"Chiellini is 7 million euros, Deisler is 11 million euros," Moores replied without so much as a pause, like he'd been rehearsing it in the mirror that morning.
Arthur nearly dropped his coffee. "That was quick," he thought, raising an eyebrow. Moores wasn't playing around—he'd clearly decided that those two were coming to Anfield, and he was ready to slap down the cash.
Arthur took a sip, buying a second to process. For Moores to throw numbers out like that with zero hesitation, he was either incredibly confident or desperately sweating under that Liverpool scarf.
But as tempting as the numbers sounded, Arthur knew better. He placed the cup down and leaned back in his chair, a grin spreading across his face. "Mr. Moores," he began, voice calm and measured, "Chiellini is 12 million euros, Deisler is 20 million. That's the ideal price."
The silence on the other end of the line was almost comical. Arthur could picture Moores blinking at the phone, checking to see if the call had cut out. When he finally did speak, it was with the kind of restrained politeness you'd expect from a man who just found out his car got towed.
"20 million? For Deisler?"
Arthur chuckled. He knew that number would sting a bit. But this wasn't 10 years in the future, where defenders would be going for 60 or 70 million like they were limited-edition Ferraris. Back in 2002, AC Milan paid 30.5 million euros for Nesta, and that had practically caused heart palpitations across Europe.
But Arthur wasn't basing his price on nostalgia; he was basing it on value.
Chiellini was a beast—tough as nails, sharp in the air, and practically allergic to losing one-on-one duels. Arthur wanted at least three to four times what he'd paid for him, or there was no deal. Simple as that. Moores might think 7 million was a good start, but for Arthur, it was barely the opening bid at a school raffle.
And then there was Deisler. Arthur wasn't about to give him away for pocket change, especially after what he'd invested. It wasn't just about form—though, to be fair, Deisler had been delivering assists like Santa Claus with a better pass completion rate.
Arthur had also burned his only injury recovery card on the guy. System products didn't come cheap, even if they were invisible to everyone else. For Arthur, that card alone was worth a cool 10 million euros. So 20 million? It wasn't even a premium; it was just fair business.
And honestly, Arthur had eyes. He'd seen Liverpool's midfield struggling like a fish out of water—gasping for creativity, flailing around for someone who could actually pass forward without bursting into flames. They needed Deisler, and they knew it. Arthur wasn't about to hand him over with a bow and a discount tag.
Leaning back comfortably, Arthur waited for Moores' response. He could almost hear the gears turning, the calculator buttons clicking, and Moores scribbling numbers on the back of an envelope. Arthur didn't mind; he had time. And he knew that if Liverpool wanted to fix that mess of a midfield, it was going to cost them.
Moores didn't even hesitate. His voice came crackling through the speaker like he'd been waiting for this: "Mr. Morgan, these two prices are a bit exaggerated, don't you think?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. He knew where this was going. Moores, ever the businessman, continued with the kind of confidence that only comes from a spreadsheet obsession.
"Manchester United sold Stam to AC Milan for just 10.5 million euros this year. Are you telling me, with a straight face, that Chiellini, a 21-year-old kid, is worth more than Jaap Stam?" He paused for dramatic effect, as if waiting for Arthur to burst out laughing and shout, "You got me!"
Arthur leaned back in his chair, twirling a pen in his hand as Moores kept going. "And Deisler…" Moores' tone practically oozed disbelief. "You picked him up for a couple of million from Bayern. Are you honestly telling me that in just two or three months, his value has magically doubled?"
Arthur didn't flinch. He let Moores' words hang in the air for a moment before responding, voice as smooth as if he were discussing the weather. "Mr. Moores, isn't it the data that speaks on the football field?" Arthur's grin widened. He knew he had him.
"I'm sure you've seen the stats. You've got people on your end whose sole job is to watch and analyze. Chiellini's been an iron wall in defense, and Deisler? Nearly 80% of our goals are running through him right now. It's not magic, Mr. Moores. It's numbers. And numbers don't lie."
Moores went silent. Arthur imagined him on the other end of the line, probably flipping through scouting reports, sweating a little as he reread the numbers. Arthur wasn't about to blink first. He casually reached for his coffee, taking a slow sip while the silence stretched out, enjoying the tension.
Finally, Moores broke the silence with a sigh that practically screamed I'm not happy about this. "Alright, Chiellini for 11 million euros, Deisler for 15 million. That's the highest I'm willing to go." His voice had that strained politeness of someone haggling for a used car, not two top-flight players.
Arthur's grin returned. He knew Moores was cracking. But instead of pouncing, he played it cool. "I can accept that offer for Chiellini," Arthur replied smoothly.
"But for Deisler, the number stays at least around 18 million. That's non-negotiable. If Liverpool can't meet that, I'm happy to keep him. In fact, I'm pretty sure there are a few other clubs who wouldn't mind paying top dollar for a player of his quality."
The line went silent again, and Arthur could practically hear Moores grinding his teeth. He wasn't about to fold, not now. Arthur leaned back in his chair, perfectly relaxed, waiting for Moores to either crack or hang up. Either way, he knew the ball was firmly in his court.
Arthur had figured out Moores' mindset like he was reading a children's book. Liverpool's form had been shaky at best, and Moores knew he needed reinforcements if he didn't want to spend the rest of the season watching Chelsea and Manchester United dance around the top of the table.
Arthur's asking price wasn't absurd—just... ambitious. And Moores? Well, he was trying to play the classic game of "let's pretend I don't need this."
But Arthur knew the truth. The money was real, and Moores, for all his haggling, would eventually cough it up if pushed hard enough. So began the most dramatic round of bargaining since Arthur tried to convince his local coffee shop that a refill should be free if it was under five minutes.
The two went back and forth, volleying numbers like it was Wimbledon. Arthur would nudge it up a million, Moores would drag it back down with the enthusiasm of a man trying to haggle at a flea market. "11 million for Chiellini,"Moores finally conceded, his voice sounding like he'd just swallowed a wasp. Arthur almost applauded him for it.
But Deisler? That was a whole different story. Arthur wasn't budging. Moores might as well have been trying to move a brick wall with a spoon. Arthur stood firm at 18 million, like he'd carved the number into stone. Moores tried everything short of begging—statistics, comparisons, even throwing in the usual "market value" nonsense—but Arthur simply repeated the number like it was his phone password.
Eventually, Moores sighed, his voice deflating like a balloon with a slow leak. "Fine, let's settle Chiellini for 11 million. But Deisler... we'll talk again. There's time before the window. Maybe we can convince him to come over willingly."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. The old fox was scheming. He knew Moores was planning to work Deisler from the inside out. The whispers, the agent calls, the subtle nudges—it was classic big-club maneuvering.
But Arthur was ready for it. He'd been around the block too many times to let a bit of tapping up shake him.
That evening, just as Arthur was getting comfortable with a cup of coffee and wondering why Netflix still didn't have a decent football documentary, his phone buzzed. It was Chiellini.
"Boss," Chiellini began, sounding like he'd just been told his dog ran away. "I got a call from my agent... Liverpool reached out. They asked if I'd be interested in a move. I wanted to tell you directly. You brought me here... I didn't want to hide it from you."
Arthur leaned back in his chair, a grin spreading across his face. He could almost picture Moores scrambling to get in touch the moment they'd settled the price, his finger probably still on the dial as Arthur signed off. "That old fox is faster than I thought," Arthur muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.
Chiellini sounded uneasy, his voice a little shaky. Arthur couldn't blame him. It was Liverpool—Champions League nights, Anfield roars, the whole romantic spiel. But Arthur wasn't about to let the lad wobble. "Don't worry, Giorgio,"Arthur said, his voice reassuring. "If it happens, it happens. But remember why you came here in the first place. And just know, whatever happens, I'm behind you."
Chiellini exhaled on the other end, the tension draining from his voice. "Thanks, boss. I just... I didn't want you to think I was keeping anything from you."
Arthur chuckled. "If you were keeping things from me, I'd know. Trust me. Moores is just playing his games. I'll handle him."
Arthur was genuinely touched that Chiellini had reached out to him first. It wasn't every day a player called his manager to confess that another club was whispering sweet nothings in his ear. The fact that Chiellini, a young defender with big dreams, had the integrity to inform him before anyone else showed a lot about his character.
Arthur couldn't help but chuckle. He leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on his desk like a man with not a single worry in the world. He decided to take a lighthearted approach, not wanting Chiellini to feel weighed down by guilt. "Gio, I knew about it the moment Moores finished dialing your agent," Arthur joked, his voice full of that familiar confidence.
"Listen, if you want to go, I'm not going to handcuff you to Elland Road. I support you, alright? But don't even think about slacking off while you're still wearing our shirt. I catch you pulling your punches, and I'll have you warming that bench so fast, you'll forget what grass looks like. Hahahaha!"
Chiellini chuckled nervously on the other end, clearly relieved by Arthur's tone. Truth be told, the young defender had been sweating buckets about making that call. On one hand, there was his loyalty to Arthur—the man who plucked him from obscurity and gave him a stage to shine.
On the other hand, Liverpool dangled Champions League football and a fat paycheck, the kind of temptation that had most players sprinting up the M62. And with the World Cup around the corner, Chiellini knew full well that visibility mattered. Italy's back line wasn't exactly known for sentimentality; if you weren't in the spotlight, you might as well be invisible.
But Arthur's easygoing manner did the trick.
The knot of anxiety that had been twisting in Chiellini's stomach unraveled instantly. He took a deep breath and promised with genuine sincerity, "Boss, I'm gonna give it everything I've got until my last minute here. You have my word."
Arthur grinned. "That's what I like to hear. And listen, Gio… when you line up against us in red, don't think I won't be rooting for you to trip over your own feet."
Chiellini burst into laughter, the tension of the call completely gone. "I'll make sure to do it right in front of your technical area," he replied, finally sounding like himself again.
Over the next few days, Chiellini stayed true to his word. During training, the Italian was as sharp and focused as ever. He was barking orders, crunching into tackles, and winning aerial duels like his life depended on it. If anything, the looming transfer seemed to light a fire under him.
Arthur watched from the sidelines, arms crossed and nodding approvingly. "If he plays like this because of a transfer rumor, maybe I should sell half the squad," he muttered under his breath, smirking to himself.
But while Chiellini thrived, Deisler was...well, different. Arthur couldn't quite put his finger on it at first. During drills, Deisler's passes were a touch slower, his runs a bit less sharp.
The German winger was still Deisler—brilliant when he wanted to be—but there was an edge missing. Arthur's first instinct was to chalk it up to fatigue or maybe a knock he hadn't mentioned. But after running the system diagnostics—Arthur's cheeky little cheat sheet—everything came back clear. Physically, Deisler was in perfect condition.
So what was it?
The answer crept up on Arthur slowly. He knew Liverpool had been sniffing around Chiellini, and Moores was probably still licking his wounds from their failed bid for Deisler.
And if there was one thing Arthur knew about Premier League bigwigs, it was that they weren't exactly fond of playing by the rules. The English FA had its strict policies about tapping up players, but clubs ignored those like a "No Parking" sign in an empty lot. Chelsea had done it with Ashley Cole, and it had blown up spectacularly. But that hadn't stopped anyone.
Arthur stroked his chin thoughtfully, watching Deisler drag his feet through a crossing drill like he was wading through knee-deep mud. "Looks like someone's been getting some friendly phone calls," he murmured to himself.
He'd seen this sort of thing before—the sly little whispers, the promises of Champions League glory and more zeros on the paycheck. Liverpool was playing the long game, and Deisler was the pawn.
But Arthur wasn't about to let that slide. He'd seen this game too many times before, and if Moores wanted to play dirty, he'd picked the wrong manager to mess with.
Arthur kept watching, eyes narrowed, arms crossed, as Deisler shanked another cross. "Alright, Liverpool," he muttered, voice low and resolute. "If you want him, you're gonna have to do a hell of a lot more than sweet talk him over the phone."
Arthur knew one thing for certain—this little game was just getting started.