'You know, Leeds has a bright future, Arthur's building a dynasty, and wouldn't it be poetic for you to lead them into glory?' That sort of thing."

Alan gave a skeptical look. "But boss… what about Raiola? He's already managing some of our youth players. If he finds out we're cozying up to Mendes, won't that cause trouble?"

Arthur waved him off. "Raiola's a pragmatist. He knows how this game works. As long as we're winning and his clients are thriving, he won't turn his back on us. If he does, well… that just means I overestimated his intelligence."

Alan laughed quietly, shaking his head. "You make it sound so simple."

"It is simple," Arthur said with a wink. "Football may be played on grass, but the real game happens in rooms like this—over tea and conversation. Now, give Mendes a call. Tell him I want to meet him. Don't mention Ronaldo outright. Just say I've got some time on my hands and fancy a little trip."

Alan nodded, already pulling out his phone. "Alright, boss. I'll be subtle."

"Good," Arthur said, standing up and stretching, as if the entire discussion had been a casual chat about lunch plans rather than a plot to snatch one of the world's brightest stars from under Ferguson's nose. "Let's make this interesting, shall we?"

As Alan dialed Mendes' number, Arthur turned back to his teacup, finishing the last sip with a small, satisfied smile. The hunt, it seemed, had already begun.