"Bloody hell," Arthur muttered, eyebrows twitching. "Moores and Benítez... those two old bastards are still at it."
That was his first reaction when Milner told him that Liverpool wanted to buy him.
It wasn't even surprising at this point—just irritating.
Arthur leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, lips pressed in a thin line. If memory served him right, Liverpool had already sniffed around Milner the previous summer, right after Leeds had won the Championship. They'd sent in a cheeky bid—just 15 million euros.
Arthur had considered it. Thought long and hard. But in the end, he rejected the offer. He believed in Milner's value, not just on the pitch but in the dressing room too.
Now they weren't even bothering with bids. They had skipped all formalities and gone straight to Milner's agent, poking around behind Arthur's back. Typical.
He wasn't naive. He knew why.
Liverpool had lost Xabi Alonso to Leeds. That transfer had hit them hard. And while Steven Gerrard still led the midfield with drive and power, Benítez had struggled to find the right balance beside him since Alonso's departure. Without proper cover or control in midfield, the second half of their season had been shaky.
So of course—of course—Benítez would turn his attention to Milner. Who better than a hard-working, positionally versatile, press-resistant midfielder who could run all day and never complain?
Arthur could just picture the scene now: Benítez pacing in his office, tapping his pen on the desk, and then calling Moores.
"Get me Milner," he probably said, like it was nothing.
Arthur's thoughts were interrupted as he noticed the small smile on Milner's face. It wasn't smug—it was hopeful. The kind of smile a player wears when he knows he's about to take the next step in his career.
Arthur exhaled slowly and composed himself, wiping that annoyed expression off his face.
He nodded thoughtfully, then said, "Alright. I won't stop you from leaving. But James—let me remind you—Liverpool won't be playing in the Champions League next season. League Cup's all they've got."
He raised an eyebrow, half-expecting Milner to flinch at that reality.
But Milner didn't. If anything, his smile grew a little.
"I know, boss," he said, grateful. "But honestly? I'm not chasing European football right now. I just want more playing time. That's what I need most."
Arthur respected that. It was honest. No sugar-coating, no nonsense. Milner knew where he stood.
Once they were both on the same page, Arthur leaned forward, his tone shifting into something more serious.
"There's one thing I want clear from the start," he said firmly. "Transfers affect the club directly—this isn't just about you. So, make sure your agent tells Moores this: I won't accept a bid lower than last year's."
Milner didn't hesitate. "Of course! I'll tell him later today."
The relief in his voice was clear. Once Arthur gave the green light, Milner knew the move was halfway done. The rest—the negotiations, the back-and-forth over price—that wasn't really in his hands. That was agent territory.
Arthur nodded again, then leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. The conversation had gone exactly as expected—calm, respectful, and clear. But still, he couldn't shake that lingering irritation.
Liverpool might get their man. But they were going to pay properly this time.
No more bargain hunting. No more sneaking around.
And as for Milner, well—he'd earned his move. Arthur would never hold a player back for wanting to play.
He watched as Milner stood, thanked him again, and walked out the door.
Arthur remained seated, eyes fixed on the empty doorway.
"Benítez…" he muttered under his breath, voice barely audible. "You better take care of him."
***
Not long after Milner walked out of his office, Arthur's phone rang. He checked the caller ID. It was Moores.
Of course.
He picked it up with a sigh. "Hello?"
"Mr. Morgan! Good afternoon!" came the overly cheerful, booming voice from the other end. Moores sounded like a politician working a room.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Mr. Moores, after hearing that greeting, I suddenly feel the urge to call Steven's agent."
There was a short pause before Moores chuckled nervously. He knew exactly what Arthur meant. This wasn't just small talk.
"Ah, don't be like that, Mr. Morgan," Moores said quickly. "I admit I got a little ahead of myself, but I didn't go straight to the player. Not directly. I waited until I heard you were open to letting him go. Then I rang you straight away, didn't I?"
Arthur's voice tightened. "James Milner is the captain of Leeds United. He's been a leader for us, and not too long ago we had a perfectly civil negotiation regarding another player. If we're going to do business, Mr. Moores, I expect it to follow proper channels."
There was no mistaking the edge in his voice now. Arthur wasn't shouting, but his disappointment came through clearly.
On the other end of the line, Moores seemed to hesitate. For a moment, neither man spoke. The silence stretched—just breathing between them, low and tight.
Then came the number.
"Sixteen million," Moores finally said, breaking the silence with his opening bid.
Arthur didn't even pause. "Impossible."
His answer was curt, cold, final.
"Come now," Moores pushed, trying to keep his tone reasonable. "Milner's agent told me you wouldn't stand in the way."
"I'm not," Arthur replied sharply. "But only if your offer isn't lower than what you put on the table last year."
There was a short laugh on the other end, half in disbelief. "You're joking. Sixteen's higher than fifteen, isn't it?"
Arthur didn't even bother responding to that.
Moores pressed on, now with a bit of frustration bleeding into his voice. "Alright, alright. So how much are you thinking?"
"Twenty-three million euros," Arthur said flatly.
"Twenty-three—? You're robbing me!"
"Seventeen. That's my final offer!" Moores snapped back.
Arthur didn't flinch. "Let me remind you again, Mr. Moores. You're not buying a squad player. You're trying to sign the captain of Leeds United. Twenty million. That's the minimum. Anything less, and there's no deal."
Silence again. The tension was thick now.
Arthur knew exactly what this was.
Liverpool had managed only an FA Cup this season. No Champions League qualification. Leeds had taken that spot, and that didn't sit well with Liverpool's board. Now Benítez was under pressure to rebuild and come back stronger next season. Milner—solid, versatile, experienced—wasn't just a useful addition. Signing him would serve a double purpose: strengthen Liverpool and weaken one of their direct rivals.
Arthur could see the logic. It made perfect sense—on paper.
But logic didn't come cheap.
There weren't many players like Milner out there. A natural workhorse who could play multiple positions, run for 90 minutes straight, and never complain. Defensive midfielders were already in short supply on the market. Milner was gold dust.
That's why Moores hadn't wasted any time. The moment Benítez pointed at Milner's name, he jumped. Went straight to the agent. Tried to get the jump on it.
Arthur knew the playbook by heart. Seen it a hundred times.
But this wasn't going to be a bargain-bin deal. Not this one.
He leaned back in his chair, waiting for Moores' response, the phone still pressed to his ear.
This negotiation was far from over.
Moores hadn't responded yet. Arthur could sense the hesitation over the phone. So, with a slight smirk, he decided to push a little further.
"And by the way, Mr. Moores," Arthur added casually, "you might be the only one who's put in a formal bid for Milner right now, but he's heading to Germany soon. World Cup's coming up. If he performs well on that stage… well, you might suddenly find yourself with a lot more competition."
That did it.
Arthur couldn't hear it, but he knew Moores had just flinched on the other end. That little jab about the World Cup—that was the final blow.
Because Moores knew exactly what that meant. The World Cup was football's ultimate shop window. A handful of great performances in Germany and suddenly the quiet, dependable James Milner would be the talk of every director's boardroom. The kind of clubs that hadn't even been on the radar might come swooping in with offers Liverpool couldn't match.
It was a risk.
And Moores wasn't in the mood to take it.
"Alright," he said finally, sighing heavily, like someone being forced to pay the bill after a lavish dinner. "Twenty million it is."
Arthur smiled to himself. "We have a deal. Let's get the paperwork done when the window opens."
They hung up soon after, and Arthur let out a deep breath. First deal of the summer: done and dusted. And he was satisfied with the price, too. Milner would leave, sure—but at a value that could help reshape the squad.
And now that the money was coming in, it was time to spend.
Arthur already had two names at the top of his list. Big ones.
Zlatan Ibrahimović.
Fabio Cannavaro.
He wanted to get both before the World Cup kicked off.
A few days later, Arthur flew out to Italy, with Lina tagging along. The trip to Turin was business first, but they had plans to take a short break after, depending on how things went.
As soon as they stepped out of Caselle Airport's terminal, Arthur spotted a familiar sight in the crowd.
There he was.
Mino Raiola.
Wearing a tight polo that was losing the battle against his ever-growing belly, with sunglasses perched on his head despite the grey skies, the agent waved at Arthur like they were old friends reunited after years apart.
Arthur gave a nod. "Still fat," he muttered under his breath, earning a small laugh from Lina.
Raiola waddled forward and clapped Arthur on the shoulder. "Arthur, my friend! Welcome to Turin!"
It had been about two weeks since the infamous "Phonegate" scandal shook Italian football. A wave of corruption allegations and secret recordings had plunged the sport into chaos. Juventus, the eye of the storm, had been especially shaken.
Just a few days ago, Raiola had made the move Arthur had been waiting for—he'd officially submitted Ibrahimović's transfer request to Juventus. No turning back now.
And Juventus? They didn't even reply. Their board had imploded under the scandal. On May 11, the entire board of directors had stepped down. No direction, no authority, just silence.
Then, out of nowhere, yesterday, Raiola got a call from someone new: Carlo Santalbano, the interim general manager of Juventus. He said they were ready to talk.
That was all Raiola needed to hear.
He immediately contacted Arthur, and within hours, the trip to Turin was set in motion.
Now, they were here.
Business was about to begin.
Since this was strictly club-to-club business, it wasn't appropriate for an agent—especially one as loud and flamboyant as Mino Raiola—to be in the room during negotiations. So, after Arthur gave him a brief rundown of Juventus' temporary management setup, Raiola gave a dramatic shrug, offered a mock salute, and left.
"Call me if they try to play games," he said over his shoulder as he waddled off into the Turin sun.
Arthur turned to Lina and gave her a small smile. "Now the real fun begins."
With the Serie A season wrapped up, there was no point visiting Juventus' training base at Continassa. No players around, no press. Instead, Arthur and Lina headed straight to Juventus' corporate headquarters on Via Ferraris. The building had a sleek, modern front but carried the tension of a club in turmoil behind its glass doors.
They were ushered to the fourth floor, where a muted conference room waited. Bottled water, stale biscuits on a tray, and that awkward silence that fills rooms right before high-stakes meetings.
Arthur sat down, casually scrolling through a few notes on his phone. He didn't have to wait long.
In walked Carlo Santalbano—Juventus' interim general manager.
Carlo didn't look like your typical football executive. No flashy suit or polished charm. Just a tired-looking man in his early 40s with glasses, a well-worn laptop under his arm, and an aura of someone who hadn't slept properly in weeks. Which made sense. The entire Juventus board had resigned after the Phonegate scandal erupted, and the club was now in free fall.
Arthur stood to greet him, offering a firm handshake.
"Arthur," he said. "Thanks for meeting on short notice."
Carlo nodded. "Let's keep this simple. Raiola told me you're here for Ibrahimović."
Straight to business. No small talk. No pretense. Arthur appreciated that.
"Correct," Arthur replied. "We're ready to move. Let's talk numbers."
Carlo dropped into his chair with a sigh, opened his laptop, and pulled up the files.
Now, unlike his predecessor Luciano Moggi—a man infamous for his behind-the-scenes influence and football knowledge—Carlo came from a very different background. A Harvard-educated statistician, he'd been brought in temporarily to help manage Juventus through its chaotic transition. He didn't care about tactics, formations, or dressing room politics. All he saw were numbers. Numbers that needed to add up.
And right now, Juventus' numbers were a mess.
Relegation to Serie B looked more likely by the day. Investigations were ongoing, but the early signs were damning. If Juventus did go down, they would lose massive sums in TV rights and sponsor revenue. The only solution? Sell players—preferably before the market caught wind of how desperate they really were.
Which made Arthur's timing perfect.
He wasn't here to lowball or take advantage. He made a fair offer. Twenty-one million euros for Zlatan Ibrahimović.
For Carlo, it was a no-brainer. Raiola had already made it clear that Zlatan wanted out. The club's future was uncertain. And the last thing Carlo needed was to watch rival clubs swoop in and pluck stars for peanuts after a public relegation announcement.
So, he didn't waste time haggling.
"We can accept that," Carlo said after glancing at his spreadsheet. "Twenty-one million. Deal."
Arthur gave a satisfied nod. "Excellent. We'll finalize it when the window opens."
But he wasn't finished.
As Carlo closed his laptop, Arthur leaned forward casually, tapping the table with two fingers.
"While we're at it… what about Cannavaro?"
Carlo looked up, slightly surprised. "Fabio?"
Arthur nodded. "Experienced defender. Still world-class. Good leader. I can offer seven million."
Carlo frowned slightly, recalculating in his head. Cannavaro was older, yes, but still a valuable asset. Juventus could fetch a decent fee if they waited. But again—if they waited, they risked clubs circling like vultures after a relegation confirmation.
Arthur kept his expression neutral.
"Six million," Carlo countered. "Plus some performance-based clauses."
Arthur thought for a moment, then nodded.
"Done. If the player agrees, we're ready to proceed."
Carlo relaxed a bit in his seat. Two sales in one sitting. That would help Juventus balance the books—for now.
Arthur stood and offered his hand once more. "Appreciate your time."
Carlo shook it firmly. "Let's hope these are the first of many problems solved."
As they left the building, Lina walked alongside Arthur in silence for a few seconds, then said, "You didn't even raise your voice once."
Arthur smirked. "Didn't need to. When the ship is sinking, you don't argue with the lifeboat."
Ibrahimović had already agreed to join Leeds United. But through Raiola's updates, Arthur knew that Cannavaro was still undecided. Despite his agent Federer urging him to make a decision early, Cannavaro kept putting it off, always saying he'd decide after the World Cup.
Since Arthur was in Turin today, he wanted to deal with it directly. After all, in his memory, Real Madrid announced Cannavaro's signing not long after the World Cup ended—meaning the agreement must have been reached during the tournament, maybe even earlier.
So after leaving Juventus headquarters, Arthur called Raiola and asked him to inform Cannavaro's agent that he wanted to meet Cannavaro in person.
Federer got in touch with Cannavaro, who was at home with his wife and kids. Once he had Cannavaro's permission, he phoned Arthur and said he'd come by shortly to pick him and Lina up.
After lunch, with Federer accompanying them, Arthur and Lina headed to Cannavaro's home near the Condinasa training base.
It was Cannavaro's wife, Daniela, who opened the door. After letting them in, she went to take care of the children, leaving Arthur and Federer in the living room with Cannavaro.
Once they were all seated, Arthur was the first to speak. "Fabio, I'm glad we could talk face-to-face today."
Cannavaro looked slightly embarrassed. After all, it wasn't every day the owner of a club came to his house to negotiate personally. He offered a polite smile. "You're joking, Mr. Morgan. I didn't expect you to come all the way to Turin. It's an honor to meet you."
In truth, Arthur had met Cannavaro before—but that was more than ten years later, in a different life, as a coach. After retirement, Cannavaro had joined Lippi's coaching team and managed several clubs.
As a football fan, Arthur naturally had a soft spot for the Italian defender, who would go on to leave his mark on the game.
But this was business, after all, and Arthur wasn't here to waste time.
He leaned forward slightly, raising his eyebrows. "Fabio, we both have limited time, so I'll get straight to the point. Your agent, Federer, should've told you weeks ago—Leeds United made an offer. But we've yet to get a proper response from you. So I want to hear it directly—what are you really thinking?"
He paused briefly, then added with emphasis, "You know as well as I do that Juventus is likely headed for Serie B next season. Meanwhile, Leeds United has secured a spot in the Champions League."
Cannavaro looked uncomfortable, shifting slightly in his seat. "Mr. Morgan, Juventus's future… well, nothing's official yet. We're still waiting to hear—"
Arthur cut in firmly, waving his hand. "Fabio, come on. I probably know more about this situation than you do. Juventus has a 99% chance of being relegated. And don't forget, your Serie A title this season might even be stripped by the Italian Football Association. If you don't believe me, ask Federer—he's sitting right next to you."
Cannavaro opened his mouth as if to object, but turned to glance at Federer. The agent gave a silent nod, confirming everything Arthur had just said. With that, Cannavaro lowered his head, falling silent.
Seeing his reaction, Arthur softened his tone.
"Look, Fabio, I understand you might have reservations about coming to Leeds. And I'm not going to pressure you with flattery or empty promises. But I came here today because I'm serious—and because I respect you."
He paused again, his voice steady and sincere. "If you say yes, I can offer you better personal terms than what you have now. And more importantly, I can guarantee you'll be one of our starting centre-backs—right alongside Kompany. Piqué and Thiago Silva will be your rotation partners."
At that, Arthur noticed a flicker in Cannavaro's expression. The veteran defender finally looked up.
Arthur knew instantly—he'd struck the right chord.
Because that, more than anything, was Cannavaro's biggest worry.
He wasn't unfamiliar with Leeds United. In fact, he'd been talking regularly with his former Juventus teammate Camoranesi, who was already playing under Arthur. And what he heard made him hesitate.
He knew Arthur liked building around youth. He'd seen the trend. And Camoranesi, despite his experience, hadn't been a guaranteed starter at Leeds. There was always a younger player competing for his spot—a young Frenchman, in fact, who had started ahead of him on several occasions.
And Cannavaro? He was thirty-three now.
That thought had been nagging at him for weeks. The fear that if he joined Leeds, he'd be pushed aside—sitting on the bench while younger players took his place.