The transfer fee business was still giving Arthur a mild headache.
After sealing the deal for Podolski, he flopped down in his office chair like he'd just completed a triathlon, then opened the club's system to check the finances—and maybe shed a quiet tear or two over how much money was about to vanish.
As of now, Leeds United's account balance stood at a healthy 17 million euros. Not exactly oil-barrel-rich, but for Arthur, it was a small fortune. Time to crunch some numbers.
On the income side: they were expecting about 3 million euros this month from regular club revenue—tickets, sponsorships, and probably a few leftover hotdog sales. Then there was Chiellini's 11 million euro transfer fee, which hadn't hit the account yet but was as good as done.
Then came the expenses, and oh boy, this is where Arthur's smile started to twitch.
Rivaldo's transfer fee had been haggled down to a surprisingly decent 4 million euros—thanks to Rivaldo's age and maybe Arthur's desperate charm. Add Podolski's 9.5 million to that, and Alonso's prospective fee, and the total player spending came to about 12 million. Toss in another 5 million for player wages, facility upgrades (which included fixing that one training pitch corner that always smelled like damp socks), and miscellaneous costs, and Arthur was looking at a total of 17 million outflow.
After all that, by the end of December, Leeds would still be sitting on roughly 15 million euros in liquid funds—enough to make Arthur breathe a little easier and not have to sell any more furniture from his office.
Now onto the squad.
With Deisler on his way out and Ribéry the only natural right winger left, Arthur was starting to sweat a bit. Sure, Milner could fill in on the wing in a pinch, but that was like using a hammer to stir coffee—technically possible, but not ideal.
What Arthur really needed was another proper right winger—preferably one who could also double up in a front three. Especially if Alonso came in, Arthur had grand plans to shift to a 4-3-3 and start playing like a modern powerhouse instead of a Championship side in disguise.
But for now, with no clear winger target on the radar and Liverpool looming large on the weekend, Arthur shelved the transfer talk and got down to the serious business of match preparation—though not before muttering, "If anyone else gets injured, I'm putting the physio on the wing."
****
At the Melwood training ground, Rafael Benítez stormed across the parking lot like a man on a mission—and a rather irritated one at that. He'd just wrapped up training, but instead of heading off to decompress with a cup of tea and a tactical notebook, he was marching straight toward David Moores' office with the determined face of a man who had seen one too many long shots from Morientes fly into the stratosphere.
Benítez had been in a foul mood for days. It wasn't just the media criticism—though there was plenty of that to go around after Liverpool barely edged past Manchester City with a scrappy 1–0 win—it was the fact that his team couldn't hit the back of the net if you gave them a map, a compass, and a pre-written apology to the goalposts. The press had already pounced, pointing out that even against a "mid-table team" like City, Liverpool looked as toothless as a retired granddad with a broken denture.
But the final straw, the moment that made his glasses fog up with sheer frustration, came during Tuesday's training session. Alonso, his midfield jewel, played a jaw-droppingly perfect through ball in a small-sided game—only for Morientes to send the resulting shot somewhere in the general direction of the Mersey River. Benítez swore he saw a bird drop mid-flight.
So when David Moores called him into the office earlier that week and said, casually, "We're thinking of swapping Alonso for Deisler," Benítez almost choked on his tactical pen. Swap Xabi Alonso? His midfield general? The elegant string-puller who could pick a pass from outer space?
Now, post-training and still stewing, he'd had enough. He knocked on Moores' office door, barged in, and cut to the chase.
"David, I can't agree to trading Alonso for Deisler. Yes, Deisler's good—very good. I've tracked him for a while. But why not just buy him outright? Leeds isn't exactly swimming in money, are they? Surely we could throw some cash their way and get it done."
Moores didn't even look up. He just shook his head, like a man who'd had this conversation with himself too many times already.
"Rafael," he said with a sigh, "do you think I didn't try? Of course I offered to buy Deisler first. But Arthur—Leeds' manager—refused. He's only interested in one thing: Alonso. He made it very clear—no Alonso, no deal."
Benítez opened his mouth, but Moores wasn't finished. "And before you start, let me remind you—there's only one core of Liverpool Football Club, and his name is Steven Gerrard. You've said it yourself."
He grabbed a newspaper off his desk and flung it onto the table in front of Benítez. "Look at the headlines, Rafael. We won the match, but all they talk about is our lack of attacking threat. They're right. We need someone who can actually threaten the opposition in the final third. Deisler might not be Alonso, but he's the kind of creative attacker we need."
Benítez stood frozen. He wanted to argue, to scream, to launch into a long, passionate speech about tactical balance and tempo control and Spanish midfielders with beautiful beards—but instead, he just stood there, red-faced and silent.
After a long, awkward pause, he nodded.
"…Fine," he muttered, and turned to leave the office.
His pride was bruised, his playmaker was as good as gone, and somewhere deep down, he had a bad feeling that Morientes was going to miss five more chances just to spite him.
****
Sunday arrived faster than Arthur could say "away win." The team had arrived in Liverpool the day before, fresh off a gutsy draw against Arsenal that somehow had the press convinced Leeds United might actually do something magical at Anfield. That was already a red flag—when the media starts backing you up, you know something's either gone very right or very, very wrong.
But Arthur wasn't worried. Not this time.
After that Arsenal match, while fiddling around with the system back in his office (which honestly looked more like a football-themed storage closet), Arthur had discovered something that nearly made him fall out of his chair—"Team Morale: High." A temporary bonus event had been triggered. Every player now had a +5 stat boost across the board. It was like someone had handed out performance-enhancing bacon sandwiches.
With the team buffed like characters in a video game and spirits soaring, Arthur truly believed they had a shot at winning. Even at Anfield.
Inside the visiting dressing room, Arthur stood in front of his squad with the energy of a coach who'd had two cups of coffee too many. He clapped his hands to grab attention—not that it was needed, because half the team was already pretending to stretch while eavesdropping.
"Listen up, lads," he began, pacing slowly like a teacher before a school play. "I've seen your form recently—tight passing, high press, not falling over every time someone sneezes. It's been good. And I believe, truly, we can leave here with all three points today."
He paused for dramatic effect, mostly because he'd forgotten his next sentence.
"But let's not kid ourselves—this is Anfield. That's forty thousand fans screaming like they've just found out their pints are half-price. Liverpool are no pushovers, so block the noise out. Focus on our shape, our pressing, our training. And most importantly—score first. We score first, and I'm telling you, the whole thing shifts in our favour."
The players nodded. Some looked focused, some looked like they were picturing their post-match meal, but no one laughed. They were taking this seriously.
Ten minutes later, the teams walked out into the cauldron of Anfield. The iconic "You'll Never Walk Alone" echoed across the stands like some ancient, emotional war chant. More than 40,000 Liverpool fans sang it with full lungs, full hearts, and absolutely no regard for key changes or pitch.
The stadium was a sea of red. Scarves waved, banners fluttered, and from the south stand, a massive TIFO unfolded—a carefully choreographed design that screamed: This is our temple. Welcome to hell.
Arthur stood on the touchline, arms crossed but barely breathing. The atmosphere hit him like a freight train. It was raw, wild, and awe-inspiring. He glanced around at the glorious chaos of Anfield, then thought back to Elland Road, where half the floodlights flickered and one of the toilets hadn't flushed since August.
One day, he thought, gripping his clipboard like it was sacred, we'll have this kind of home advantage. Just you wait.
Given the grueling fixture list—six matches in December alone—Arthur had to tinker with his lineup. The squad wasn't made of titanium, after all.
Today's setup? A sharp 4-3-3.
Deisler started on the right wing—perhaps a little ironic, since Liverpool were trying to buy him. On the left was the ever-reliable Falcao, with Berbatov leading the line like a man who might score or yawn his way through ninety minutes.
In midfield, Modrić and Javi García sat deep as the defensive pivot pair, letting Yaya Touré roam as a central marauder, equal parts elegance and wrecking ball. At the back, Maicon's red card meant Arthur had to get creative—so he shoved Chiellini to an improvised right-back role. The Italian wasn't thrilled but would survive. Silva and Kompany held the central defense, and everything looked reasonably stable. Well, stable enough.
Liverpool, on the other hand, were stuck in repeat mode. Benítez had rolled out the same lineup as the last match. Not by choice—more like necessity. Despite their Champions League win last season, Liverpool's attacking recruitment had been… charitable, to put it mildly. Crouch looked like a lamppost in boots, and while Morientes still had the name, he no longer had the aim.
Benítez had reluctantly agreed to Moores' plan to trade Alonso for Deisler, but even now, he hadn't made peace with it.
Watching Deisler line up for Leeds today was like test-driving a car you were being forced to buy. If he didn't dazzle, maybe—just maybe—he could convince Moores to call the whole thing off.
And as kickoff loomed, one thing was certain: whether it was drama, brilliance, or complete chaos, something ridiculous was about to unfold at Anfield.
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