Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

After the referee blew the final whistle, confirming Leeds United's 2–1 comeback win, Arthur didn't linger. Without wasting a moment, he turned toward the visitors' dugout.

Sir Alex Ferguson stood by the edge of his technical area, arms folded tightly across his chest, his jaw clenched in a way that made it obvious he was holding back a storm. But to his credit, and in stark contrast to his infamous snub of Wenger the previous season, he didn't avoid the handshake. Arthur approached, and the two managers exchanged a brief but firm handshake—a gesture of respect, if not warmth.

Arthur offered a polite nod. Ferguson, though visibly seething beneath his cool exterior, gave a tight nod back before turning toward the tunnel with a face like thunder.

In the dressing room afterward, the atmosphere inside the Leeds camp was electric. Laughter echoed against the walls, shirts were flung aside, water bottles popped, and someone had already started playing music from a portable speaker. It wasn't chaos—it was release. A hard-fought, fully-earned victory.

Toure, who had run himself into the ground and played a pivotal role in the counterattack that led to the equaliser, was singled out for post-match duties. A club staff member tapped him on the shoulder, motioning toward the mixed zone. He gave a weary grin and followed.

Meanwhile, Arthur headed to the post-match press conference accompanied by Kompany, the ever-dependable captain.

They hadn't even sat down properly when the first reporter sprang to his feet, voice brimming with tension.

"Mr. Morgan," the reporter began, eyes sharp. "Sir Alex Ferguson just mentioned in his post-match interview that Manchester United's defeat today was largely due to Leeds United having the home advantage. Do you agree with that assessment?"

Arthur didn't respond immediately. Instead, he leaned back slightly in his chair and offered the reporter a wry smile. The question didn't surprise him—it was loaded, and Arthur had seen enough of these tactics before.

He glanced at the logo on the journalist's blazer. Manchester Evening News. Of course.

In Arthur's mind, images from the first half flashed back. Mascherano's handball incident, Ferguson barking furiously at the fourth official, flailing arms and red cheeks. It all made sense now.

Arthur smiled wider, knowingly.

"Mr. Reporter," he said calmly, "what exactly is the point of that question? This is Elland Road. It's Leeds United's home. Isn't it pretty standard for the crowd to be... supportive of the home team?"

Laughter rippled through the room.

Arthur continued, eyes still fixed on the reporter. "Unless you were expecting Manchester United fans to outnumber ours in our own stadium? Now that would be impressive."

There were a few chuckles again. But the reporter wasn't ready to give up.

"With all due respect, Mr. Morgan," he said stiffly, "I wasn't referring to the crowd. You know that. I'm talking about decisions—about the refereeing. Specifically, the first-half incident where Mascherano clearly handled the ball and was not shown a yellow card. Don't you think that's relevant?"

Arthur blinked. Then smirked.

"Oh?" he replied, tilting his head slightly. "So, let me get this straight. Manchester United lost today because... Mascherano didn't get a yellow card in the first half?"

The sarcasm hit hard.

Before the reporter could fire back, Arthur leaned forward slightly, his tone sharpening just a notch. "Are you suggesting that one missed booking caused a goal? Or maybe caused Cristiano Ronaldo to forget to track back?"

A few more laughs broke out in the press room.

The reporter flushed, clearly agitated. "What I'm saying is, the referee made a questionable call, and it may have affected the flow of the game—"

"Careful," Arthur interrupted, voice suddenly crisp. "Watch your words, Mr. Reporter."

The room hushed. Kompany, sitting beside Arthur, shifted slightly in his seat but didn't say a word.

"If you watched the match properly," Arthur continued, now calmly but firmly, "even just the slow-motion replay, you'd know there wasn't anything deliberate about that handball. And even if there were, we're still talking about a yellow card, not a red, not a penalty, not a disallowed goal."

He gave a little shrug.

"I honestly don't believe Sir Alex would use that as an excuse. We both know how football works. Sometimes calls go your way, sometimes they don't. But blaming the officials for a loss when your own team had 20 minutes of fruitless possession and conceded two goals on the break? That's not the kind of thing Ferguson usually stoops to."

Arthur paused, letting that hang in the air. Then he smiled again—genuinely this time.

"So let's be a bit more fair with our questions moving forward, shall we?" he added. "There's a lot to talk about from today's match. How about asking about Toure's performance? Or Bale's pressing? Or Rivaldo scoring two minutes after coming on? Those might be slightly more... relevant."

The room shifted back into motion. Several reporters nodded appreciatively, some scribbling furiously.

The Manchester Evening News reporter slumped back in his seat, clearly finished for now.

Arthur glanced around. "Alright," he said, smoothing out his jacket. "Who's got the next question?"

The press conference moved on, but the tone was set: calm, sharp, and unmistakably in Arthur's control.

After all, he hadn't just won the match. He'd won the room.

****

Arthur's words hung in the room, sharp and precise. He had just brushed aside Ferguson's vague claim about "home advantage" with a cool, knowing smile. The reporter who had posed the question sat back down, a little deflated, no longer quite sure how to respond.

"Home advantage," Arthur had said, "It's not just about fans in the stands or a familiar pitch. It's everything—from the energy in the air to the rhythm you build playing on your own turf. But that's a simple way to put it. What exactly Ferguson meant? That, he didn't bother to explain."

The other journalists blinked in surprise. Was this really the same Arthur who, not so long ago, had publicly criticized the Football Association? Now he was declaring absolute trust in the referees and the FA. They exchanged glances, quietly double-checking their notes to be sure.

The atmosphere shifted when a new voice rose from the crowd. A young woman with sharp eyes and a poised tone addressed Arthur directly.

"Mr. Morgan," she began, "Leeds United hasn't had the best run in recent league matches. Do you think today's win over Manchester United signals a turning point? And more broadly, what are Leeds United's goals for this season?"

Arthur nodded thoughtfully, folding his hands on the table. "You're right. The schedule this season has been brutal. We're competing on three fronts, and the FA Cup is coming up after Christmas. The heavy fixture list meant injuries piled up, and that definitely impacted our form."

He paused, scanning the sea of faces, many of whom were busy typing away on their keyboards.

"But," Arthur continued, a hint of pride in his voice, "that rest period we had recently made a huge difference. It allowed the players to recover, and it showed today. That's a big part of why we could pull off this win."

He let his gaze drift over the reporters, a faint but confident smile playing at his lips.

"As for this season's goal?" He leaned forward, eyes twinkling. "Winning a championship is my goal. Whether it's the Premier League or the Champions League, I want the trophy. And if I can get both? Well, that would be even better."

The room fell into stunned silence. A dozen pairs of eyes shot up from their keyboards, their fingers hovering mid-tap, disbelief etched on their faces.

"Wait—did you say the Premier League championship?" The first reporter's voice cracked with surprise as he half-stood again, clearly struggling to believe what he'd just heard. "Did we hear that right? The League Cup championship?"

Arthur smiled, shaking his head slightly, amused. "No, no mistake. I said Premier League championship. Or the Champions League. Both, ideally."

"But, Mr. Morgan," another voice piped up, "have you seen the league table? After seven rounds, Leeds United is only twelfth…"

Before he could finish, a third reporter interrupted, pushing back from his seat with a casual shrug.

"So what's the problem?" Arthur responded flatly. "Seven games in. There are over thirty rounds left. Who knows what will happen before the last whistle blows this season? Today's win over Manchester United? That's just the start."

The tension rose again when the reporter from the Manchester Evening News—the same one who'd earlier challenged Arthur—stood up, his voice dripping with skepticism.

"Leeds United may have won today, but many strong teams are still ahead. You've got to visit Old Trafford later this season, where Manchester United will hold the home advantage. Honestly, I don't see where this confidence of yours is coming from."

Arthur's eyes flicked to the reporter with a slow, deliberate gaze. A small smile crept up on his lips, his tone light but laced with challenge.

"Mr…?"

"Charles. Charles Walters."

"Mr. Charles," Arthur said, holding his gaze steadily, "let's make a bet."

The room suddenly grew very quiet.

"If Leeds United wins the Premier League or the Champions League this season," Arthur continued, "I want you to write an apology article for your question today. And not just once. Thirty consecutive days, under your name, in the Manchester Evening News."

There was a murmur from the reporters. Thirty days? That was no joke.

Arthur paused, then added with a sly grin, "And if Leeds United doesn't win either championship, I'll do the same."

Charles blinked, clearly caught off guard but quickly regaining his composure. After a brief moment of thought, he nodded slowly. "Alright," he said, voice steady, "I accept."

The room buzzed with excitement. Cameras flashed, and several reporters exchanged amused glances. This was gold—the perfect headline. The underdog manager throwing down a gauntlet to a seasoned journalist.

Arthur gave Charles a knowing look, the confidence of a man who wasn't bluffing. "Good," he said smoothly. "We'll see how the season unfolds. May the best man—and team—win."

With that, the tension broke, and the conference moved on. But the atmosphere had shifted. Arthur had not only defended his team's performance but had turned the tables and taken control of the narrative.

As the reporters scrambled to catch every word, the story was clear: Leeds United was no longer a team to be underestimated. And Arthur? Well, he was more than ready to back up his bold words.

****

After wrapping up the post-match press conference, Arthur made his way through the hallway toward the locker room. The adrenaline from the game had settled, replaced by a quiet sense of satisfaction. There was still one last bit of business to handle—he needed to inform the squad about the week's holiday arrangements.

As he reached the locker room door and extended his hand to push it open, a light, teasing voice rang out from behind him.

"Hello, handsome. Got a minute to spare?"

Arthur didn't even flinch. Without turning around, he responded smoothly, "Sorry, miss. I've got a girlfriend."

The woman laughed—a familiar, melodic chuckle that immediately gave her away.

"Oh my, what a loyal boyfriend. Your girlfriend must be thrilled."

Arthur grinned, still facing the door. "Thrilled? Hardly. She nags me to go to her concerts, drags me to afterparties, and leaves me wandering around here like a single dog while she's off touring the world. So heartless, I tell you."

The woman's tone suddenly turned icy. "Oh really? Always nagging, huh? Not visiting, is it? Maybe I shouldn't come back for a couple of years then."

That was enough. Arthur spun around quickly, his grin widening the moment he laid eyes on her. Without a word, he pulled her into a tight embrace and leaned in close, whispering against her ear.

"Then how would I survive without my beautiful, caring girlfriend who just flew across the world to surprise me?"

Shakira smirked, pulling off her oversized sunglasses and unwrapping the scarf from around her neck. "So you knew it was me? Here I was, about to smack you for all that nonsense."

Arthur laughed, pulling back slightly but keeping his arms around her. "Smack me? I should be the one doing the smacking—for leaving me alone for two months, dear girlfriend."

She rolled her eyes playfully and crossed her arms. "Hmph. I don't see a shred of sincerity on that pretty face."

Arthur quickly glanced around the hallway to make sure no one else was nearby. Satisfied, he pressed her gently against the wall and kissed her deeply. It wasn't rushed or casual—it was the kind of kiss that said I missed you, don't go again, and you're mine all at once.

Shakira melted in his arms, her fingers finding the back of his neck as she kissed him back with equal fire. Their breaths mingled, and for a few long moments, the noise and rush of post-match chaos faded away. There was only the two of them—reunited after weeks apart.

When they finally parted, both were slightly breathless. Arthur kept one hand on her cheek, brushing away a strand of hair as he smiled.

"Welcome to Leeds, my dear."

Shakira exhaled slowly, still catching her breath. "Mmm. Thanks. It's good to be here." She leaned her head against his chest, eyes closing for a moment. "I'd come more often if this is the welcome I get every time."

Arthur chuckled and kissed the top of her head. "Then I'll make sure you never want to leave again."

She smiled into his shirt, holding him close. "That sounds like a challenge."

Their quiet moment was briefly interrupted by the muffled noise of laughter and shouting from behind the locker room door—clearly, the players inside were still celebrating the hard-fought win over Manchester United. Arthur glanced at the door, then down at Shakira.

"I should probably go in and pretend to be in charge again," he said with a smirk.

Shakira tilted her head and gave him a playful pout. "You mean you're not in charge?"

"Only when you're not around," he replied, giving her a wink.

She tapped his chest with a finger. "Then hurry up and finish your 'boss duties.' I'm starving and I want to see the city."

Arthur gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Give me fifteen minutes. I'll be right out."

As he turned and finally pushed open the door to the locker room, the noise doubled—cheers, high-fives, chants of "Rivaldo!" and laughter echoed through the room. His players were sprawled out on benches, some already showered, others still riding the high of victory.

But behind him, just for a moment, the sound of high heels echoed down the corridor—and a very familiar voice hummed quietly to herself as she walked away.

Arthur grinned. This was shaping up to be a good week.