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The media explosion was even bigger than Arthur expected.
Bright and early Sunday morning, the headlines were everywhere, screaming louder than a flock of angry seagulls.
"Shocking! Leeds United Confirms Receiving Multiple Offers!"
"Real Madrid or Barcelona? The Battle for Sneijder Heats Up!"
"Confirmed! Ferguson Admits to Bidding for Tevez!"
"Detailed Analysis: Leeds United's Road to Revival!"
"Many Giants Compete for Adebayor!"
"Helpless Arthur Left with Tough Choices!"
"Leeds United Loses Its Composure — Is the Championship Slipping Away?"
It was like a tabloid buffet, and every newspaper in the country had shown up with an empty plate.
Allen's carefully scripted performance at yesterday's press conference had been blown up, twisted, and milked dry by every sports media outlet within fifty miles — and a few who probably couldn't even find Leeds on a map.
Meanwhile, Leeds United fans were having a collective meltdown. Panic was spreading faster than free pizza at a college dorm. They weren't worried about the future — oh no — they were terrified about tonight's game. The fear was simple: what if all this noise distracted the players? What if their golden season crashed and burned because someone had one eye on a bigger paycheck?
At morning training, the atmosphere was as tense as a job interview at a clown college. Players tried to act casual, but you could tell most of them had read the headlines. They weren't making eye contact. They were kicking the ball like it owed them money. Arthur watched them silently from the sidelines, sipping his coffee like a king surveying a kingdom that might catch fire any second.
And sure enough, after training wrapped up, one player nervously shuffled his way over.
Adebayor.
"Boss…" Adebayor said, fidgeting with his shoelaces like they were going to save him. "I, uh, I saw some news this morning. About... you know... offers."
The big striker, who had been terrorizing defenses all season long, suddenly looked like a schoolboy about to ask for extra homework. Gone was the swagger. Gone was the bravado. Right now, he had the same energy as someone who'd just googled their own symptoms and was convinced they were dying.
Arthur didn't react right away. He just smiled that calm, slightly smug smile he reserved for players who thought they were playing chess when they were actually playing checkers.
He set his coffee down, leaned back casually against a post, and said, "Yeah, Emmanuel. You're not wrong. We've had a few offers for you."
He said it like he was talking about offers on an old car. No big deal.
Adebayor's eyes widened, but he quickly nodded, trying to act cool. "I figured... I just wanted to ask if it was true. Thanks for being honest, boss."
He gave a little wave and turned to leave. He probably thought he had survived the conversation without embarrassing himself.
But just as he took two steps away, Arthur's voice floated across the training ground, smooth as butter:
"Emmanuel," he said. "What about you? Do you want to leave Leeds United?"
The question hit Adebayor harder than a two-footed tackle. He froze. Slowly, awkwardly, he turned around.
His face said it all: he didn't know whether to nod, shake his head, or just pretend he didn't hear the question and sprint away.
The truth was, deep down, Adebayor did kind of want to leave. Not because he hated Leeds United. Not even because he was chasing trophies. No, it was something much simpler: money.
In his head, he had already been doing the math for weeks. Six thousand euros a week sounded great — until you started reading articles comparing you to Didier Drogba and calling you the "Little Monster" of Leeds United. Then it didn't sound so great anymore. In fact, it sounded downright insulting.
Especially when you grew up poor. Especially when your agent was whispering in your ear every other day: "They don't pay you what you're worth, Emmanuel. After this season, we push for a raise. If they say no, we walk."
Adebayor had spent all morning trying to find a way to bring it up. He had planned to casually mention the news headlines, act surprised, then gently slide into the real conversation: pay me more or I'm gone.
Instead, Arthur had beaten him to it — and now he was stuck like a deer in headlights.
Arthur didn't wait for an answer. He casually sipped his coffee, then dropped the real message.
"Whether you want to leave or not, Emmanuel," Arthur said, "you're a professional. Tonight, you focus on winning the game. Score a few goals while you're at it. That way, whether you stay or leave, you'll have something real to bargain with. Think about it: would you rather walk into a new club as a champion... or as a runner-up?"
It was like dropping a microphone.
Adebayor blinked.
Arthur gave him a small nod, picked up his coffee, and started walking back toward the training facility, leaving Adebayor standing there like someone who had just been handed the secret formula to life.
Inside Adebayor's head, gears were turning at full speed.
The boss is right, he thought. Win the championship, and I'll have all the leverage. Whether it's Arsenal or another club, they'll have to pay me more. Hell, even if I stay, Arthur can't lowball me after carrying the team to a title!
Suddenly, Adebayor wasn't stressed anymore. Suddenly, tonight's match wasn't a burden — it was an opportunity. A platform. His ticket to the big time.
He nodded to himself, clenched his fists dramatically (though nobody was watching), and jogged off the training ground, practically skipping with excitement.
Arthur, watching from a distance, smiled slightly.
In truth, he didn't care much whether Adebayor stayed or left. In fact, he had already accepted that Adebayor would almost certainly be gone by summer. That was fine. Arthur wasn't sentimental. He knew players like Adebayor were like cats: loyal only when fed.
What mattered was getting the most out of him now — and Arthur had just planted the perfect seed.
Greed.
Not in a cartoonish villain way. Just a simple, natural greed. The kind that motivated players to run faster, jump higher, and score goals like their life depended on it. And tonight, Arthur needed Adebayor playing like his next paycheck was on the line.
Because it was.
Arthur took another slow sip of coffee, feeling very pleased with himself.
If all went according to plan, tonight Leeds United would clinch the championship, Adebayor would bag a few goals, and in a few months, Wenger and Arsenal could deal with his salary demands.
Arthur would just sit back, cash the transfer check, and smile.
In the end, it was all business.
And business was good.
····
Inside the meeting room at West Bromwich Albion, the air was so thick with cigar smoke that you could barely see the people sitting across the table. If you were a non-smoker and happened to wander in by accident, you'd probably think you had walked straight into a fog machine at a low-budget concert and run out gagging.
Bates, the club's major shareholder and self-appointed boss of everything, sat at the head of the table, looking like a man who hadn't slept properly in a week — because he hadn't.
Ever since Arthur's email rejecting West Brom's offer for Tevez landed in his inbox, Bates had been a wreck. His brain was a hamster wheel running at full speed, but getting nowhere.
He wasn't sure what terrified him more:— The possibility that Arthur was pulling some sneaky trick to squeeze more money out of him,— Or the nightmare that another club might swoop in and grab Tevez before he could get his act together.
And today, just to spice things up, Bates opened the morning papers and nearly had a heart attack.
"FERGUSON ADMITS TO BUYING TEVEZ!" blared the headlines.
Bates didn't even bother calling anyone to confirm if the news was real. He didn't need to. If Alex Ferguson said he wanted a player, he meant it. And when Ferguson wanted something, he usually got it.
Panic rising, Bates made a snap decision: Emergency Meeting.
He called up the other shareholders, dragged them all down to the club bright and early, and now they were crammed into the smoky conference room, pretending they weren't furious about being pulled out of bed on a Sunday morning.
Bates wasted no time. He launched into a passionate speech about how Tevez was the key to the club's future, how they had to move fast, and how this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to steal a world-class player right from under Manchester United's nose.
He spoke for twenty minutes straight without taking a breath.
The shareholders listened... or at least they pretended to. Some nodded politely. Some stared blankly at the smoke. One guy looked like he was calculating how long it would take to fake a heart attack and escape.
When Bates finally stopped to wipe the sweat from his forehead, he looked around, waiting for applause.
It didn't come.
Instead, the shareholders immediately started pushing back.
Trigger Tevez's release clause directly? Absolutely not.
Shell out all that money in one shot? Forget it.
Risk another "Howard situation"? Not a chance.
The "Howard situation" was a wound that still hadn't healed. They had overpaid for Howard earlier in the season, and he had performed about as well as a three-legged racehorse. Now every time someone suggested splashing cash, the name "Howard" got thrown around like a curse word.
Bates tried to argue. He pointed at charts. He waved contracts in the air. He shouted something about "vision" and "destiny."
The shareholders didn't budge.
Another long silence filled the room. You could practically hear everyone thinking: This guy's lost it.
Bates' face slowly transformed during the silence. First, he looked furious, like he might throw a chair. Then, he went disturbingly calm — the kind of calm that usually comes right before someone does something monumentally stupid.
He stubbed out his cigar with an exaggerated crunch, stood up slowly, and smoothed down his wrinkled jacket.
Then he said, in a voice so controlled it was actually scary:
"Since everyone disagrees with my proposal, fine. I won't force you. Today's meeting is over."
The shareholders all let out a small, relieved breath. Maybe, just maybe, Bates wasn't going to do anything crazy after all.
They were wrong.
Bates wasn't done. Not even close.
He cleared his throat, made sure everyone was still listening, and dropped the bomb:
"However, as the club manager, I have the authority to use the club's remaining funds as I see fit."
He paused, enjoying the confused looks around the table, before continuing:
"I will still make the offer for Tevez. If necessary, I will sell players to raise cash. And if that's not enough, I will take out a loan."
A few of the shareholders started to protest, but Bates raised a hand to silence them.
"Oh, and just so we're clear," he added, almost casually, "the loan will be in my name. Private. It won't affect the club's finances — or your precious dividends. But... if we sell Tevez later and make a profit? That money will be mine. Not yours."
Mic. Drop.
With that, Bates turned on his heel and marched out of the room, leaving a dozen stunned shareholders staring at each other like they'd just seen someone voluntarily set their own pants on fire.
For a full minute, nobody said a word. They just sat there, blinking through the smoke.
Finally, one brave soul broke the silence.
"Has he gone mad?" he whispered.
No one answered. Mostly because nobody was sure what the answer was.
All they knew was that Bates was serious. Dead serious. And when Bates got an idea into his head — especially a bad one — there was no stopping him.
The shareholders slumped back in their chairs, resigning themselves to the fact that disaster was probably incoming. They could already imagine the headlines if this went sideways: "West Brom Blows Budget on Tevez Gamble!" or maybe "Bates Bets the Club — and Loses!"
Meanwhile, somewhere in Leeds, Arthur was probably sipping a coffee, grinning to himself, and waiting for the fireworks to start.