It was like Arthur had been waiting for that exact question. The moment Simeone finished speaking, Arthur turned toward him with laser focus, his expression suddenly dead serious. No more grins, no more jokes about English food. This was the "manager mode" Arthur flipped on when things got real.
"Diego," he said, staring straight into Simeone's eyes with the kind of intensity usually reserved for motivational sports movies or staring contests with angry cats. "I've been following you for years. I've watched how you play. I love your style—your grit, your fight, your refusal to give up, even when you're down to ten men and the fans are throwing sandwiches at you."
Simeone blinked.
Arthur leaned in slightly. "I want that spirit in my team. That edge. That obsession. You never switch off, and that's exactly the kind of mentality I need at Leeds. Not just from players—but from everyone around them."
Simeone was silent, his usual tough expression beginning to crack.
"But that's not all," Arthur continued, eyes gleaming now. "I love football. And I don't just mean watching Match of the Day and yelling at the telly. I mean I live for it. I breathe it. I want to take Leeds United—this club that everyone's written off—and turn it into something the big boys can't ignore. I want to build something better than Madrid, better than Bayern, better than anyone."
Arthur paused, then added, "And to do that, I need people beside me who get it. People who aren't here for a paycheck or for PR. People who know what football means to the bones. That's why I've been calling you. That's why I kept chasing you, even when you were still in boots halfway across the world. Because you're that guy, Diego."
There was a moment of silence in the car.
The words hung in the air like smoke. Arthur wasn't just asking for help—he was inviting Simeone to join a crusade. An all-out, no-compromise footballing revolution based out of a training ground with bad coffee and a receptionist who knit scarves during lunch breaks.
Simeone's throat tightened. His fingers curled slightly in his lap. He'd had managers praise him before. He'd had scouts and pundits shout about his work rate. But this was different. This was someone asking him to build something. To help shape the soul of a club.
His voice cracked slightly as he responded, "No problem, boss. Thank you… for believing in me."
He cleared his throat and added, "I'll get my coaching license sorted as fast as I can. I'll do everything I can to help the team."
Arthur smiled again—this time not with banter, but with genuine approval. "Good," he said. "Now let's go make history. Preferably without causing any more website crashes."
Arthur raised an eyebrow the moment Simeone brought up the coaching certificate. "Ah, don't stress about that," he waved it off like he was brushing a fly off his jacket. "No need to rush. This is the Premier League—we've got more loopholes than a pirate's treasure map."
Simeone looked at him, confused. Arthur leaned in and lowered his voice like he was about to tell a national secret. "You know, I once heard from a very reliable source—some old fella in a pub with a Leeds scarf and four empty pints—that there was a manager at Manchester United who didn't even have the proper badge at one point. They just slapped someone else's name on the paperwork." He gave a mischievous grin. "So, trust me. You've got time."
Simeone blinked. "That's… very professional," he said slowly, trying to decide whether Arthur was joking or not. Spoiler: even Arthur wasn't sure.
As they chatted and laughed, the car finally pulled up to the entrance of Thorp Arch. From a distance, Arthur squinted out the window—and immediately frowned. There was a whole crowd of reporters swarming the gates like they were giving out free beer inside.
"What the hell?" Arthur muttered. "Is there a press conference I forgot about?"
He turned to Lina, who looked just as puzzled. "Lina, are we holding a press thing today? Was that in my calendar? Did I sleep through another meeting?"
Lina shook her head. "No, boss. Nothing today. I'll go check it out. You two head inside first." With that, she opened the door, gave a little jog that was more "fashion model" than "PR manager," and disappeared toward the horde of journalists like a sheepdog approaching a pack of confused ducks.
Arthur and Simeone headed inside and sat down in Arthur's office. They barely had time to settle in—Arthur had just kicked his feet up on the desk—when Lina reappeared, knocking on the door like she was about to break bad news.
She stepped in, gave a polite nod to Simeone, and hesitated. "Boss… the reporters want to interview you."
Arthur frowned. "Interview me? About what? The match is in two days. They didn't show up like this before the League Cup games, and we actually made it out of the group somehow."
Lina hesitated again, glanced at Simeone, then back at Arthur. "They're not here about the match."
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Then what?"
Lina cleared her throat. "They… want to know why you hired Mr. Simeone. As your assistant coach."
Arthur just stared at her. "Wait… what?"
Lina nodded, clearly embarrassed. "They're… confused. Or maybe angry? They want to know why him."
Arthur leaned back in his chair, utterly baffled. "I hired an assistant coach. Not started a revolution. Since when did hiring staff become a criminal offence?"
He looked over at Simeone, who was silently watching the scene unfold like someone had invited him to a normal dinner and then served him flaming octopus.
Arthur threw up his hands. "I mean, I didn't know hiring a man with a spine and a clipboard would turn Leeds into a war zone."
The room fell silent.
Then Arthur muttered, "This better not crash the website again."
Simeone, mid-sip from his water bottle, froze like a statue. His eyebrows slowly rose as he turned to look at Lina, confused. "Huh?"
Arthur mirrored the look, staring at Lina like she'd just said aliens landed at Thorp Arch with season tickets.
Under their intense stares, Lina began to smile awkwardly. She tugged lightly at her sleeve and said carefully, "Well… Boss, Mr. Simeone… I might have heard someone in the crowd mention something about the World Cup… and, um… David?"
The second she said that name—David—Simeone's eyes went wide. A horrible realization hit him like a two-footed tackle. "Ay no," he muttered, and without warning, he smacked his forehead and collapsed backward onto the sofa with the dramatic flair of a man who had just remembered he left the oven on during a holiday flight.
"I completely forgot!" he groaned. "How could I forget this?!"
Arthur blinked, still half a second behind. He squinted, gears turning, then something clicked in his memory. A ghost from the past rose up—1998. France. England vs Argentina. Beckham's infamous red card. Simeone's smirk. Oh no.
"Bloody hell," Arthur muttered. "The World Cup. That game."
For a brief second, Arthur's entire soul sighed. Why couldn't I have just hired someone boring? Like a guy who used to manage a youth team in Belgium? But no, he had to go and bring in the one man who could trigger a national meltdown by walking through customs.
Simeone sat up, red-faced and rubbing his temples. "Boss, if I'd known this would be such a mess—"
But Arthur wasn't having it. He quickly shot him a look—cool, calm, and full of attitude. He jabbed a finger in Simeone's direction like a manager telling off a linesman.
"Diego. Don't even finish that sentence."
Simeone paused.
Arthur stood up and pointed to the door Lina had just left through. "Listen, the referee already gave you a foul back then. Beckham kicked out like a toddler having a tantrum. That's not your fault. These grumpy British fans? They've been mad for decades over a haircut and a red card. That's their problem, not yours."
He turned to Lina. "Tell those reporters I'm not available. Tell them I'm busy helping Simeone fill out paperwork, stamp forms, whatever sounds complicated. And remind them—I'm the boss. I'm the manager. If I want to make my assistant coach a talking dog, I will. And it's none of their business!"
Lina, who honestly hadn't followed football before joining Leeds, nodded rapidly. She still had no idea what David and World Cups had to do with Simeone, but Arthur's tone made it very clear she should not ask.
She spun around and hurried out the door , before leaving she turned around and winked , " You look quite handsome when you get angry boss~"
Arthur relaxed slightly and smirked," Yeah yeah, flattery won't get you more raise. Thanks for dealing with this."
Lina smiled," You are welcome boss." She left to deal with the media circus.
Arthur really liked this smart secretary who had great people skills and knew how to deal with his mood. Not to mention her beauty added a significant charm to dreary official work.
The moment Lina stepped out and the office door clicked shut, Simeone leaned forward, looking like a kid who'd accidentally knocked over a priceless vase and was trying to decide whether to confess or flee to Argentina.
"Boss… I really didn't think of this ahead of time," he said, rubbing the back of his neck like it might erase history. "If I had—"
Arthur didn't even let him finish. He waved it off like he was batting away a mosquito.
"Diego, don't start. No apologies. You think I brought you here to crumble because a few angry journalists want to relive 1998? Please. We've got bigger problems than bitter Beckham fans. We're building something. And when the wins start coming, they'll all shut up."
Simeone blinked. He had braced himself for a scolding, or at least a very British passive-aggressive silence. Instead, Arthur had his back like they'd gone to war together. That confidence, that fire—it wasn't just talk. It was real.
And just like that, a switch flipped in Simeone. He looked at Arthur not just as a boss, but as someone worth fighting for. He didn't say it aloud, but in that moment, he vowed—whatever Arthur was building at Leeds, he was all in.
Meanwhile, outside the training ground, the reporters who'd been camped out like angry squirrels all morning were fuming. Arthur's no-nonsense "door closed" policy—politely delivered by Lina with a practiced smile—was like waving a red cape at a herd of tabloid bulls.
That evening, the internet exploded.
Headlines screamed. Comment sections boiled. Forums turned into fire pits. Arthur was branded everything from "arrogant" to "reckless" to "the next disaster waiting to happen." Angry fans spammed the club's official site. The Leeds United inbox probably burst into digital flames.
And when the staff walked into the office the next morning, it was like entering a meat freezer. No one spoke above a whisper. Coffee was sipped solemnly. Even the printer seemed to hesitate before making noise.
But, as the old saying goes: just when the waves settle, a bigger one smacks you in the face.
Because Arthur wasn't done yet. Oh no. While the entire football world had spent the night roasting him for hiring Simeone, he had quietly dropped another bomb.
Unbeknownst to the raging public, Liverpool had already wired over the transfer fee for Chiellini the night before. Arthur had wasted no time—he told the finance department to send the payment for their new signing immediately.
So when Leeds United's official website updated that morning, it hit the fans like a brick through a window.
Three bombshells. One after another:
"Chiellini transferred to Liverpool for €11 million."
"Sebastian Deisler transferred to Liverpool in a swap deal plus €1.5 million ."
"Welcome Xabi Alonso to Leeds United."
It was like Christmas morning if Santa decided to throw your favorite toy into the fireplace, then hand you a beautifully wrapped mystery box.
Fans who had kept quiet during the previous uproar now completely lost it.
"Is this guy nuts?!"
"Both Chiellini AND Deisler? Has he lost his mind?!"
"Deisler was involved in nearly every goal we scored this season! What's he thinking?!"
Arthur's actions weren't just bold. They were lunacy in the eyes of most fans.
As far as they were concerned, Leeds United was finished. And Arthur? He had officially become Public Enemy No. 1. Not that he cared though, he was getting a relaxing head and neck massage from his beautiful secretary, unaware of the media storm he created.