Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

Tuesday in Madrid arrived with blue skies and the scent of fresh pastries wafting through the city. Arthur, keeping true to his word, spent the entire day exploring the Spanish capital with Shakira. From the historic Plaza Mayor to the elegant boutiques along Gran Vía, they strolled hand-in-hand like any couple enjoying a holiday—well, almost.

Still, Arthur wasn't naïve. He knew they weren't exactly an ordinary couple that could blend into a crowd unnoticed. So, before leaving the hotel that morning, he and Shakira both slipped into casual disguises—caps pulled low over their heads, sunglasses large enough to cover half their faces, and light masks to hide the rest. They looked more like low-budget spies than a couple on holiday, but they didn't mind. It was part of the game.

Shakira giggled when she caught their reflection in a shop window. "We look ridiculous."

Arthur grinned under his mask. "Speak for yourself. I look like an off-duty MI6 agent. You look like a fashionable fugitive."

"And you still chose to go out like this?"

Arthur had laughed. "Honestly, we'd probably blend in better if we weren't dressed like this."

Still, their efforts at disguise didn't last long.

By lunchtime, they'd stopped at a quaint little tapas bar tucked away near the Royal Palace.

Just as Arthur was feeding Shakira a bite of tortilla española, a sharp-eyed paparazzo across the street spotted them. The camera clicks were almost imperceptible, muffled by passing traffic—but the lens didn't miss a thing.

Within hours, the images were everywhere: the enigmatic Premier League manager strolling casually beside the iconic Latin pop superstar, both of them looking unmistakably close.

The headlines practically wrote themselves.

"Power Couple? Leeds Boss Arthur Morgan and Shakira Spotted in Madrid!"

"Is This Football's New Golden Pair?"

"Move Over Beckhams—Make Way for Arthur & Shakira!"

"From Elland Road to Spanish Roads—Arthur & Shakira's Secret Date Exposed"

Major outlets and tabloids alike gobbled it up. After all, the last time football and pop collided on this scale was years ago, when David Beckham and Victoria had dominated every front page. Now, it was Arthur and Shakira under the spotlight, and the press was loving every second of it.

By the next day, the media frenzy had hit a whole new level.

Back in the hotel, Arthur was pacing.

He'd originally planned to attend. He had even picked out a seat in one of the private boxes and arranged a subtle entrance through the service hallway to avoid attention. But everything changed the moment Allen returned to Madrid that morning.

Instead of opening with updates on Real Sociedad, Allen had walked into the suite holding a tablet, shaking his head. "Mate," he began, "you and Shakira are literally everywhere right now."

Arthur frowned. "I know. I saw the photos."

"No, I mean everywhere. They're calling you the 'new Beckham.' There's a betting site offering odds on when you'll get married. And some guy in Argentina is claiming he saw you two shopping for rings."

Arthur rubbed his temples. "Jesus."

Allen looked more amused than concerned. "Honestly, it's kind of impressive. But I figured you'd want to know before it gets out of hand."

That conversation had forced Arthur to sit down and think. Neither he nor Shakira had ever made their relationship public. They'd kept things quiet, both for professional reasons and personal preference. It wasn't shame or secrecy—it was simply their choice to keep their lives a bit more protected from the world's microscope.

And now… this.

Allen swiped through a flurry of headlines, showing Arthur everything from football blogs to international gossip sites. "They're calling you 'the new Beckhams.' There's even a poll on who's more iconic—you two or Posh and Becks in their prime."

Arthur rubbed his forehead. "It was just a walk and lunch."

"Yeah, well, tell that to the fifty million people currently arguing about your 'body language' on Twitter."

Arthur sat down at the table, scrolling through the latest updates on his phone. Speculation, fan theories, wild assumptions—it was spiraling out of control. He wasn't afraid of people knowing, not really. But it was about control, about owning the story. Right now, it felt like the story was owning them.

Originally, Arthur had every intention of going to her concert tomorrow night. He even had the route planned, the seat reserved. But the moment Allen brought up the headlines—and Arthur saw just how frenzied the media had become—he hesitated.

If he showed up at the concert now, it would only feed the flames. The press would be waiting, cameras flashing, every move scrutinized. That wasn't how he wanted this to go. It wasn't fair to Shakira either.

He needed to talk to her. Really talk. About all of it.

So he picked up his phone and typed out a message.

"I think we need to talk tonight—just us. About everything that's going on. I want to know how you feel before we make any moves."

He stared at the screen for a second, thumb hovering over the send button. Then he tapped it.

Arthur leaned back in his chair and stared out of the window. The evening sun dipped low across Madrid's rooftops. In the distance, he could almost hear the faint echo of her rehearsals, the crowd already beginning to gather. A part of him still wanted to be there—watching, supporting—but this needed to be handled the right way.

And before anything else… he needed to hear what Shakira thought about all of it.

****

Allen strolled into the hotel suite with a smug grin on his face and a bulging briefcase tucked under his arm. He dropped it on the coffee table with a dramatic thud, opened the latches, and pulled out a thick stack of newspapers like he'd just retrieved buried treasure.

"Look what I found this morning," he said with barely disguised glee.

Arthur glanced up from the couch, already suspecting what was coming. Allen flipped through the headlines with theatrical flair, raising his eyebrows each time he landed on a photo of Arthur and Shakira. One showed them sharing churros. Another captured them crossing the street hand-in-hand. And then there was the full-page spread—Arthur laughing with his mask halfway down, Shakira beside him, clearly glowing under her sunglasses.

"'Football's Golden Boy and the Latin Queen'... nice ring to it, don't you think?" Allen said, grinning.

Arthur exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. "You enjoying yourself?"

"Oh, immensely," Allen said, not missing a beat. "I've known you for five years, Arthur. I've seen your... social phase."

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"You know exactly what I mean," Allen went on, tapping one of the photos with his index finger. "Back when your dad was alive, you had more girls hanging off your arm than goals Leeds scored all season. It was like watching a Bond film on loop."

Arthur gave a short laugh, but there was no denying the truth in it. His past had been reckless at times. But things had changed since his father passed. The focus shifted. He'd buried himself in football, in Leeds, in rebuilding something real. The late-night parties stopped. The constant faces came and went. He'd gone from rich playboy to obsessive manager almost overnight.

And in all that time… Shakira was the first woman Allen had seen him open up to again.

"So what, you're turning into a gossip columnist now?" Arthur asked, glancing over at Allen who was still flipping through the pages like a teenager reading fanfiction.

"Nope," Allen replied. "Just a longtime friend who's thoroughly entertained and mildly concerned that your romantic life might now be front-page news in ten countries."

Before Arthur could reply, the door opened—and Shakira stepped in.

Her face said it all.

Despite the makeup and flawless hair from rehearsals, she looked tired, distracted, and a little overwhelmed. She paused for a second when she saw the stack of newspapers, then looked directly at Arthur with a guilty expression.

"Hey," she said softly, walking over to him.

Without a word, Arthur stood up and wrapped his arms around her. She didn't hesitate—she buried her head in his chest and let out a long sigh.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't expect any of this. I thought we were being careful."

Arthur kissed her forehead gently. "You don't have anything to apologize for. We were just living. Blame the vultures with cameras, not yourself."

Shakira pulled back just enough to look at him. "Still… this turned into such a circus. I don't want this to mess things up for you. The club, the players, your press... everything."

Arthur gave her a look—soft but firm. "I can handle press . But this does raise a real question. Now that it's out there, what do we do next?"

There was a pause as they both considered it.

Allen, now standing by the doorway, raised his hand like a student asking to be dismissed. "I'm just gonna pretend I didn't hear that heartfelt exchange."

Arthur chuckled. "You've been eavesdropping from the start."

Allen winked. "Of course. But I'm also a gentleman." He turned to Shakira with a playful bow. "For what it's worth, I'm rooting for you kids."

Shakira laughed despite herself. "Thanks, Allen."

As he slipped out of the room, Arthur shook his head. "I don't know how I put up with him."

Shakira sat down on the edge of the couch, letting out another breath. "So. Do we hide? Do we run? Or do we just walk out and own it?"

Arthur looked at her, then at the stack of newspapers still lying half-scattered on the table.

Big decisions to make.

*****

Arthur leaned back against the couch, letting out a long sigh as Shakira nestled into his side. The room had settled into a quiet hum, the kind that came after the whirlwind of headlines and chaos. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Her hand was resting gently on his chest, his fingers softly tracing idle circles against her shoulder.

It was peaceful—but beneath it, there was tension. Not the bad kind. Just the kind that needed words.

She finally broke the silence, her voice low. "We need to talk about this. About… what comes next."

Arthur nodded. "Yeah. We do."

Shakira looked up at him, her brows knit. "I know we weren't trying to hide, not really. But we also didn't exactly plan for this. Now the photos are out, the media's sniffing around, and you're in the middle of building something big with Leeds. I just don't want to be the reason you get dragged through the mud."

Arthur met her gaze. "You're not the reason. The media would find something no matter what. They always do."

She bit her lip, thoughtful. "Still… this might get ugly. British tabloids are brutal. They'll spin things out of context. What if it distracts you? What if it affects the club, or your players, or the board starts asking questions? You've worked too hard for this, Arthur."

Arthur reached over and tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. "And what if we say nothing, and it gets worse? What if the rumors keep growing legs, and suddenly people are printing things that aren't even remotely true?"

She hesitated, frowning slightly. "You think it'll spiral?"

Arthur gave a small shrug. "I've seen it happen. I've seen stories that started with one photo and ended with front-page headlines declaring a scandal that never existed. I can ignore gossip. But it's different when they come after you."

Shakira smiled faintly at that. "You're worried about me?"

"Of course I'm worried about you."

She leaned into him again, thoughtful. "Honestly, I've dealt with media for most of my life. They'll say what they want, whether we stay silent or not. But I know how the football world works. I don't want this to become a 'distraction' narrative. They'll say you've gone soft. That your head's not in the game."

Arthur snorted. "Let them try."

"But it'll annoy you," she said gently. "I know you. You'll pretend it doesn't, but it will. You'll lose sleep over it. You'll wonder if the team's getting asked about me instead of tactics."

Arthur sighed again, resting his head back. "Then we say something. On our terms."

She lifted her eyes to his, curious. "Like what?"

"Something simple," he said. "A short joint statement, maybe. Nothing dramatic. Just confirming we're together and asking for privacy. That way we control the story. No interviews, no scandal, no dragging it out."

Shakira nodded slowly, mulling it over. "That might work. But you know what?"

Arthur looked at her, brows raised.

She sat up straighter, suddenly more animated. "fuck the press!"

Arthur blinked. "That's one way to open negotiations."

She smiled. "I'm serious. You're my man, Arthur. I'm not gonna tiptoe around that because a few cameras caught us eating churros. If you're okay with people knowing, then I don't care. Let them write their stories. I deal with the media all the time. So do you. And if they get too nosy, just tell them to talk to me."

Arthur chuckled, unable to hide his amusement. "I know how to handle reporters. I just wasn't sure if you wanted to deal with all the extra hassle."

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she shifted, crawling into his lap until she was straddling him. Her arms looped around his neck as she leaned in close, lips brushing his ear.

"I can deal with anything," she whispered, "as long as I have your support."

His hands instinctively slid around her waist, then lower, firmly grabbing her he pulled her against him. "You'll always have that," he said, voice low and certain.

She smiled against his cheek, then pulled back slightly, eyes dancing. "Is that your phone in your pocket… or are you just really happy to see me?"

Arthur gave a sheepish laugh. "Can you blame me? Look where you're sitting."

"Fair point," she murmured, brushing her nose against his. "Since I'm already here… maybe we should make the best use of it."

He raised an eyebrow. "You sure? You've got a concert tomorrow. Might want to save your energy."

She silenced him with a finger pressed to his lips, her smile turning mischievous. "Just shut up and kiss me."

Arthur didn't need to be told twice. He leaned forward and kissed her—slow and deep at first, then more urgent as her fingers tangled in his hair and her body pressed closer.

She broke the kiss only for a second to whisper, "You better not pull another disappearing act tomorrow."

He kissed her collarbone, then her shoulder. "Not a chance."

"You're staying for the concert?"

"I'll be front row."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

She kissed him again, this time slower, more tender. "Then that's all I need."

They stayed like that for a while—wrapped in each other, the chaos of the world outside muted by the quiet certainty between them. There was no press in that moment. No headlines. No speculation.

Just the two of them.

And it was enough.

*****

The next morning, Arthur stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of his dark blazer. No more hoodies and sunglasses today. If people were going to talk, let them talk while he looked like he owned the room—which, in many ways, he did.

Downstairs, Shakira was waiting by the door, already in her rehearsal outfit. A simple ensemble—black tank top, fitted sweats, hair tied back—but to Arthur, she looked like a goddess. He leaned against the wall, arms folded, letting his eyes trail up and down with an exaggerated smirk.

She caught the look and rolled her eyes. "What?"

"You," he said, reaching out to take her hand. "You're dangerously hot for someone who's just going to rehearsal."

She grinned. "Says the guy dressing like he's about to buy the building."

"Can't help it. I have a reputation to maintain." He opened the car door for her. "Let's go, superstar."

Arthur dropped her off at the venue but stayed in the car. He didn't step out, didn't wave, didn't say a word. But it didn't matter. The car was seen, recognized, photographed—and in a city like Madrid, that was more than enough.

Still, he had no plans of missing the show. Not when she was the one performing. About an hour before the concert began, Arthur quietly slipped in through the back, using a VIP entrance arranged discreetly by venue management. No interviews, no flashes—just a quiet nod to security as they escorted him to a private section right next to the stage, cordoned off and away from the crowd.

"The perks of being the boyfriend," he muttered with a small grin, settling into his seat.

The view was perfect. He was close enough to see the glimmer of her earrings, yet far enough from the general front row crowd to stay under the radar. For a while, he simply watched the venue fill—row by row, section by section, until it was packed to the brim. The media buzz had clearly done its job. Not a single seat was left.

But then came the nuisance.

A group of reporters—clearly less interested in the music than the drama—started shouting from the back.

"Arthur, is this confirmation of your relationship?!"

"Are you dating Shakira?!"

"Are the two of you—"

Arthur turned slowly, his expression like stone. Then, without standing, he raised his voice loud enough to be heard across the rows.

"Why the hell are you even at a concert if you're going to ruin the audience's hearing with your screeching?" His voice carried clear and sharp. "Shut up and enjoy the performance. There'll be answers later. But if you keep pissing me off, I'll have you thrown out. And I'll ban your entire channel from any Leeds press conference."

A stunned hush followed. Then a few awkward coughs, and silence.

They knew better. Arthur Morgan had the temper of a wild storm when provoked. He wasn't one of those clean-cut managers who hid behind PR teams. If he said he'd blacklist them, he'd follow through without blinking.

The atmosphere shifted back to excitement as the lights dimmed, and the band began playing the opening rhythm.

When Shakira stepped onto the stage, the crowd erupted in cheers.

And then she noticed it.

Her eyes flicked to the corner section cordoned off near the stage—then lit up in surprise when she saw Arthur sitting there, arms folded, watching her with that lopsided grin. What surprised her more was the eerie calm among the press rows. No shouting, no chaos. Just cameras... waiting.

Arthur simply raised his hand and gestured playfully for her not to worry.

She grinned, beautiful and confident, then waved at him before stepping forward to the microphone. The camera caught it all—her smile, his wave, the unspoken moment between them. The crowd roared louder.

And as the performance began, Arthur leaned back and watched, his gaze fixed on her.

She owned the stage.

Her voice soared, her body moved with ease, and the crowd responded with every beat. But what Arthur noticed—more than the rhythm, more than the lights—was the way her eyes kept drifting toward him. Amid thousands of fans, in front of dozens of cameras, her attention always found its way back to him.

He didn't need the media to validate it. That was their answer.

After the final encore, Arthur waited backstage, standing just beyond the crew area. When Shakira emerged, still glowing from the adrenaline of the performance, she walked straight into his arms.

They kissed—deep, slow, and unapologetically intimate. The kind of kiss that said they didn't care who was watching anymore.

When they finally pulled apart, both slightly out of breath, Arthur touched her cheek gently. "Are you ready?"

Shakira reached for his hand and interlocked her fingers with his. "Of course. Let's go deal with them."

Arthur looked at her—really looked. She was radiant. And fearless.

He gave a small nod, then squeezed her hand. "Together, then."

*****

The press conference had been hastily arranged right after the concert. A velvet curtain was drawn behind the long table at the front of the room, and a single banner stood to the side with the tour's branding on it—"Shakira: Fire & Rhythm."But nobody was here for just the music tonight. Cameras were set. Recorders clicked on. The press room was packed, buzzing with whispered theories and half-baked rumors.

Then the door opened.

Arthur stepped in first, calm and sharp in his tailored blazer, followed by Shakira, radiant even without stage lights, wearing a soft black dress and barely-there makeup. The applause was hesitant at first, unsure if this was a concert encore or a declaration of war.

Arthur pulled out a chair for her before taking his own. They didn't speak right away. Instead, they let the cameras click and the room settle.

Then Arthur leaned into the mic.

"I suppose most of you are not here to talk about the music tonight," he said plainly. "Let's not waste time."

There was a pause—a sharp kind of silence where no one dared go first.

Then a hand went up. "Mr. Morgan, is it true? Are you and Shakira in a relationship?"

Arthur turned to look at Shakira with a small smile, then turned back to the room.

"Yes," he said, firm and clear. "We are."

The room exploded into questions—multiple reporters yelling over each other, desperate to get their microphones heard.

Shakira held up her hand. "Let us finish," she said, her voice confident but polite. "We'll answer your questions. Just give us a moment."

Arthur nodded and continued, "Look, we're both public figures. We get it. We're not hiding anything. But this wasn't meant to be a show. We weren't trying to make headlines. We were just spending time together."

Shakira added, "The paparazzi photos, the speculation, all of that—it wasn't planned. But since it's out there now, we'd rather tell the truth than let you all make up stories."

A man in the second row stood and asked, "Are you planning to go public with more details, joint appearances, interviews—"

Arthur interrupted, "We're not turning this into a reality show. We're being open with you right now because we respect our fans and your job. But we're also asking for some respect back. No gossip, no twisting things. If you want to talk about us, do it truthfully. Otherwise…"

He leaned back and crossed his arms, eyes scanning the room.

"If any media outlet, after today, publishes false rumors or tries to stir trouble to boost their traffic, I will personally sue them for defamation. No warning, no second chance."

There was a nervous chuckle from the back. "With all due respect, Mr. Morgan… that's not exactly enforceable."

Arthur smiled slightly and raised an eyebrow. "Maybe not. But let me ask you something—do you think your boss will keep you around if you're the reason they have to settle a six-figure lawsuit?"

The room went quiet again.

Arthur continued, tone cool and even. "They'll fire you in a heartbeat and issue an apology if it saves them legal fees. Think about that the next time you 'hear from a source close to the couple.'"

Several heads dropped. A few phones were put away.

Shakira, still holding Arthur's hand beneath the table, leaned toward the mic. "I deal with this kind of attention all the time. It comes with the career. But I don't tolerate lies. Any outlet that tries to exploit our relationship by spreading falsehoods will be banned from my future tours and press events. No second chances."

Someone muttered under their breath near the side of the room, "This isn't how this is supposed to go…"

Arthur caught it and smiled.

"You expected scandal? Drama? Maybe me storming out or Shakira crying in a corner?" he said, almost amused. "Sorry to disappoint. We're not here to perform for your headlines."

A woman in the front cleared her throat and finally asked a genuine question. "How long have you two been together?"

Arthur looked at Shakira, giving her a moment to decide.

She smiled. "A few months now. We met through mutual friends, started talking, and things… just worked."

Arthur added, "We didn't plan on falling for each other. It just happened. And frankly, I'm glad it did."

That softened the room. Some of the reporters even smiled.

Another voice asked, "What's the hardest part about balancing this relationship with your careers?"

Arthur leaned forward. "Time. We're both busy. But we make it work. If something matters to you, you make time. Simple as that."

Shakira nodded. "And understanding. He runs a club; I tour the world. There's a lot of stress, but we support each other through it. That's what matters."

The rest of the questions were more respectful now—still curious, still probing, but the tone had changed. The room understood that they weren't dealing with fragile egos or media puppets. They were facing two people who had chosen honesty, on their own terms.

After about twenty minutes, Arthur checked his watch and leaned into the mic one last time.

"That's all for now," he said. "Thanks for your time. We've said what we needed to say."

As they stood up, Arthur took Shakira's hand openly this time. No hiding, no pretending.

And as they walked out of the room together—flashing cameras and murmuring reporters behind them—Shakira whispered with a smile, "You handled that like a pro."

Arthur grinned. "Told you. I don't mind the hassle."

She leaned her head on his shoulder for a brief moment. "You're my favorite kind of chaos, you know that?"

He kissed the top of her head and held her tighter. "Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."