Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

Four days later, under the blazing Middle Eastern sun, a much-rotated Leeds United side took care of business with quiet efficiency. Arthur had rested several of his key players, trusting his bench to finish the job, and they did just that.

With a narrow but controlled 1–0 victory over Maccabi Haifa, Leeds completed the job with an aggregate score of 5–0, comfortably booking their place in the Champions League group stage. The match itself wasn't flashy—Leeds were professional, composed, and rarely troubled. Arthur stood on the touchline, arms folded and sunglasses on, as his players calmly managed the game. The mission was clear: get in, get out, and don't pick up any injuries.

While Arthur and the team enjoyed their sun-soaked stay in the Middle East, soaking in rays and sipping cool drinks in between light training sessions, things back home were far less relaxing—at least for some managers.

The second round of the Premier League kicked off that same week, but one of its most anticipated fixtures—Leeds United vs Arsenal—had to be postponed until mid-December due to Leeds' Champions League commitments abroad. It was a smart call by the FA, but one that robbed fans of a potential early-season clash between two contenders.

Back in England, the media's attention turned elsewhere—and it landed squarely on one man: José Mourinho.

Chelsea had just suffered an embarrassing 2–1 loss away to Middlesbrough, and the press were out for blood.

The match had started well enough for Mourinho's side. Shevchenko, the high-profile striker, had put them ahead within the first 15 minutes. A beautiful finish, too—clinical and full of confidence. At that point, most watching expected a routine Chelsea victory.

But then, Mourinho's tactical conservatism took center stage. With 75 minutes still to play, Chelsea dropped back. Every player retreated behind the ball, forming Mourinho's signature defensive block. The message was clear: protect the lead, no matter what.

The problem? This wasn't an elite European side they were up against—it was Middlesbrough, a team firmly lodged in the middle of the Premier League table for years.

And Middlesbrough didn't sit back. They kept knocking, kept pushing. Slowly but surely, they crept closer. Finally, in the 79th minute, they broke through. An equalizer that sent the Riverside Stadium into chaos and left Chelsea scrambling.

Now rattled, Chelsea abandoned their original plan and surged forward, desperate for a winner. But in their rush, they left themselves exposed. And in stoppage time, disaster struck.

Viduka, sharp and opportunistic, seized on a mistake and slotted home a dramatic late goal. Just like that, Chelsea went from leading to losing.

The meltdown was complete.

At the post-match press conference, Mourinho didn't hold back. The media, already circling like vultures, asked sharp questions—why the ultra-defensive approach? Why not finish the game off when they had the chance?

Mourinho, never one to stay quiet, snapped.

One by one, he tore into every reporter who stood to question him, defending his tactics, his players, and his philosophy with fiery defiance. The "Special One" was now the "Mad One" in the headlines, and by the next morning, newspapers across the country were splashed with his outbursts.

Arthur, still in the Middle East, nearly dropped his drink when he watched the video clip of Mourinho's post-match meltdown.

Grinning, he muttered, "In terms of cursing out journalists, Mourinho's top three in Premier League history. No question."

The tension of European qualification now behind them, Arthur allowed himself a rare moment of ease. The hard part was done—Leeds had safely secured their Champions League group stage spot. The 1–0 win against Maccabi Haifa had sealed a 5–0 aggregate victory, and with it, entry into European football's biggest competition.

But while the players and coaching staff packed up for the return trip to England the next morning, Arthur had other plans.

Instead of heading home with the squad, he boarded a different flight—destination: Monaco.

That evening, the Champions League group stage draw ceremony was taking place, and although either Allen or Simeone could've represented Leeds, Arthur wasn't about to miss this opportunity.

"It's the Champions League!" he had said earlier to Simeone with a grin. "I've watched this draw every year on TV for as long as I can remember. Now I finally get to be part of it."

No way he was letting someone else take his seat.

He reunited with Allen in Monaco later that afternoon. Dressed in a sharp suit, Arthur took in the luxurious surroundings with wide eyes. It was surreal. Just a few years ago, Leeds United were languishing outside the spotlight, and now, here he was—shoulder to shoulder with Europe's elite.

The Champions League group stage draw was more than just a formality; it was a spectacle. Cameras, lights, UEFA officials, legends of the game—Arthur soaked in every second like a kid at a candy store.

The previous night's qualifying matches had confirmed the final list of 32 clubs for this season's competition. According to UEFA regulations, the teams would now be divided into four pots based on their historical performance and UEFA coefficients.

Leeds, having only just clawed their way back into Europe after years of absence, had no real European ranking to speak of. As expected, they were placed in Pot 4—alongside other low-seeded or debutant clubs.

Arthur didn't mind.

In fact, he liked it that way.

"Let the giants come," he said quietly to Allen as they found their seats inside the Grimaldi Forum. "We didn't fight our way back here just to play it safe."

Allen raised an eyebrow, then smirked. "Well, we're going to get our wish. Pot 4's practically an invitation to a 'Group of Death.'"

Arthur simply chuckled, leaning back in his chair, heart pounding beneath his calm exterior.

For now, there was nothing left to do but wait for the draw to begin.

****

After several hours packed into a long-haul flight, Arthur finally touched down in Monaco at around 4 p.m., weary but buzzing with anticipation. Once he linked up with Allen outside the terminal, the two didn't bother with any frills. They grabbed a quick bite at the airport café—mostly sandwiches and coffee—before jumping into a car and heading straight to the venue for the Champions League group stage draw.

Arthur had thought this would be a relatively low-key event. Maybe a few UEFA officials, a handful of coaches, and the usual press pack. Surely the real giants of European football wouldn't turn up just for the group stage draw, right?

That assumption was immediately proven wrong the moment he walked through the doors.

Right there in the front lobby, engaged in cheerful conversation, stood none other than Florentino Pérez—the unmistakable white-haired president of Real Madrid. And beside him, another distinguished gentleman who looked to be in his seventies, sharp in a navy suit, was nodding along intently.

Arthur blinked, caught off guard.

"Hi, Mr. Pérez!" he called out instinctively.

Florentino turned at the sound of his name. A brief look of surprise crossed his face, followed by a warm smile. "Ah! Mr. Morgan. I didn't expect to see you here."

He extended his hand as Arthur walked over, clearly amused. "What brings you to Monaco? Aren't you supposed to be with your squad back in England?"

Arthur gave a sheepish grin. "Well, it's my first time in the Champions League since taking over Leeds United. I figured if I'm going to be part of it, I should actually be here for the draw. Too big a moment to skip."

He then glanced at the older man standing beside Pérez, who seemed vaguely familiar but whose name escaped him.

"And you must be…?" Arthur asked, giving a polite nod.

Before Florentino could answer, the man extended his hand with a confident smile. "I'm Lennart Johansson. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morgan."

Arthur nearly jolted. Of course! Lennart Johansson—the Swedish titan who served as UEFA president for years and was widely respected across the footballing world.

He quickly took the offered hand, his tone shifting into one of mild embarrassment. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I didn't recognize you right away, Mr. Johansson."

The UEFA president laughed heartily. "No need to apologize. Happens more than you'd think."

Florentino, standing beside them, chuckled. "You're meeting royalty today, Arthur."

Johansson waved a hand and added, "Actually, I've heard quite a bit about you already—from Mr. Pérez himself. He tells me you're managing club operations and coaching the squad at the same time. That's not easy."

Arthur looked genuinely surprised. "He said that?"

"Well," Johansson smiled, "if I ever decide to swap administration for coaching, I'll know who to call."

Arthur laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "That might be the biggest compliment I've ever gotten in a suit."

Just then, one of the event organizers walked through the main hallway, gesturing toward the grand hall. "Ladies and gentlemen, the draw is about to begin. Please find your seats."

"Looks like it's showtime," Allen muttered beside him.

Arthur nodded and shook hands with Johansson and Pérez one more time before following Allen to their seats near the front.

The atmosphere inside was formal but electric. Camera crews hovered near the stage, the Champions League anthem gently hummed through the speakers, and large digital screens displayed the empty group slots.

They didn't have to wait long.

As the draw proceeded through its early stages, names started filling up the screen. Pot One, then Pot Two. It was during the third wave of selections that the host reached into the bowl, unfolded a small white slip, and announced with crisp clarity:

"Leeds United."

Arthur leaned forward slightly, eyes glued to the screen as the club's name was placed into Group C.

The draw continued, and one by one, the other teams in the group appeared.

PSV Eindhoven. Bordeaux. Galatasaray.

Arthur let out a long, controlled breath as the final name slotted in. No Barcelona. No Bayern. No Inter. No Real Madrid. It was, by all accounts, a very manageable group.

He turned to Allen, who was already smirking.

"Well?" Arthur asked.

Allen raised an eyebrow. "You might've just walked out of here with a golden ticket."

Arthur nodded, unable to keep the smile off his face. "I'll take it."

He looked back up at the screen, where Leeds United now stood listed proudly alongside clubs from the Netherlands, France, and Turkey.

It was real.

Leeds United, a team he had fought to rebuild from the ground up, was now on the grandest stage of all. And with this group, advancement into the knockout stages wasn't just a dream—it was a real possibility.

Arthur couldn't help but think:

What a bit of luck.

And with that, he finally allowed himself to relax in his seat.

The journey was far from over—but it was a hell of a start.