Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

It was still 2007—a time when leaked photos still appeared first on gossip websites and spread quickly via email forwards and pop-up ads. Rumors raced faster than the 56k modems struggling to load them, but Arthur and Shakira had just taken the biggest step: a joint press conference confirming their relationship, setting their terms, and shutting the tabloids down.

Now, the whirlwind was in full swing.

"The Shakira–Morgan Romance: Genuine or PR Stunt?"

"World Tour Queen and Premier League Boss? The Photos Say Yes!"

"Arthur's Ultimatum: Ban or Bust—Shakira's Manager Puts Media on Notice."

By 2007 standards, screens were plastered with slideshows, streaming with slow buffering but fast-shocking speed. Headlines glared in Comic Sans and Impact font, promising the latest celebrity scandal. Arthur had braced himself, but ever since the joint statement, the tone had changed—from gleeful speculation to grudging respect. Reporters were now doing double-takes, fans were tweeting (well, MySpace-ing) in awe, and bloggers were loving every moment. The internet was on fire.

But Arthur and Shakira?

They'd retreated.

***

With the press conference done and dusted, Arthur felt a weight lift from his chest.

He hated the media noise, the manipulation of headlines, the way one photo or stray sentence could explode into something completely detached from the truth.

But tonight, for once, it had gone their way. He and Shakira had stood together, shoulder to shoulder, made their truth clear, and shut down the circus before it could spiral further.

The moment the two of them stepped out of the press room, Arthur had handed everything off to Allen. "It's yours now," he muttered as they passed in the hallway, and Allen gave a knowing nod, already on the phone with Leeds' legal department and media team, handling fallout and press statements like a general directing troops.

Arthur didn't look back.

Shakira had his hand in hers, warm and reassuring, and that was all he needed.

They didn't speak much in the car. She leaned her head on his shoulder as they sat in the backseat, watching the flashing lights of cameras disappear behind them. Arthur occasionally glanced down at her, brushing his thumb over her knuckles, and she smiled without opening her eyes.

The driver dropped them off at the private residence Shakira had rented for the tour. It was a modern, cozy villa tucked away just outside Madrid. The moment they stepped inside, Arthur toed off his shoes, tugged off his jacket, and dropped onto the plush sofa with a tired groan.

Shakira followed, kicking off her heels and flopping beside him, her head landing on his lap.

"Are you okay?" she asked, eyes peering up at him, soft and curious.

Arthur looked down at her with a half-smile. "I should be asking you that. You were the one under the spotlight tonight."

She shrugged playfully. "It's not my first time. And anyway… I had you next to me. Made it easier."

He chuckled and brushed a strand of hair from her face. "You didn't even flinch when you said you'd ban reporters."

"Because I will." Her voice was calm but firm. "If they make up crap again, I'll blacklist their whole outlet. You don't play nice with parasites."

Arthur smiled wider, clearly enjoying the fire in her. "You were brilliant."

"So were you." She sat up slightly, resting her hands on his thighs. "That thing you said about suing every newspaper?"

"What about it?"

She smirked. "Hot."

Arthur laughed. "You have a weird definition of hot."

"No, I just like it when you go all protective. I mean, the look on that guy's face when you said, 'Do you think your boss will keep you if you're a liability?' Iconic."

Arthur reached down, sliding a hand under her legs and pulling her fully into his lap. She giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"I meant every word," he said, kissing her cheek. "I've dealt with football politics, agents, club directors... the press doesn't scare me."

"And now they know not to mess with us," Shakira added, her voice full of playful satisfaction.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Us?"

"Us," she repeated confidently. "This isn't just some PR stunt or fling, and I'm not going to let them twist it into something else."

He held her gaze for a second longer, then nodded. "Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."

She smiled, leaning in to kiss him softly, lingering for a few seconds before pulling back.

Outside of that quiet villa, the world had exploded.

Social media was a storm. Instagram posts showing them hand-in-hand had already racked up millions of likes. Fan edits were popping up — Arthur in his Leeds suit standing next to Shakira on stage, side-by-sides of them smiling, glancing at each other, even some comical renderings of Shakira in the Leeds dugout next to him.

Hashtags like #Shakthur, #CoachAndQueen, and #LatinaAndTheLad were trending worldwide.

One Leeds fan account tweeted: "Arthur just bagged the Champions League return and Shakira in the same year. Respect."

Another joked: "No wonder Leeds are playing with so much rhythm lately."

Meanwhile, journalists and influencers debated everything from how they met to whether Shakira would be at Leeds matches, to whether Arthur might one day choreograph her backup dancers. Some tabloids tried to stir controversy — speculating on tension between Arthur's football responsibilities and his personal life — but they were immediately shot down by statements from Leeds' PR team, now fully activated thanks to Allen.

Arthur was blissfully unaware of most of it. He and Shakira had changed into loungewear and were now curled up on the couch, scrolling lazily through memes on her phone.

"Look at this one," she laughed, showing him a badly photoshopped image of her wearing a Leeds kit while Arthur stood behind her with a whistle. "Apparently I'm your assistant coach now."

Arthur tilted his head and deadpanned, "Wouldn't be the worst idea. The players would pay a hell of a lot more attention."

She elbowed him lightly, laughing again. "I'd have to ban shorts that go above the knee."

"You're cruel."

They stayed like that for a while—mocking memes, sipping wine, curled under a blanket. For the first time since the Madrid photos surfaced, the pressure had eased.

Arthur watched her, the way she smiled at the dumbest edits, the way she leaned into his chest as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He'd faced down superstars, ruthless boardrooms, and raging crowds—but sitting with her like this? It was something else entirely.

She looked up at him after a while, her voice softer. "Thank you. For being there."

He brushed her hair behind her ear and kissed her forehead. "Always."

They didn't need to say much more.

Outside, the world buzzed and speculated. Inside, they simply held each other — a manager and a pop star, finding peace in each other's arms, no longer hiding, and no longer afraid.

*****

Less than twelve hours after the conference, Arthur woke up to the soft light of morning bleeding through the curtains and the buzzing of his phone lighting up the nightstand like a nightclub strobe. He blinked, groaned, and reached over with a tired arm, only to find Shakira already curled up beside him, scrolling with a mischievous smile tugging at her lips.

"Don't even think about going back to sleep," she said, nudging him with her knee. "You need to see this."

Arthur dragged himself upright, rubbing his eyes. "If it's another Daily Mail headline saying I'm 'distracted from football' because I kissed my girlfriend, I swear to God—"

"No, it's better." Shakira turned the screen toward him. "Much better."

Arthur squinted. It was a tweet. A photo of him mid-sentence at the press conference, face stern, the caption in bold all-caps: "WHEN THE COACH OF LEEDS UNITED THREATENS TO SUE YOU INTO OBLIVION FOR GOSSIPING ABOUT HIS GIRL."

Below it, another tweet: "This man looked at the media and said 'touch her and I'll end your entire publication.' Peak romance. I need me a man like that."

Arthur groaned but couldn't hold back the chuckle that followed. "Oh God."

"Oh, there's more," Shakira grinned. "Apparently your 'bad boy football aura' is trending now."

"Bad boy football aura?" Arthur stared in disbelief.

"Yes. Also: 'Shakira got herself a tactical genius with rage issues. Queen behavior.'" She burst into laughter, scrolling through hundreds of fan reactions. "There's even fancams."

Arthur took the phone and stared. A slow-motion montage of him at the press conference played to dramatic orchestral music. Cuts of him yelling at reporters, defending Shakira, pulling her chair closer—it was all there, with edits that made it look like a scene from a football-themed K-drama.

He blinked. "What the hell is this?"

"Your fanbase," Shakira said sweetly, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "Congratulations. You're now a Latin pop heartthrob by association."

Just then, Allen barged into the living room of their villa, holding two coffees in one hand and a tablet in the other.

"I'm not staying long," he said, without preamble. "Just here to let you both know that the world has officially lost its damn mind."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "That's new?"

"New levels of madness," Allen said, plopping the tablet down between them. "You've got half of Spain calling you the new Piqué, and the British tabloids are now doing analysis videos titled 'Arthur Morgan: Tactical Genius or Romantic Lunatic?'—and it's only 9 AM."

Shakira laughed, snatching a coffee. "Romantic lunatic has a nice ring to it."

Allen glanced at Arthur. "Also, you're trending in Brazil."

Arthur deadpanned. "Brazil?"

"Yeah. A tweet from a Flamengo fan account went viral: 'Arthur Morgan defends his girl like he defends his backline. Respect.'"

Shakira gasped, delighted. "You're international now, babe!"

Arthur buried his face in his hands. "This is a nightmare."

Allen sat down anyway, sipping his own coffee like a man enjoying the apocalypse. "There's also memes. Loads of them. My favorite? Someone photoshopped you in a tux with her in a wedding dress and captioned it: 'Final formation: 4-4-you-and-me.' I nearly choked on my toast."

Arthur grabbed a cushion and hurled it at him. Allen ducked.

Shakira turned to Arthur with a grin. "Face it, you've become everyone's favorite couple. The badass coach and the international pop icon? It's giving fairytale with a side of legal threats."

Arthur sighed dramatically. "And here I was thinking we'd get some peace after that press conference."

"Oh, we will," she replied. "Eventually. Right after the internet calms down, the tabloids stop speculating whether I'm performing at your next halftime show, and the Leeds fans finish making T-shirts."

Arthur blinked. "What T-shirts?"

Allen grinned like a devil. "Oh yeah. They've already made mock-ups. Front says 'Coach's Orders' and the back says 'Don't mess with Shakira.' Someone even made one that says 'Arthur Morgan: 100% Press Resistant.'"

Arthur grabbed another cushion.

Allen took the hint and stood, backing away. "I'll be in touch with the legal team. Enjoy the couple fame. Try not to start a fan club."

As he exited, Arthur sank back into the couch. Shakira curled up beside him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"It's ridiculous," he muttered.

"It's also kind of beautiful," she said. "You didn't just defend me. You stood with me. And the world saw it."

Arthur looked down at her. "You think this will last?"

"The attention? No. It'll shift in a week when someone else sneezes weird on camera. But us?" She sat up, cupping his cheek. "We're solid."

He leaned into her hand, kissing her palm. "You sure you're up for all this chaos?"

Shakira grinned. "With you? Every time."

Then she tossed her phone aside, climbed into his lap, and whispered, "Though if we stay on this couch too long, the internet's going to get bored. We'll need a new scandal."

Arthur laughed and caught her waist. "You're impossible."

"But you like that."

"I really do."

***

The morning sun filtered gently through the curtains of the Madrid villa, casting long golden streaks across the hardwood floor. Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, tying the laces of his boots slowly, methodically—almost as if drawing out every second. Behind him, Shakira lay curled up under the sheets, her face half-buried in the pillow, watching him with a quiet, pouty expression that somehow made him want to miss his flight altogether.

He glanced back at her and smiled softly. "You're doing that face again."

She rolled onto her back and sighed dramatically, her curls splaying out over the pillow. "That's because I hate this part."

Arthur stood and walked back to her side of the bed, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I've got to get back. You know that."

"I know," she murmured, catching his hand in hers and bringing it to her lips. "But I still hate it."

Arthur leaned down and kissed her forehead, lingering for a moment. "You've got a tour. You're about to light up stages across Europe. Millions of people want to see you."

"I only want to see you," she said, half-joking, half-serious, her fingers still interlaced with his. "Can't we just cancel everything and run off to some island?"

"Tempting," Arthur chuckled. "But unfortunately, Leeds United won't manage itself. The boys are probably already slacking off without me."

She raised an eyebrow, smirking. "You just don't want Tuchel reorganizing your office again."

Arthur laughed. "Okay, maybe that too."

He sat beside her again, and for a moment, there was only the silence of their shared comfort. She sat up slowly, pulling the sheets around herself, and leaned her head on his shoulder.

"Promise me something," she said quietly.

"Anything."

"When this tour ends... I don't want to be apart like this again. I'll come stay with you in Leeds. We can figure out the rest as we go, but I want to be wherever you are when I'm not on the road."

Arthur looked at her, his eyes softening. "You're serious?"

She nodded. "I've lived out of suitcases for most of my life. But with you… it's different. Being in your arms feels like home. So yes, I'm serious."

He turned to face her fully, holding her face between his hands. "Then it's a deal. When the tour ends, you come home with me."

She smiled, blinking back the slight shimmer in her eyes. "Home," she echoed, testing the word like it was something precious.

Arthur kissed her, slow and warm, like sealing a promise.

Minutes later, his car was waiting outside. The driver stood by the open door, quietly respectful, knowing better than to rush the moment. Arthur hoisted his bag over his shoulder and turned back one last time.

Shakira stood at the doorway in one of his old button-down shirts, her legs bare, her arms crossed and her lips pressed together like she was fighting every urge not to drag him back inside.

"I'll call you as soon as I land," he said.

"You better. Or I'm calling Tuchel and demanding to speak to your supervisor."

He laughed and walked back for one final kiss—one that was far longer than it should have been. "I love you," he whispered against her lips.

"I love you more," she whispered back.

He walked away without turning again, because if he did, he might not leave at all.

As the car pulled out into the Madrid traffic, Arthur looked out the window, thinking about the whirlwind of the last few days—press conferences, media chaos, wild headlines, and fans screaming in joy or confusion. But all of that felt distant now.

What lingered wasn't the noise.

It was the image of her standing there, smiling at him like he was her entire world.

And he knew, as surely as he knew anything, that no matter how long the road, they'd find their way back to each other.

Always.

*****

Arthur settled into his seat on the plane, the hum of the engines filling the background as the city below slowly shrank away. He glanced over at Allen, who was already busy pulling papers from his briefcase with that familiar focused expression. Arthur smirked slightly—Allen always did come prepared.

"By the way," Arthur began, a teasing tone in his voice, "did you forget about the business side of things? What did Miguel say about Real Sociedad?"

Allen's face immediately tightened into a more serious expression, and he fished out a thick stack of documents from his briefcase, carefully flipping through the pages before looking back up. "Nothing slipped my mind, boss. It's all settled, actually. Last night, Miguel called an emergency board meeting. The directors agreed on selling a portion of his shares in Real Sociedad to you."

Arthur leaned forward with interest. "So, it's official?"

"Official and done. Miguel was selling his own shares, and you made it clear you wouldn't interfere in the club's day-to-day management. That seemed to satisfy everyone on the board. No objections raised."

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. "Good. That's exactly how I want it."

Allen continued, "I also heard from Miguel that Amotulu—the coach—was thrilled about the plan to loan some of our young players to Real Sociedad. He really admires your vision when it comes to developing youth talent. The partnership seems to have energized their camp."

Arthur smiled. "It's a smart move. Our kids get valuable experience, and Sociedad strengthens their squad. Win-win."

Allen's face took on a slightly more cautious tone. "Before I left, Miguel asked me to run one thing by you. He wants the right of first refusal if you ever decide to sell those shares in the future."

Arthur didn't hesitate. "No problem. That makes sense."

He tapped his fingers on the armrest, thinking for a moment. "To be honest, I never saw those shares as a way to make quick money. Like Miguel said, Sociedad is basically our training ground. As long as the players get the experience they need, that's the real return."

Allen nodded appreciatively, glad that Arthur was so clear-headed about the whole arrangement. "On that note, boss, do you think we should take the initiative to get this news out? If we're the first to announce it, we can highlight the club's financial strength and growth. It might attract more sponsors in the future."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, considering. "You mean like a strategic PR push?"

"Exactly," Allen confirmed, "We control the narrative instead of letting others dictate it. It shows Leeds United isn't just about football results—we're building a stable foundation, making smart investments."

Arthur leaned back and smiled, the corner of his mouth curling up. "Alright, I like that. Let's get ahead of the story."

He paused, then added, "Besides, there's no shortage of journalists eager to jump on any headline involving Leeds these days. Better we tell the story ourselves."

Allen chuckled, knowing this was true. "If we wait, the tabloids will run wild with guesses and half-truths. No thanks."

The conversation shifted naturally to strategy—how to word the press release, which outlets to target first, and how to emphasize Leeds United's forward-thinking approach. Arthur was confident but relaxed. This was the kind of chess game he enjoyed—quiet moves with big consequences.

He pictured how the announcement might ripple through the football world. Sponsors would take note, fans would appreciate the club's ambition, and players would see that Leeds was a place to grow, not just compete.

Allen glanced at Arthur with a grin. "Looks like Leeds United is stepping up its game on and off the pitch."

Arthur chuckled. "That's the plan. Success isn't just what happens during the 90 minutes."

He shifted in his seat and looked out the window as clouds drifted past. "Thanks for handling this, Allen. You always keep me in the loop."

"No problem, boss. I've got your back."

Arthur gave a final nod before leaning back, letting the excitement of the trip settle around him. The partnership with Real Sociedad was more than just a business deal—it was a key step in the club's long-term vision. And with people like Allen on his side, Arthur knew Leeds United was ready for whatever challenges lay ahead.

As the plane climbed higher, he allowed himself a moment to think about the coming months. The young players sharpening their skills in Spain, the growing strength of the squad back home, and the media buzz now shifting to this smart new move.

It wasn't just about football anymore. Leeds United was becoming a force in European football, quietly but decisively. And Arthur was right in the middle of it all, steering the ship with calm confidence and that unmistakable spark of ambition.

*****

The day after returning to Leeds, Arthur threw himself straight into intensive training. The break was over—starting tomorrow, Leeds United would face a grueling schedule that would test every ounce of their strength and focus. No time for distractions.

Morning training wrapped up under the bright Yorkshire sky, with players pushing hard on drills, tactical rehearsals, and fitness exercises. There was a charged energy in the air. Everyone knew the next challenge was waiting just hours away.

After the session, the entire Leeds squad boarded the team bus and headed straight for the airport. Their destination? Bordeaux, France. Tomorrow night, Leeds would face Bordeaux in a crucial Champions League group stage match at the Atlantic Stadium. The stakes were high: a win could put them firmly on top of Group C, while anything less risked shifting the momentum.

Arthur, however, couldn't help but feel a bit frustrated. At the pre-match press conference that afternoon, the questions weren't about formations, tactics, or even the opponent's strengths. No—reporters were laser-focused on him and Shakira. Since their relationship reveal in Madrid, the British media had turned them into the hottest topic, and journalists couldn't resist digging for more.

Arthur found himself fielding questions about their relationship—some respectful, some borderline invasive. "How are you handling the media attention with Shakira?" one reporter asked. Another wanted to know if his focus on football was suffering because of the publicity.

Arthur smiled and answered calmly, "Shakira's a professional, I'm a professional. We're both focused on our work. The media attention doesn't change that." He deflected gracefully, knowing better than to get drawn into personal drama when the match was the priority.

After a few more probing questions, Arthur managed to steer the conversation back to football, wrapping up the conference quickly before heading to the team bus. Inside, he exchanged a quick grin with Allen, who gave him a subtle thumbs-up—always having his back.

By 7:45 pm, the atmosphere inside Bordeaux's Atlantic Stadium was electric. More than 40,000 passionate fans roared as the Champions League group match kicked off. Bordeaux's season hadn't been smooth so far—they were sitting third in the group after only a draw and a loss from their first two games. Tonight, they needed to use their home advantage to secure three points and keep their hopes alive.

Bordeaux came out attacking fiercely, pressing high and testing Leeds' defense from the first whistle. The home crowd's energy fed into the team's determination to dominate possession and put the Premier League leaders under pressure.

But Leeds United approached the game with a different mindset. Arthur was wary. Just a few days after this match, Leeds had back-to-back crucial fixtures against Manchester City in both the Premier League and League Cup. He didn't want to risk his best players unnecessarily, so he made a calculated decision. Not all the first-choice starters were in the lineup tonight. The team took a defensive, measured approach—aiming for a draw would be acceptable on enemy turf.

Yet, despite Bordeaux's energetic opening, the game unfolded very differently than the home team had hoped.

In the 13th minute, Leeds' striker Ibrahimovic, given the nod to start tonight, seized his moment. A long ball from Toure found him inside Bordeaux's penalty box. Ibrahimovic deftly faked a defender out of his shoes, twisting and turning as he prepared to shoot. But just as he was about to strike, Bordeaux's right-back Charme lunged in from behind, a reckless tackle that sent him crashing to the ground.

The referee didn't hesitate. After consulting with the linesman, a red card was flashed at Charme for that blatant foul—an obvious penalty for Leeds.

Ibrahimovic didn't waste a second. Striding up confidently, he struck the ball with fierce precision, smashing it into the back of the net with a powerful volley. 1-0 Leeds.

The away fans erupted, their cheers piercing the stadium. Arthur watched from the sidelines, satisfied with the early breakthrough.

With the lead secured, Arthur instructed his team to tighten up the defense. Leeds compressed their defensive line, sitting deeper and crowding the midfield. Bordeaux's attacks repeatedly found themselves snuffed out just past the halfway line as Leeds players swarmed in.

Bordeaux pushed hard, throwing everything forward, but Leeds' disciplined shape frustrated their efforts. The home crowd grew restless as chances failed to materialize, and frustration mounted on the pitch.

For Leeds, it was about control and patience. Arthur was clear with his players: absorb the pressure, stay organized, and protect the lead. It was a test of mental strength as much as physical endurance.

Minutes ticked by, tension rising with every pass and tackle. Yet Leeds held firm.

When the final whistle blew, the scoreboard read 1-0 in favor of Leeds United. A hard-fought, well-earned victory on foreign soil.

Arthur felt a surge of pride as the team gathered for their post-match celebration. They had handed over three precious points to their manager who'd come all this way from England, guiding them through a tough period with calm strategy and unshakeable belief.

As the players soaked in the win, Arthur quietly made notes for the upcoming fixtures. He knew the real challenge was just beginning, but tonight's result was a crucial stepping stone.

Leeds had shown they could grind out results even when not at full strength, a vital trait in a season packed with high-stakes matches.

The journey was far from over—but Arthur's vision was becoming clearer. This was Leeds United's moment to rise, and with every victory, they inched closer to greatness.