Arthur leaned back in his chair, phone pressed tightly against his ear, and allowed himself a sly grin. He had just thrown two names into the negotiation like darts at a board: "Džeko. Vardy."

On the other end, Massimo Moratti's puzzled voice drifted through the receiver.

"Džeko? Vardy? Mr. Morgan, I must admit, this is the very first time I've ever heard of these two players."

Arthur chuckled, the kind of laugh that carried both mischief and confidence. He replied smoothly, "Mr. Moratti, that's perfectly understandable. They're both young lads, loaned out this season by Leeds United. Hardly household names yet, but don't let that fool you. They've already fought their way into the starting elevens of their respective teams. And trust me—these boys aren't just placeholders. They're climbing fast. Give your scouts a ring, let them dig around, and you'll see. If you like what you hear, then we can talk numbers."

It was a classic Arthur play—introduce something unknown, make it sound like buried treasure, and then wait for the other man to lean in closer.

But Moratti wasn't biting. His voice shifted tone, bypassing Arthur's bait entirely. "Actually, Arthur, there's someone I truly want… Zlatan."

Arthur nearly choked on his own laughter. Zlatan? This old fox really thought he'd have a chance at prying away his crown jewel? He sat upright in his chair, gesturing with his free hand even though no one could see him, as if swatting away the idea.

"No, no, no! Come now, Mr. Moratti, let's not be ridiculous. You don't want Zlatan, not really. He's untouchable. Zlatan is essential to Leeds United right now. I can't possibly sell him. Not today, not tomorrow. I hope you understand exactly what I mean."

The pause on the other end told Arthur that Moratti was calculating. And then the Inter boss asked, almost slyly, "Not for the time being? Are you implying… maybe in the future?"

Arthur smirked, leaning forward as though sealing a deal with invisible ink. "Of course. You know how it is—everything in football can be measured by money. Every player has his price. The only reason I'm turning you down now is that Zlatan is too important for us at this very moment. But the future, Mr. Moratti… the future is a big place."

There was a heavy exhale, then laughter—genuine, wry laughter—from Moratti. "Oh! I see. Florentino warned me about you, you know. Said you were a master negotiator. I didn't believe it at first. Thought it was just Madrid's usual exaggeration. But now…" He let the sentence linger like cigar smoke. "…now I must admit, you've proven it. Today, you've convinced me. I'll send scouts to check out these two players you've offered—Džeko and Vardy. If they're suitable, we can work them into the deal for Adriano."

Arthur clenched his fist under the desk, though his voice remained calm and charming. "Of course, Mr. Moratti. That sounds very reasonable."

But Moratti wasn't done. His voice carried the weight of warning, like a man who'd seen too many promising deals collapse in smoke. "Still, I must remind you—Adriano's heart runs deep in Inter Milan. He loves this club. If you want to convince him to leave us for Leeds United… you're going to need more than a checkbook. You'll need charm, patience, and a little luck."

Arthur laughed, loud and free, as though he'd just been told a good joke. "Mr. Moratti, thank you for the reminder. Believe me, this isn't my first rodeo. I've done this before, and I'll do it again. I'll find a way. Hahahaha!"

····

When the call finally ended, Arthur leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly. He'd been sparring with Moratti, trading feints and counters, and for once he felt he had the upper hand. The Italian oil tycoon had blinked first. Arthur felt like he'd just pocketed a win before even stepping onto the pitch.

The very next morning, Arthur was in his office early, his coffee half-drunk and forgotten on the desk, already dialing a familiar number. When the booming, confident voice of Mino Raiola answered, Arthur wasted no time.

"Mino, it's done. I've got Moratti on board. The door is open. Now it's on you to start working Adriano over. Get inside his head, whisper sweet nothings about Leeds United, about how he'll be the star again. Prepare him psychologically—make him want the move."

Raiola, predictably, laughed like a man who lived for such games. Arthur smirked. The pieces were shifting.

But business never let him rest for long. With the Adriano operation set in motion, Arthur turned his focus back to what was immediately ahead: the second leg of the Champions League quarter-final against AC Milan, just two days away.

This was no ordinary fixture. This was war dressed in football boots. Arthur and Simeone had already hammered out the blueprint days earlier. The tactical map was ready, the battle lines drawn.

····

April 12, Elland Road Stadium.

The atmosphere was electric, Elland Road buzzing like it had been plugged into the national grid. Flags waved, chants thundered, and you could almost taste the tension in the spring air.

From the commentary box, the familiar voice of Gary Lineker rang out over the broadcast.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for tuning in to Sky Sports for tonight's massive clash—the second leg of the 2006-2007 UEFA Champions League quarter-final between Leeds United and AC Milan. I'm Gary Lineker, and with me as always is Jon!"

"Hello everyone!" Jon added warmly. "What a night we have ahead!"

Lineker was almost bouncing in his seat as he rifled through his notes. "We've just received the starting lineups—let's take a look! Starting with Leeds United, who are, of course, the hosts tonight. Now, Arthur has gone bold with his tactics, setting his side out in a 4-3-3. Between the sticks is Kasper Schmeichel. The back four, left to right: Lahm, Thiago Silva, Kompany, and Sun Jihai. In midfield, a strong trio—Mascherano anchoring as the defensive midfielder, with Touré and Sneijder providing the engine and creativity. And up front—this is where it gets exciting—Ibrahimović leads the line, flanked by young Bei Lingjie on the left and Ribéry on the right!"

Jon nodded, tapping the desk for emphasis. "That's a very aggressive setup. Arthur clearly wants to take the fight to Milan tonight."

"Now for AC Milan," Lineker continued, his voice tightening with respect. "Carlo Ancelotti sticks with his beloved 4-3-2-1 Christmas tree. Dida starts in goal. The defense: Jankulovski, Maldini, Nesta, and Oddo. In midfield: the ever-reliable Gattuso, the maestro Pirlo, and Ambrosini. Just ahead, the duo of Seedorf and Kaka will look to unlock things. And leading the line tonight—it's Pippo Inzaghi, replacing Gilardino from the first leg."

The lineups were set. The stadium roared. The stage was ready.

And Arthur? Arthur was already pacing the technical area, suit jacket flapping in the night air, every inch the mischievous general about to unleash his army.

*****

"Jon, what do you make of these two starting lineups today?" Lineker asked, the sparkle in his voice suggesting he was just waiting for his partner to unleash a flood of tactical wisdom. The moment he finished introducing the players, he practically shoved the question across the desk toward Jon like passing a hot potato.

Jon, of course, was ready. After years of working alongside Lineker, he knew his habits like the back of his hand. When Lineker read names off a team sheet, Jon didn't just sit idle — he was already scanning, dissecting, scribbling invisible arrows in his mind, lining up the possibilities like chess pieces.

So the second Lineker tossed the ball his way, Jon caught it without missing a beat.

"Let's start with the visitors," Jon began, leaning into the mic, his tone serious but with that slight undertone that suggested he might roll his eyes at Lineker at any moment. "Carlo Ancelotti hasn't done much tinkering here. His only change is swapping Gilardino for Inzaghi up front. It may sound small, but believe me — it changes a lot. These two strikers are as different as night and day. Gilardino will try to link up, hold the ball, get others involved. Inzaghi?" Jon gave a dramatic pause. "He's a completely different animal. He'll spend ninety minutes dancing along the offside line, sneaking into spaces you didn't even know existed. Frankly, I think he'll be much harder for Leeds to deal with."

Lineker jumped in instantly, voice bright with agreement. "Indeed! That man's movement is absolutely ghostly. You can watch him the entire time and still not know where he's going to pop up. It's as if he teleports. One moment he's offside by a mile, the next moment he's celebrating a goal while you're still scratching your head!"

Jon gave him the full eye-roll treatment, which the viewers at home couldn't see but could absolutely feel in his voice. "Yes, thank you for the ghost comparison, Gary. But seriously — Inzaghi thrives on chaos. One lapse in concentration, and he'll punish you."

He shifted gears smoothly, bringing the conversation back home. "Now let's talk about Leeds United. And here's where things get interesting. Dani Alves' unfortunate injury in training yesterday, combined with Cannavaro's suspension after that red card, has forced Arthur into making significant adjustments at the back. Today, we've got Sun Jihai and young Thiago Silva holding the fort in the middle. Can they handle Milan's pressure? That's the million-pound question."

Lineker chimed in with a low whistle. "And let's not forget, Leeds absolutely have to win tonight. A draw, and they're out. That puts enormous pressure on that back line. Every slip, every mistimed step could be fatal."

Jon nodded gravely, but then a spark of excitement lit his tone. "But the bigger surprise isn't at the back, Gary — it's further forward. Honestly, before the game, I didn't expect Arthur to reshuffle his attacking setup quite this much. Remember what we talked about after the first leg?"

Lineker frowned for a second, scratching at his memory, then suddenly snapped his fingers. "Oh! You mean about how Leeds could possibly keep Kaka quiet?"

"Exactly." Jon leaned closer, his words picking up speed. "Last match made it clear: Leeds' defense, no matter how disciplined, simply couldn't contain Kaka on their own. He was everywhere — running with the ball, creating, finishing. We asked ourselves: who could Arthur assign to stick with him? To man-mark him, shadow him, suffocate him?"

Lineker bobbed his head rapidly, eager to prove he remembered. "Yes, yes! That's right! We went through the whole list of candidates. None seemed up to the task."

Jon spread his hands as though presenting a magician's trick. "And Arthur seems to have come to the same conclusion. Instead of picking one man to try and cage Kaka, he's decided — why bother? Why send one sheep to guard a wolf? It'll never work. So instead, he's gone for something much smarter: cut off the supply. Don't let Kaka see the ball in the first place."

Lineker slapped the desk, his voice booming. "Brilliant! Reduce his touches, reduce his influence. If you can't stop him directly, you starve him."

Jon nodded sharply, pleased with his partner's rare burst of tactical clarity. "Exactly. Look closely at Leeds' formation today. On paper, it's a 4-3-3. But in reality? I'm convinced it's a disguised 4-5-1. In attack, you'll see Ribery and young Bale flying down the wings, providing width and pace to trouble Milan's fullbacks. But in defense, they'll both drop deep — very deep — tucking in almost as auxiliary midfielders. That creates a crowded middle, a five-man block designed to smother Pirlo, Milan's metronome, and cut off his supply lines to Kaka. Without Pirlo pulling strings, Kaka will have fewer chances to pick up the ball in dangerous spaces."

Lineker sat back, genuinely impressed. "Bloody hell, Jon, that's brilliant. So Leeds are basically trying to choke Milan's midfield, cut off the oxygen, and keep Kaka gasping."

Jon smirked at the metaphor, though he didn't disagree. "Exactly. It's not about brute force, it's about suffocation. You deny him the air to breathe, and even Kaka can't shine."

Lineker let out a dramatic laugh, clapping his hands together. "Jon, you're on fire today! I can't believe you've pulled all that from just looking at the lineups. Our viewers are going to think you secretly sneaked into Arthur's dressing room to eavesdrop on the tactical meeting!"

Jon raised his eyebrows, deadpan. "I assure you, I did not. But if Arthur's listening right now, he'll probably be grinning."

Before Lineker could add another joke, the television feed shifted. The camera panned to the tunnel at Elland Road, where the players of both sides were lining up, bouncing on their heels, shirts gleaming under the lights, faces taut with concentration. The atmosphere was crackling — part nerves, part electricity, part raw anticipation.

Lineker instantly straightened in his seat, his professional commentator voice kicking back in. "Alright, ladies and gentlemen! Enough speculation — the moment of truth is nearly upon us. The players are here, ready to walk out. Leeds United versus AC Milan, second leg, Champions League quarter-final. Let's see if Jon's analysis holds water, or if Arthur and Ancelotti have more surprises in store!"