Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

Arthur couldn't say for sure whether Maicon had figured out that Allen had reported their contract negotiations to him, but something felt off the entire day.

During training, Maicon seemed just a little distant—more hesitant with his movements, a second late in passing, and unusually quiet during drills. He followed instructions, but there was an edge to his body language, as though his mind was miles away. Arthur had seen this before. Players distracted by transfer talk, personal issues, or contract pressure all wore the same look: one foot on the pitch, the other floating somewhere else.

Arthur didn't want this to spiral into anything bigger—especially not now, when the team was on a roll and harmony was critical.

So after the final whistle blew on training and most players filed out toward the showers, Arthur approached Maicon calmly.

"Michael," he said, putting a hand on the full-back's shoulder. "Come see me in the office once you're changed, yeah? Just a quick chat."

Maicon nodded, not making eye contact. "Okay, boss."

Twenty minutes later, they were both seated in Arthur's modest office at Thorp Arch. The sky outside was starting to cloud over, the early afternoon light fading quickly into that familiar Yorkshire gray.

"Sit down," Arthur said, handing Maicon a glass of water. "Just white, nothing fancy. Hope that's alright."

Maicon took the glass with both hands, his grip just a little too tight for comfort. Arthur noticed.

He sat opposite the player, leaned back in his chair, and got straight to the point.

"So," Arthur began, "Allen told me negotiations with your agent aren't going very smoothly. Apparently, there's been quite the ask on salary."

Maicon looked up, his expression somewhere between sheepish and apologetic.

Arthur continued, his tone gentle but firm. "I just wanted to hear it from you. Did you ask for that increase yourself? Or is this something Antonio's cooked up on his own?"

In truth, Arthur had been surprised when Allen came to him with the figure. The number wasn't just high—it was ambitious to the point of being unrealistic, especially given how tight-knit the team had been about salary structures. But more than that, it hadn't felt like something Maicon himself would demand.

He wasn't your stereotypical mercenary footballer. Maicon came from a decent background. His father was a respected youth coach back home, someone who'd taught him the game with a balance of grit and respect. He wasn't chasing quick paydays or status symbols. If anything, he'd always seemed focused on footballing development more than anything else.

Which made this situation all the more puzzling.

Maicon exhaled deeply and looked Arthur in the eyes. "Boss," he said, "I swear—it wasn't me."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

"I told Antonio from the start, keep things simple. I don't want drama, and I don't want to push the club. But he said we should be 'prepared for all possibilities,' and he sent that demand to Allen without even telling me first."

Arthur kept his gaze steady, allowing Maicon the space to keep speaking.

"I didn't agree with it," Maicon added quickly. "When Allen pushed back, Antonio told me it was just a 'starting point,' but that's not what I wanted. I just want to play. I didn't come here to haggle like I'm at a market."

Arthur nodded, saying nothing. He could see the strain in the young man's posture—his back slightly hunched, fingers clenched around the glass.

Then, after a brief pause, Maicon leaned forward.

"Boss," he said quietly. "I actually have a dream..."

But before he could explain what that dream was, the conversation was suddenly interrupted.

There was a sharp knock at the door—three quick raps.

Arthur sighed and looked up. "Come in."

Allen stepped into the room, his phone still in hand and clearly on a call. He glanced once at Maicon, then gave Arthur a look and raised the phone slightly in a silent signal.

Arthur understood immediately. He patted Maicon gently on the shoulder and gave him a small smile.

"Michael, I get it. But something's just come up and I have to take care of it. We'll continue this talk tomorrow, alright?"

Maicon nodded without protest and stood up. "Thanks for hearing me out, boss."

As soon as the door closed behind him, Arthur turned back to Allen.

"Who is it?" he asked.

Allen handed him the phone. "Calderon. Says it's urgent."

Arthur froze for a moment, and then it clicked.

The timing, the phone call, Maicon's incomplete sentence—it all lined up. Calderon didn't call for small talk. Arthur took the phone from Allen, heart already piecing together the picture.

It suddenly made sense why Antonio had made that ridiculous salary demand. And, more importantly, Arthur had a pretty good idea now of what Maicon's real dream was.

****

Arthur took the phone from Allen with a glance, gave a brief nod of thanks, then leaned back in his chair and brought it to his ear. The room was quiet now, the late evening settling over the training ground office like a soft blanket. The voice that came through was steady, warm even, though unfamiliar.

"Hello, Mr. Calderon," Arthur said, his tone businesslike. "This is Arthur Morgan speaking. What would you like to talk to me about?"

As soon as he finished speaking, a middle-aged man's cheerful and polished voice answered from the other end of the line.

"Hahaha, hello, Mr. Morgan! I'm terribly sorry to disturb you so suddenly," the man said with what sounded like genuine courtesy. "I'm Calderon, the new president of Real Madrid! Mr. Allen mentioned you were just about to get off work, and I do apologize for reaching out at this hour."

Arthur smiled thinly to himself. So the rumors were true—Calderon was quick to get hands-on. But Arthur wasn't in the mood for pleasantries, especially since he already had a fair idea of what this call was about. No sense pretending otherwise.

"It's alright, Mr. Calderon," Arthur replied flatly, brushing aside the apology. "I've heard about you from Mr. Florentino. So—what's the reason for your call today?"

There was a pause on the other end, but it wasn't hesitation. Calderon must have picked up on Arthur's tone, realized that he wasn't in the mood for small talk, and wisely decided to get straight to the point.

"Mr. Morgan," Calderon said with smooth precision, "the reason I called is to formally propose a transfer. Real Madrid would like to buy Leeds United's right back—Maicon."

Arthur's expression didn't shift, but his eyes narrowed slightly. There it was. He'd been expecting something like this ever since Maicon had started acting strangely during their recent contract renewal talks. The sudden pause in negotiations. The ridiculous conditions Antonio, Maicon's agent, had put forward. Arthur had suspected someone had gotten into Maicon's ear.

Now it was confirmed.

So this was how they were playing it. Contacting the player or his agent directly—maybe not officially, of course. Never officially. But Real Madrid had been sniffing around, and Arthur had no doubt Calderon had already made informal approaches behind the scenes. It was a classic move. Disrupt the player. Create uncertainty. Force the selling club into a corner.

Arthur's jaw clenched slightly. The irritation rose, but he kept his voice cool. "Alright," he said sharply. "What's your offer for Maicon?"

Calderon didn't miss a beat. "Ten million euros."

Arthur's eyebrows shot up.

Ten million?

His grip on the phone tightened slightly, though his voice didn't waver. "I'm sorry, Mr. Calderon," he said with steely finality, "but that price is far below our requirements."

This wasn't some desperate second-division outfit anymore. Leeds United had fought their way out of the Championship two seasons ago and had established themselves in the Premier League—and beyond. They had made the top sixteen in the Champions League, fought toe-to-toe with some of Europe's best, and were now serious contenders in England's top flight.

And Maicon? He wasn't just a cog in the machine. He had played 8 assists and scored 2 goals last season from right back. His fitness, consistency, and presence on the pitch made him one of the most dependable players in the squad. He was hardly ever injured. Barely rotated. Always delivered.

He was also 26—an age where full-backs hit their peak. With the physical demands of the position, players often had short primes, but Maicon was still strong, durable, and quick. Realistically, Arthur knew he could count on three or four more top-level years from him. Maybe more.

And Calderon wanted to buy him for ten million euros?

It was laughable.

Arthur didn't say any of that, of course. He just let his silence speak for itself.

Calderon, for his part, seemed unbothered by the rejection. His voice remained calm—cool, even. "Mr. Morgan, I understand," he said, "but it's also been said that Maicon's contract only has a year and a half remaining. If you don't sell now, and he chooses not to renew, you could end up with nothing."

Arthur didn't answer immediately. He knew a veiled threat when he heard one.

Indeed, the situation was what it was.

Maicon's contract had eighteen months left. If he truly didn't want to renew, then the clock was already ticking. And in the modern game, everyone knew how it worked. When a player wanted out and his contract was running down, the club lost leverage fast.

Other clubs would simply wait. No need to pay a big fee. They'd send a few texts to the agent, maybe whisper promises about playing time, trophies, or wages. Then, when the contract expired, the player would walk away for free. Maybe a small signing bonus. Definitely no transfer fee.

For Leeds, that would be a disaster.

But even if that happened, Arthur wasn't going to be bullied.

Yes, they were vulnerable—but not helpless. If Maicon did plan to walk away, and did so behind their back, then it meant he'd be burning his bridge with the club. And if it came to that, Leeds wouldn't roll over. They had ways of responding too.

If Maicon truly insisted on heading his own way, Arthur knew he had a tough decision ahead. He could completely bench Maicon, relegate him to the reserves, and deny him any minutes with the first team. It was a harsh move, but sometimes that was the reality in football—loyalty and team spirit mattered as much as talent.

Of course, this would come at a cost. Without regular playing time, Maicon's form and sharpness would inevitably drop. The competitive edge that had made him so valuable could dull in weeks or months on the sidelines. And when that happened, even if Real Madrid still wanted him, it would depend on whether they were willing to gamble on a player out of rhythm and match fitness.

Still, if Arthur chose that path, there was one critical problem he needed to solve first: the right back position couldn't be left vacant or weak. Leeds United's competitiveness in the upcoming fixtures depended on having a solid replacement ready to step in without causing the team to lose balance.

That candidate did exist, Arthur recalled. Earlier that morning, Allen had briefed him on a potential option, but the hectic training sessions had left no room to dwell on it. The day had been full of drills, tactical runs, and preparing the squad mentally for the challenges ahead.

But now, stirred by Calderon's call and the looming threat to Maicon's future, one name suddenly popped into Arthur's mind—a name he hadn't considered seriously before, but which now seemed like a spark of hope.