Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

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***

Arthur sat back in his chair, the phone still warm in his hand after the call with Calderon. The conversation left a strange taste in his mouth. Calderon was pushing hard, sure—but Arthur was no pushover. He mulled over the situation carefully.

If Maicon truly wanted to take his own path, to walk away from Leeds and from the contract extension talks, Arthur knew exactly what he could do: bench him. Not just reduce his minutes, but banish him to the reserves. Not a single game in the first team for the next year and a half.

It was a brutal move, but sometimes football was brutal. Loyalty and commitment were just as vital as skill and performance. A player unwilling to stand by the club's side didn't deserve a place in the starting eleven—or even the bench.

Of course, Arthur was aware that this approach would come at a price. Without regular competitive action, Maicon's form would plummet. His sharpness, timing, and fitness would wane. The spark that made him a top-class right back would inevitably dim after weeks or months without first-team football.

And when that happened, even if Real Madrid still coveted him, the decision would be theirs—would they want a player who hadn't played a single competitive match in over a year? A gamble they might not be willing to take.

Still, Arthur had no illusions. If push came to shove, he was ready to protect Leeds' interests over any single player's ambitions.

But if Maicon was to be sidelined, then one issue loomed large: who would replace him?

The right back position was critical. Leeds' entire defensive structure depended on a reliable fullback who could cover wide spaces, support the midfield, and shuttle up and down the flank with energy and discipline. Without a proper replacement, the team's competitiveness would nosedive in the coming fixtures.

Arthur remembered the briefing Allen had given him earlier that morning—a report on squad depth and potential transfer targets. At the time, training had been demanding and relentless; his mind had barely had the chance to linger on the details.

But now, with Calderon's call fresh in his mind and the threat to Maicon's future hanging over the club, one name stood out suddenly, sharply, like a beacon in the fog. A player who might just fit the bill and stabilize Leeds' right flank.

Arthur took a breath, his resolve hardening.

The next moment, he didn't hesitate.

He picked up the phone and dialed Calderon's number again.

This time, his tone was colder, sharper—a blade wrapped in a velvet glove.

"Mr. Calderon," Arthur began, his voice laced with a hint of sarcasm and steel, "I don't care what you want or what you think. If Maicon refuses to renew his contract this winter, I guarantee he won't even sit on the bench for the next year and a half. Not a minute of first-team football."

He let those words sink in.

"At that point," he continued, "you can come and pick up a top right back who hasn't played a single official game for a year and a half—without spending a single euro. I'm sure you're looking forward to that experience, aren't you?"

The line was quiet for a beat.

Allen, standing beside Arthur, had been listening with wide eyes. He thought Arthur might be overplaying his hand. Benching Maicon? It would hurt the team as much as it hurt the player. Surely that was self-destructive.

But Arthur was unflinching.

On the other end, Calderon's voice finally returned, calm and measured.

"Mr. Morgan, I know your squad's depth at right back. I don't believe you'd dare send Maicon to the reserves."

Arthur smiled quietly to himself. Calderon knew the stakes too.

The two men exchanged words, each trying to test the other's resolve. For a moment, the conversation felt less like a negotiation and more like a game of chess.

Then, as Arthur listened, he pieced together Real Madrid's situation this season.

Calderon, new at the helm, had brought Capello in from Juventus. The Italian coach's defensive style clashed with the flashy, attacking traditions of Madrid.

Capello's favored 4-2-3-1 formation demanded fullbacks who kept to their defensive lines, rarely venturing past midfield. But Madrid's right back, Cicinho, was an attacking threat, constantly pushing forward, sometimes leaving dangerous gaps behind.

Capello hated that. Cicinho lacked the stamina to race upfield and sprint back to defend. It drove the coach mad, and he had repeatedly demanded a replacement.

Maicon was exactly the kind of disciplined, hardworking fullback Capello wanted.

But this was no longer just about tactics.

Capello had benched legends like Ronaldo and Beckham. His stubborn defensive approach enraged fans, turning the crowd against him. Pressure was mounting for a change, and Calderon felt it keenly—especially with Florentino Pérez, the former president, watching from the sidelines, ready to pounce at any misstep.

Calderon needed results. He needed to stabilize his position by making bold moves, and signing Maicon in January was one of them.

Arthur smirked.

He decided to put it all on the table.

"Hahaha, Mr. Calderon," Arthur said, voice tinged with amusement, "I know a bit about your Real Madrid situation. Your Cicinho who rushes forward but can't get back must be driving Capello crazy. Otherwise, you wouldn't be so eager to bring Maicon in during this winter window."

Calderon started to speak, but Arthur cut him off.

"Save your explanations," Arthur said firmly. "I'm not interested in why you want Maicon. Here's my position: you want to buy him, you pay more than 35 million euros. Anything less, and you can wait a year and a half to sign him on a free transfer."

He gave a slight pause before delivering the final blow.

"I have other things to attend to, so I won't keep you longer. Goodbye."

Arthur didn't wait for a reply. He ended the call, laid the phone on the desk, and turned to his computer. The web browser opened swiftly. There was no time to waste.

****

Allen stood frozen beside Arthur, his fingers tightening around the phone as if it might dissolve into thin air. The weight of Arthur's words hung between them like a guillotine waiting to drop.

Demote Maicon?

The Brazilian right-back had been a cornerstone of Leeds United's resurgence—a relentless force down the flank, his overlapping runs as much a part of the team's identity as Arthur's tactical genius. To cast him aside now felt… unthinkable.

Yet Arthur's expression betrayed no hesitation. His eyes remained locked on the glowing computer screen, fingers tapping rhythmically against the desk as if this were just another Tuesday morning discussion about training schedules.

Allen cleared his throat. "Boss… you can't be serious about sending Maicon to the reserves."

Arthur didn't even blink. "Try me."

A beat of silence. Allen exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Okay, let's say Antonio refuses the renewal—what then?"

Arthur's fingers stilled. He turned his head just enough to meet Allen's gaze, and for the first time, Allen saw the steel beneath the calm.

"Then Maicon spends the rest of the season training with the kids. No first-team football. No last-minute reprieve. He either signs the deal I've laid out, or he rots."

Allen's stomach twisted. He'd seen Arthur make brutal decisions before—dropping underperforming stars, freezing out dissenters—but this was different. This wasn't just discipline; it was a statement.

"And if he does agree?"

Arthur's lips curled into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "Then he becomes one of the highest-paid fullbacks in the league. Four years. Two and a half times his current salary. A reward for loyalty… and a reminder of what he stands to lose."

Allen let out a low whistle. "Christ. You're not just negotiating—you're playing psychological warfare."

Arthur shrugged. "Call it what you want. The result's the same."

Allen chewed his lip, mind racing. "Okay, but—Sun's out for months. If Maicon's gone, who the hell plays right-back? We can't just—"

Arthur cut him off with a raised hand. "Sevilla's Dani Alves."

Allen blinked. "…What?"

Arthur leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. "Twenty-three years old. Best right-back in La Liga last season. Liverpool wanted him in the summer, but they balked at the price." His grin turned predatory. "We won't."

Allen's brain short-circuited. "Boss, Alves is Sevilla's crown jewel. They'll demand a fortune!"

Arthur's laugh was sharp, almost mocking. "Allen. Look around. This isn't the Championship anymore. We're not scraping together transfer fees from couch cushions." He gestured to the financial reports scattered across his desk. "We've got 120 million euros sitting in the bank. Time to start acting like it."

The realization hit Allen like a truck. Right. We're the big dogs now.

Still, old habits died hard. "Even so, Del Nido's a shark. He'll see us coming from miles away."

Arthur's eyes gleamed. "Which is why you'll call him today. Set up a face-to-face. I want Alves in Leeds before the winter window slams shut."

Allen exhaled, shaking his head. "You're not just replacing Maicon. You're upgrading."

Arthur's smile was all teeth. "Exactly."

Arthur's fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up scouting reports, highlight reels, contract details. Then—there.

He froze.

A kid. Barely eighteen. Curly afro bouncing as he danced past defenders, his grin so wide it could've split his face in half.

Allen squinted at the screen. "Who's this?"

"Marcelo Vieira," Arthur said, voice tinged with something almost like reverence. "Fluminense. Left-back. Future of the position."

Allen raised an eyebrow. "He looks like someone glued a wig to a teenager and told him to run."

Arthur snorted. "Watch." He clicked play.

The footage spoke for itself—Marcelo was raw, yes, but the talent was undeniable. A blur of pace, trickery, and audacious flair. He defended like a bull and attacked like a winger, his crosses laser-guided.

Allen whistled. "Okay, he's good. But he's eighteen."

Arthur nodded. "Which is why we buy him now—before Madrid or Barcelona catch wind—and loan him to Real Sociedad. Let him cut his teeth in La Liga. Then, when Calderon comes crawling next summer with a blank check for Maicon…"

Allen's eyes widened. "We've already got his replacement lined up."

Arthur's grin was wolfish. "And we'll name our price."

Allen slumped into a chair, rubbing his temples. "This is… fucking ruthless, boss."

Arthur shrugged. "It's business."

"Bullshit. This is a power move. You're sending a message to the whole squad—no one'sirreplaceable."

Arthur's expression darkened. "Exactly. Maicon's great. But if he thinks he can hold us hostage over a contract, he's in for a wake-up call."

Allen studied him. "And if this backfires? If the locker room turns on you?"

Arthur met his gaze without flinching. "Then I'll deal with it. But I won't let one player—no matter how good—think he's bigger than this club."

The silence stretched. Outside, the training ground buzzed with activity—players laughing, coaches barking orders, the distant thud of boots meeting leather. Life went on.

Allen exhaled. "Alright. I'll make the calls."

Arthur nodded. "Good."

As Allen turned to leave, Arthur added one last thing—soft, but lethal.

"Oh, and Allen? If Maicon's agent so much as whispers about another club…"

Allen didn't need to hear the rest.

The game was on.