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Moors was sweating bullets. Not literally—he was sitting in a warm Liverpool office chair sipping espresso—but emotionally, he was soaked.
Every time he saw Deisler on the highlight reels scoring another banger for Leeds, he flinched like he'd just lost an eBay bid by two seconds.
And the latest goal? A smooth top-corner finish against Arsenal. That one nearly gave Moors a nosebleed.
The winter transfer window was creeping closer, and Moors knew time wasn't on his side. If Deisler kept playing like this, the sharks would come circling.
Real Madrid, Bayern, Juventus—he could already hear their fax machines warming up. And Moors? He wanted the German winger all to himself. Quietly. Cheaply. Before the bidding war exploded.
So after that slightly awkward conversation with Arthur last week—where Arthur made it clear he wasn't in the mood for lowball offers—Moors went straight to Plan B: Neubauer.
Neubauer, Deisler's agent, had the subtlety of a bulldozer and the loyalty of a vending machine. Moors loved that about him.
"Tell him Liverpool wants him," Moors said, leaning in like a dodgy character in a spy movie. "Tell him he'd be starting every game. And if you can convince him to ask for a transfer? There's a nice commission waiting for you. Very nice."
That was all Neubauer needed. The man nearly teleported out of the room.
The next week, right after the Leeds vs Arsenal thriller, Moors followed up again.
"We need a verbal agreement in two weeks," he told Neubauer over the phone. "If not… well, no commission. I'll have to look elsewhere."
Neubauer took the hint. Loud and clear.
On Monday, while most Leeds players were enjoying a well-earned day off—playing FIFA, eating suspicious-looking eggs, or trying to remember what sunlight felt like—Neubauer showed up at Deisler's apartment uninvited. Again.
Deisler had just made a cup of coffee. He didn't even get to sip it.
"Sebi!" Neubauer burst in like he was hosting a game show. "Big news! Liverpool is serious. They want you. They need you. You could be a star at Anfield!"
Deisler blinked. "I… uh… I haven't really thought about it."
"Think about it now," Neubauer said, practically pacing around the living room. "You've got two weeks. Moors wants an answer. This could change everything!"
Deisler, who had finally started to feel normal again thanks to Arthur's injury recovery card, now felt a familiar weight returning to his shoulders: doubt.
Sure, the injuries were behind him. But the indecision? That was part of his DNA. The poor guy couldn't even pick a movie to watch without three hours of inner turmoil. And now he had to decide whether to leave Leeds—where he'd just found form—and jump to Liverpool?
The next few days in training were a disaster.
Deisler kept zoning out mid-drill. During one scrimmage, he passed the ball to the assistant coach, who wasn't even playing. At one point, he tied his boots five times in 10 minutes just to avoid eye contact.
Arthur noticed everything. He wasn't a fool.
"Tapped up," he muttered from the touchline, watching Deisler jog like a distracted pigeon. "Classic."
He knew Liverpool had gotten to him. And judging by Deisler's confused, twitchy face, the offer wasn't low either.
Still, Arthur wasn't panicking. From his perspective, everyone had a price—and more importantly, everyone had a replacement. The system gave him tools no one else had.
Hidden gems, stats, potential… he could sell a star today and replace him tomorrow. Stronger. Cheaper. Hungrier.
But still, he'd prefer if his players could at least finish one training session without needing therapy.
The match against Tottenham was set for Saturday, but Arthur had something more pressing on his mind than formations or starting lineups. Deisler had been off in training. Not injured, not sick, just… off. Like a Wi-Fi signal that kept dropping every ten minutes.
So, after the final whistle blew on the team's Friday training session and the rest of the squad shuffled off toward hot showers and cold banter, Arthur called out, "Sebastian! My office. Now, please."
Deisler, already halfway through removing his boots, froze like someone caught with contraband in their backpack. He trudged over to Arthur's office, boots in hand, hair a mess, looking like a student summoned by the headmaster.
Once inside, Arthur didn't waste time. He poured Deisler a glass of water with the calm intensity of a mafia don serving espresso, then gestured to the couch. Deisler sat. Arthur stayed standing.
"Sebastian," Arthur began, tone firm but calm, "I won't beat around the bush. Your performance in training lately—let's be honest—it's been below par. You're not injured. The physios haven't reported anything. So… what's going on?"
Deisler blinked, clearly not expecting the question to be that direct. He sat up straighter on the sofa, clutching the water glass like a lifeline. His face ran through several emotions: surprise, guilt, mild panic, and possibly the realization that his shoelaces were still untied.
He didn't speak immediately. Just frowned, staring into the water like it might whisper the correct answer back to him. For a full minute, Arthur said nothing either, simply watching. Not judging. Just waiting.
Finally, Deisler placed the glass back on the table and took a shaky breath.
"Boss," he said, voice low, "a club contacted my agent. They want to buy me."
The words came out like a confession. He slumped back into the sofa afterward, as if physically deflating. But the white-knuckled grip on his trousers gave away his nerves.
To his surprise, Arthur didn't flinch. Didn't scowl. Didn't even blink.
"Is it Liverpool?" Arthur asked, as casually as if he were asking about the weather.
Deisler's eyebrows shot up. "You… you know?"
Arthur gave a half-smile. "Of course I know. They approached us first with an offer. A formal one. I turned it down."
Deisler looked even more stunned now, like a magician had just pulled a fullback out of a hat.
"Sebastian," Arthur continued, his tone softening, "your performances this season have been outstanding. You're essential to this team. You bring control, creativity, experience—things money can't just buy off the shelf. So no, I'm not selling you easily."
Deisler let out a small breath, visibly less tense. Maybe he was expecting to be benched. Or shouted at. Or both. But Arthur had handled it calmly, even kindly.
But then, the tone shifted again.
"And what about you?" Arthur asked, voice dipping into something more serious. "Do you want to leave?"
Now it was Deisler's turn to be caught off guard. He froze for a second, like a man who'd just been handed a mic he wasn't ready for. He looked down, then back up. Swallowed hard.
"Boss… I have to admit something. Playing in the Champions League directly, it would boost my chances with the German national team. Next year is the World Cup—hosted in Germany. This might be my last big shot."
He paused, searching Arthur's face, then continued.
"And Liverpool… their offer. It's very generous. The wages are… well, high."
Arthur leaned back slightly, folding his arms. He didn't need a calculator to understand. World Cup years were always chaos. Players would suddenly run faster, shoot harder, and smile more in interviews—anything to catch the eye of their national team coaches.
And for Deisler, it was more than just football. He'd clawed his way back from injury and depression. Arthur had helped him with that—well, with a little help from the injury card. But still, next year, that card would expire. And if the old demons returned, Liverpool might find themselves with a ticking time bomb in their midfield.
Arthur nodded slowly, understanding the full picture now. But he said nothing yet. This conversation wasn't over—but he had heard everything he needed.
After giving it some thought—and rubbing his temples like a man calculating tax on a dinner bill—Arthur finally leaned forward and gave Deisler his answer.
"Well, Sebastian," he said, voice calm but firm, "I understand where you're coming from. And in principle, I won't stand in your way. If you want to leave, fine—get your agent to contact Liverpool. As long as they come back with a serious offer, not some lowball nonsense, I'll let you go."
Deisler sat up, blinking in surprise. For a moment, it looked like he was waiting for a punchline.
"But," Arthur added, raising a finger like a stern uncle about to lay down life advice, "you're still a Leeds United player. Which means I expect to see you fully committed on that training ground tomorrow. No moping, no half-hearted passes, no 'I forgot my boots' excuses."
His voice dropped slightly, colder now.
"Because if I see anything less than your best, you'll be enjoying the next few months from the comfort of the bench. I've got plenty of cushions for you."
Deisler's mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again like a fish trying to apologize. He quickly nodded, hands practically glued to his knees.
"Yes, boss. Absolutely. I promise. Full effort tomorrow, no problem. Thank you!"
He got up, bowed slightly—not out of formality, but more like someone who had just been given a second chance at dessert—and scurried out of Arthur's office.
…
Meanwhile, Deisler's agent, Neubauer, wasted absolutely no time. The man could smell opportunity like a bloodhound with a nose full of ambition. As soon as he got off the phone with Deisler, he dialed up Moors at Liverpool with the latest update: Arthur was willing to sell.
Moors, currently pretending to look busy in his Anfield office, perked up like a kid who just found out they might get the last PlayStation at the store. He didn't wait. By 4 PM, Arthur—who was mentally already halfway out the door and dreaming of coffee and silence—got a call from him.
"Arthur, good afternoon," Moors said smoothly, after some brief small talk that neither man cared about.
Then he got straight to it. "We're ready to increase our offer. Sixteen million euros. That's one million more than last time. I think that's fair, yes?"
Arthur didn't answer immediately. He leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling for a second, then allowed a small grin to tug at the corner of his mouth. He stared at his office wall like it had just told him a secret.
"Sixteen million?" he repeated, as if tasting the words.
"Yes. I think that's—"
"I don't want the money," Arthur cut in, casually spinning a pen between his fingers.
There was silence on the line. Moors blinked. "You… don't want the money?"
"Not all of it at least," Arthur replied, now grinning fully. "I want a player in exchange."
It was Moors' turn to freeze. A trade? This wasn't FIFA Career Mode—who even did that anymore?
Arthur leaned forward, voice calm but sly. "Let's make this interesting."