Moors was absolutely stunned. For a few precious seconds, he just sat there in his office, mouth slightly open, phone pressed to his ear like it had personally betrayed him.
"Mr. Morgan," he finally blurted out, voice tight with panic, "Gerrard is not for sale. There's no debate here. I can't use Gerrard to exchange for Deisler! That's not even remotely on the table!"
On the other end of the line, Arthur nearly choked on his coffee. He waved his hand even though Moors couldn't see him.
"No, no, no! Mr. Moors, relax! I don't want Gerrard!" he said quickly, half-laughing at how quickly things had escalated. "You've misunderstood me. I'm not asking for your captain. I want Xabi Alonso."
Now it was Moors' turn to pause again, though this time with a confused grunt instead of pure panic.
"Alonso?" he repeated, cautiously.
"Yes," Arthur said, leaning back in his chair with a smug little grin that only a man with a hidden plan could pull off. "Xabi Alonso."
Truth be told, Arthur had already been plotting this the moment Deisler came to him with that sheepish face and news of Liverpool's interest. He hadn't hesitated. He didn't cry. He didn't rage. Instead, he had calmly walked over to his whiteboard, stared at it like it was a sacred relic, and muttered, "If I can't have elegance in the No.10 role, I'll build it deeper."
The whole reason he'd agreed to let Deisler go so easily was simple: Arthur had been eyeing Alonso for weeks.
After bringing in Modrić and watching the little Croatian glide across the pitch like a drunk ballerina with a GPS, Arthur knew he was onto something. He had a vision: to replicate Real Madrid's legendary "ceremonial three midfielders" from the future—Kroos, Modrić, and Casemiro. But unfortunately, in 2005, Kroos and Casemiro were still basically kids. Literally.
He couldn't exactly pull them out of a German kindergarten and Brazilian youth academy. That would be kidnapping.
But Alonso? He was real. He was available. And he was exactly what Arthur needed.
Xabi Alonso had that majestic passing range, that radar-like vision, the calm presence of a monk in midfield combat. He didn't score much—fine, whatever—but he made the game breathe. He was graceful without being flashy, and more importantly, he could clean up messes behind Modrić like a janitor with a PhD in geometry.
In Arthur's mind, this wasn't just a trade—it was daylight robbery with a smile.
He could already hear the football world buzzing. "Leeds let go of Deisler?" they'd say. "Why would they do that?"
But Arthur would just sit back, legs on his desk, watching Alonso thread inch-perfect passes from deep, knowing exactly what he'd done.
Even better? In about six months, there was a 90% chance Deisler's body would start waving a white flag again. Not that Arthur wanted that, of course.
But if Liverpool ended up holding a broken toy, and Arthur got a midfield metronome in return? Well… that's just good business.
Hearing that Arthur didn't actually want Gerrard, Moors finally stopped sweating through his shirt. There was a solid moment where he thought he'd be fired on the spot just for listening to that proposal. But then Arthur dropped the Alonso bomb, and Moors immediately felt his soul leaving his body again.
Xabi Alonso? That wasn't much better! The man had been personally anointed by Benítez as the shining beacon of Liverpool's midfield resurrection! Trying to convince Benítez to swap Alonso for an emotionally fragile German winger was like trying to sell ice to the Spanish in January.
Still, negotiations trudged on—if you could call it that. In reality, it was just Moors and Arthur yelling at each other through the phone like two bitter neighbours arguing over a shared fence.
"No way!" Moors barked.
"He's not even your best midfielder!" Arthur shot back.
"He's essential!"
"He's got the stamina of a librarian!"
"Deisler's not even stable!"
"Exactly, that's why I want him gone!"
Finally, after what felt like hours of arguing (and one very close call where Arthur nearly hung up just to win the last word), Arthur proposed a compromise: Deisler, in exchange for Alonso plus 1.5 million euros.
Moors, thoroughly exhausted and emotionally broken, caved in. The deal was tentatively agreed. Both sides grumbled and went to ice their ears.
Surprisingly, after Arthur gave Deisler a clear answer about the transfer situation, the German's mood visibly lifted. He was suddenly more focused in training, no longer staring off into the distance like he was pondering the meaning of life or which cereal he liked best.
Arthur noticed the change immediately. "Great," he thought, "now he's functioning like a proper human being again."So, with a bit of cautious optimism, Arthur put Deisler back into the starting lineup for the upcoming match against Tottenham.
It was the last weekend of November, and round 14 of the Premier League was underway. Leeds United were at home, ready to face Tottenham Hotspur at Elland Road.
Tottenham had their own issues, mainly a front line that couldn't score in a bakery. After 13 rounds, they had only managed to find the net 14 times. Their attack was so dry, it could start brushfires. Still, they sat in 8th place with 21 points from 5 wins, 6 draws, and 2 losses.
Leeds United, on the other hand, were stuck in mid-table purgatory. Their last match ended in a 3-3 draw with Arsenal, which sounded better than it felt. Now sitting 13th, Arthur's team needed a real win—and fast.
Arthur stuck with the same lineup he'd used against Arsenal. No surprise, really—no point fixing what wasn't broken, even if the Arsenal match had felt more like two old men arguing in slow motion than a proper football game.
Tottenham, meanwhile, had rolled into town with their usual batch of confused optimism and one very familiar face: Robbie Keane. Ah yes—Robbie Keane. Once the hopeful prince of Elland Road, now the slightly grumpy visitor in enemy colours. He'd been sold off in 2002 during Leeds United's "everything must go" bankruptcy bonanza, for the price of a packet of crisps and 7 million pounds.
Now, for the first time since his exit, Keane was back at Elland Road. During the pre-match introductions, club legend Eddie Gray read out the names over the tannoy. When he reached Keane's name, the crowd—surprisingly—burst into warm applause. A few fans even stood up and clapped like proud aunties. Keane gave a sheepish little wave, clearly touched.
That was the highlight of his day.
Because ninety minutes later, Keane was staring at the scoreboard like it had just insulted his mother. Leeds 3, Tottenham2.
Keane had done everything he could in the second half, scoring twice like a man on a personal redemption arc. But the damage was already done—courtesy of a certain Colombian wrecking ball named Radamel Falcao.
Falcao was unplayable. He wasn't just scoring goals—he was collecting souls. Tottenham's centre-backs, Noureddine Naybet and Ledley King, looked like they'd been hit by a freight train in slow motion. By halftime, Falcao had already bagged a hat-trick: one header, one volley, and one toe poke that somehow bounced in off the post like it was scripted by a Hollywood writer.
Arthur, watching from the sidelines with the smug satisfaction of a man who'd just gotten a good deal at a car boot sale, thought the match was done and dusted. So at the 65-minute mark, he started making subs to rest legs ahead of the next match against Liverpool. Modric and Mascherano were the first to be yanked off, and they looked happy enough about it.
But the minute they left the pitch, Leeds' midfield turned into a no-man's-land. Passes went astray, tackles missed by miles, and suddenly Robbie Keane looked like prime Ronaldo.
Within ten frantic minutes, Keane had scored twice. Arthur—once calm—was now yelling like a dad who just saw someone scratch his car. Hands flailing, words flying, absolutely no decorum.
Still, his defence managed to hang on through the chaos. Barely. Leeds survived the final push and scraped away with a 3–2 win.
Those three points bumped them up to 17 in total, nudging Leeds back into the top ten. A small, slightly chaotic victory—but a victory nonetheless.
***
During the week leading up to the Liverpool clash, Arthur wasn't in a rush to leave Thorp Arch after training like the rest of the squad. While his players hit the showers or dashed home for takeaway, Arthur locked himself in his office, sat down with a mug of something vaguely resembling coffee, and cracked open a fat scout report—thicker than a phonebook and just as exciting.
He had one goal: find reinforcements.
So far, the only signing locked in for January was Rivaldo. Yes, that Rivaldo. Arthur was still surprised the man didn't laugh and hang up the phone when contacted, but somehow it was done. As for Xabi Alonso, Morse still hadn't given a straight answer, but Arthur was optimistic. Mostly because he'd been mentally willing the deal into existence like a transfer-obsessed wizard.
In terms of holding midfielders, Leeds were covered. Mascherano, Modric, Yaya Touré, and even Milner—if you squinted hard enough—could all fill the role. But the forward line? It needed work. Real work. Right now, Falcao was pulling double duty as striker and savior, and Arthur didn't want the man to spontaneously combust by February.
After a week of digging through names, watching grainy DVD footage, and almost falling asleep on his desk twice, Arthur finally came across a scout report from Germany that made him smack his forehead so hard it echoed.
"Of course!" he muttered. "Podolski!"
How had he forgotten?
Lukas Podolski, the sharp-shooting left-footed wonderkid still at Cologne, was just 20 years old but already playing like a man who'd been raised on goals for breakfast. Arthur remembered Bayern scooping him up the following year, but this—this—was his chance to jump the queue.
Podolski could play as a left winger, a left midfielder, up top, even just behind the striker as a shadow forward. The lad was basically a footballing Swiss army knife with a rocket for a left foot. Arthur pulled up the system's data: lightning-quick, stats across the board better than Gareth Bale—except maybe top-end speed—and best of all, the price tag was still within reach. No ten-figure madness. No oil money nonsense. Just a good, solid 9.5 million euros… hopefully.
Arthur didn't know anyone at Cologne, and he wasn't about to cold-call Germany and start awkwardly asking for footballers like it was a takeaway order. So, he called in Lina.
"Can you get someone to contact Cologne and do this properly? Like, with forms and polite emails?"
Lina, used to Arthur's sudden transfer brainwaves, nodded like this was just another Tuesday.
Several days and a few back-and-forths later, the good news came through: Cologne accepted the bid—9.5 million euros. No drama. No last-minute bidding war. Just a clean deal.
And just like that, Arthur had secured his third signing of the winter window. Rivaldo, potentially Alonso, and now Podolski.
The squad was beginning to take shape… and Arthur was finally starting to grin like a man with a plan
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