"Nope. Absolutely not. Why on earth would I buy a thirty-year-old striker?"

Arthur didn't even let Allen finish before cutting him off. His tone was decisive, the sort of tone that didn't just close a door but slammed it, locked it, and threw away the key.

The idea was ridiculous. Sure, deep in the back of his mind, Arthur knew Thierry Henry would still have two very good years left after joining Barcelona, but that wasn't the point. Leeds United under him wasn't a charity for football legends in their autumn years. They were a shop with teeth — a so-called "black shop," as Arthur liked to joke — snapping up talent young enough to sell later for a mountain of cash. And an almost-retiring forward? Well, you might as well buy a racehorse that had already started limping. In a few years, he'd have no resale value. You couldn't make a profit from nostalgia.

"I just mean…" Allen exhaled slowly, visibly relieved that Arthur hadn't completely lost his temper. "Based on my understanding of you, you're not the type to go after a striker that age."

But Allen couldn't help himself. Curiosity gnawed at him. If Arthur wasn't interested in buying Henry, why bring him up in the first place? Why grab him, throw out a name like that, and then shoot it down?

Arthur spotted that unspoken question lingering in Allen's eyes and grinned knowingly. He shifted the conversation like a magician palming a coin.

"Allen," Arthur said, his voice dropping into the conspiratorial tone that usually meant trouble, "can you get the kid from Barcelona?"

Allen blinked. "Barcelona? …Kid?"

The leap from Henry to "some kid" at Barcelona was a mental jump Allen hadn't been prepared for. But a moment later, the dots connected in his head. The "kid" Arthur was talking about wasn't some random academy player — it was him. Lionel Messi.

Allen's expression shifted from puzzlement to cautious calculation. He thought for a few seconds, then slowly shook his head. "Boss… that's going to be very difficult. Almost impossible, actually."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Ah?" The sharpness of Allen's answer caught him off guard. He'd expected at least a hesitant maybe, or some kind of negotiation talk.

Before Arthur could push further, Allen leaned forward and started explaining.

"Look, boss, I've been with you long enough to know exactly the kind of player you like. And Messi? Yeah, I thought about him too. In fact, after we got a bit more financial breathing room last year, I actually reached out through an intermediary and spoke to his father — who, as you know, is also his agent."

Arthur's eyes lit up with interest, but Allen wasn't done.

"Now, forget about the insane release clause for a second. The main problem is that the boy doesn't want to leave Barcelona. Full stop. And after Inter Milan made that whole scene last year trying to tempt him away, Barcelona doubled down. At the start of this month, they had him sign a new contract… and they jacked his release clause up to…" Allen paused for emphasis, "…one hundred and fifty million euros."

Arthur's jaw practically unhinged. "What?!" His eyes bulged like he'd just been told his local coffee shop was charging twenty pounds for an espresso. "So high?"

He'd known Messi would be expensive — that much was obvious — but this? In 2007? This wasn't just expensive, it was absurd. It was "you-could-buy-a-small-island-for-that-money" expensive.

He felt an almost childish urge to pull out a calculator just to check if Allen was winding him up. But no, Allen's expression was far too serious.

Arthur groaned. "I can't afford that!"

In truth, Messi's name had popped into his head on a whim. He hadn't even bothered checking the system for the actual numbers. And now that Allen had laid it out so plainly, the reality hit like a bucket of ice water.

Allen tilted his head and asked with a teasing smile, "So… should I still go and buy him, boss?"

Arthur didn't hesitate. "Buy a hammer!" he barked. "If we tried that, Leeds United would be bankrupt before the ink dried! Unless Frank's planning to pay for it himself, there's no way. What's Messi going to do, play one versus eleven every week?"

Allen burst into laughter, doubling over at the image of a lone Messi dribbling past entire teams just to save Arthur's transfer gamble. "Hahaha!"

Even as the laughter faded, Allen's curiosity was still there. "But seriously, boss… how does Henry's transfer have anything to do with Messi?"

Arthur gave a theatrical sigh, leaning back in his chair like a man about to tell a story. "Here's what I was thinking. If Barcelona really splash out to buy Henry, and it leaves them a bit tight on the financial side… well, that might be the perfect moment for us to 'send warmth' to Laporta."

Allen smirked. "Send warmth?"

Arthur nodded seriously, though there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. "You know… swoop in and take a certain young Argentine off their hands while they're busy counting pennies. I mean, after these last two matches, I'm jealous of that kid. Absolutely jealous."

He didn't need to explain further. Both men could picture it: Messi weaving past defenders like they were traffic cones, making even world-class teams look like Sunday league sides. For Arthur, who loved turning raw or underestimated talent into gold, Messi wasn't just a dream signing — he was the dream signing.

Unfortunately, dreams didn't come cheap. And 150 million euros wasn't just "not cheap." It was the kind of number that made even billionaires cough into their wine.

Allen leaned back with a shake of his head. "Boss… unless Barcelona start selling players to pay for their electricity bill, I think we might need to put that plan on ice."

Arthur chuckled, but his eyes were still distant, already imagining the headlines if Messi ever pulled on a Leeds shirt.

*****

Arthur was still looking a bit down, and Allen clearly noticed it. The man leaned forward like a conspirator trying to pitch a secret deal.

"Boss, forget Messi," Allen said in a tone that suggested he was offering Arthur the keys to a secret treasure vault. "But there's someone else in Barcelona I think you might like. If you fancy him, we could try to put in an offer."

Arthur, still lost in thought, lifted an eyebrow. "Who?"

"Their center forward—Samuel Eto'o," Allen replied, like he'd just pulled an ace from his sleeve.

Arthur blinked. "Eto'o? He's looking to leave?"

Allen nodded with the enthusiasm of a man who had just spotted a free buffet. "Yes! I've been hearing things. Word is, life for him at Barcelona isn't exactly paradise. For one, Ronaldinho's overshadowing him in the salary department, which doesn't sit well. And then Rijkaard's started asking him to hand over some of his shooting opportunities to Messi. He's… let's just say, not too keen on that idea. Plus—get this—Barcelona already have three center forwards: Saviola, Falcao, and Eto'o. Now, if they bring in Henry on top of that, they'll have more strikers than they know what to do with."

Arthur leaned back, tapping his fingers on the armrest. Eto'o? Could Barcelona actually be willing to let him go?

Allen didn't know it, but Arthur had the future mapped out in his head like a secret war plan. He knew that if Barcelona signed Henry, Eto'o wouldn't necessarily be out in the cold. In fact, he knew for a fact they could coexist.

The reasoning was simple: starting next season, Ronaldinho—already showing signs of decline—would nosedive in form, thanks to injuries and a chaotic personal life. Rijkaard would have no choice but to push the Brazilian out of the starting lineup, and Henry would take over the left wing instead.

That said, there was still one unknown variable—Falcao. Arthur had sold him to Barcelona himself, and the Colombian could easily change the balance of the squad.

Still, Allen's idea had merit. The more Arthur thought about it, the more tempting it sounded.

In pure ability, Eto'o was among the very best strikers in world football. At twenty-six, he was right in his prime years. The man was quick, lethal in front of goal, and had the kind of relentless energy that gave defenders nightmares. Plus, there was no long-term risk—Arthur wasn't the type to hang on to a player forever. If things didn't work out, or if the right buyer came along, he could cash in.

And Arthur already knew there'd be a buyer. In fact, he could practically see it: Mourinho, two years from now, running Inter Milan and eyeing Eto'o like a wolf spots a stray sheep. Arthur could sell him then and probably make a tidy profit.

"Alright," Arthur said finally, nodding as if sealing a backroom deal. "Let's do it. Keep monitoring the situation closely. The moment you're sure Henry's agreed with Barcelona, I want you on the phone with Laporta and Eto'o's agent immediately."

Allen grinned—mission accepted.

The following week rolled in, and with it came the big event: the Champions League quarter-final draw. This time, Arthur decided he wasn't going to waste his energy flying over for the ceremony. Instead, he sent Simeone and Allen to represent Leeds United and parked himself comfortably on his sofa at home, remote in hand, snacks within reach.

Quarter-finals meant one thing—no more protection from facing teams in the same domestic league. Which meant the three remaining Premier League teams could easily end up drawn against each other.

Arthur had already done the mental sorting. Of the eight teams left, only PSV Eindhoven and Valencia were, on paper, the "soft" options. Not pushovers exactly, but far less terrifying than the likes of AC Milan, Barcelona, or the English heavyweights.

If he had his way, he'd take PSV Eindhoven in a heartbeat. For one, Leeds had already beaten them twice in the group stage. That kind of psychological edge was worth its weight in gold.

And according to his memory of "how things originally went," Liverpool—the team Leeds had replaced in this timeline—were supposed to draw PSV Eindhoven in this round. Everything pointed to fate handing him a friendly matchup.

Of course, fate and UEFA had other plans.

The ceremony began. Balls were swirled around in the bowls, the little slips of paper waiting to crush or confirm dreams. The first team drawn: Valencia. Arthur perked up. And their opponents? Chelsea.

Alright, no problem. Plenty of good options still on the table.

Then came the next draw. Leeds United's name came out. Arthur sat forward. This was it. The ball was cracked open slowly by Florentino Pérez—the guest of honor for the day—and Arthur held his breath.

He was already picturing PSV's name inside. He could almost taste it.

But when Florentino peeled back the paper and revealed the name, Arthur's stomach dropped. It wasn't PSV Eindhoven.

It was AC Milan.

For a second, Arthur just stared at the TV. His brain took a moment to process. Then his eyes narrowed. AC Milan. The defending champions. The team he knew—without a shadow of a doubt—was going to lift the trophy this year.

"What the hell!?" Arthur blurted out, springing up from the sofa like the cushions had just caught fire. "What kind of cursed draw is that, you old goat!?"

On the screen, Florentino smiled for the cameras, oblivious to the verbal abuse being hurled at him from several hundred miles away. Arthur jabbed a finger at the TV like Florentino could somehow feel the accusation through the glass.

He knew it wasn't personal—Florentino wasn't sitting there thinking, Hmm, let's ruin Arthur's week—but in the heat of the moment, it felt like the man had reached across continents just to deal Leeds United the worst possible hand.

Arthur flopped back onto the sofa with a groan, muttering under his breath. The quarter-final dream matchup against PSV had vanished like smoke, replaced with the towering, red-and-black-clad reality of AC Milan.