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A few days after Arthur's back-and-forth with David Moores, the wheels of football drama began turning behind the scenes.
It was late evening, and Deisler had just wrapped up another grueling training session. He was still slick with sweat, boot laces caked in mud, when his phone buzzed. The screen lit up with Neubauer, his agent's name flashing insistently. Deisler frowned, wiping his hands on his shorts before answering.
"Sebastian, you free right now?" Neubauer's voice was practically humming with excitement. "Meet me at Cielo's on Rose Lane. I've got something important to discuss with you."
Deisler hesitated for a moment, eyeing the mud-streaked gear in his locker. "Now? What's this about?"
"Just get here. You'll want to hear this," Neubauer insisted before hanging up abruptly.
Slightly puzzled but too tired to overthink it, Deisler cleaned up, threw on a jacket, and headed out. During the drive, he tried to guess what Neubauer was so hyped about. Maybe a new sponsorship deal? He had been playing well recently; perhaps Kappa wanted to slap his face on a few billboards. His mind wandered to the idea of posing awkwardly in front of a camera, trying to look natural while wearing gear two sizes too tight. He chuckled at the thought. "Maybe I can negotiate a less ridiculous outfit," he mused aloud.
When Deisler arrived at Cielo's, he found Neubauer already waiting at a corner booth, practically bouncing in his seat. The agent waved him over enthusiastically, his grin so wide it looked like it might crack his face in half.
"You look like you just won the lottery," Deisler quipped, sliding into the seat across from him. "What's got you so worked up?"
Neubauer leaned in conspiratorially, voice dropping to a whisper like they were plotting a bank heist. "Sebastian, there's a club that wants to buy you. And they're offering you three times your current salary!"
Deisler nearly choked on his own breath. He blinked at Neubauer, half-expecting the man to burst out laughing and yell, Gotcha! But the agent's face remained as serious as ever, eyes practically gleaming with anticipation.
"Three times?" Deisler repeated, the words tasting foreign on his tongue. "Three times my current salary? Neubauer, I've only been at Leeds for two months! Who in their right mind would pay that much for me right now?"
Neubauer leaned back, steepling his fingers like some kind of villain in a spy movie. "Not just any club, Sebastian. Liverpool."
Deisler's eyebrows shot up. "Liverpool?" he echoed, his voice a mixture of disbelief and...was that a hint of excitement?
Neubauer nodded, clearly relishing the dramatic reveal. "Moores called me himself. Said they want you in red. Starting position, triple your wages, and a shot at the Champions League next season." His voice lowered as if he were dishing out state secrets. "And think about next year, Sebastian...the World Cup."
Deisler's expression turned serious. The World Cup. That was the dream. It had always been the dream, even through all the injuries and setbacks. And Champions League football? He hadn't even considered that possibility since leaving Bayern. He stared at Neubauer, processing the whirlwind of information.
"Are you serious?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper.
Neubauer leaned in further, nodding vigorously. "Absolutely. This is your chance, Sebastian. To get back on the biggest stage. To play with the best and be seen by everyone who thought you were finished."
Deisler's hand absentmindedly picked up the knife on the table, slowly tracing lines into the steak in front of him, not even bothering to cut it. His mind was spinning—faster than any defender he'd ever faced.
"But...Leeds," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. Things had been going well. Better than well, actually. He was playing regularly, the fans adored him, and he had finally found his rhythm again. The media called it a "rebirth," and for once, he agreed.
Neubauer saw the hesitation and pounced. "Sebastian, come on. I know you like it at Leeds, but think about the stage. Anfield. Champions League nights. The World Cup! You're not getting any younger, and who knows how long this good form will last?"
Deisler flinched at that last comment, but he knew Neubauer had a point. His fingers dug slightly into the tablecloth as his mind raced. "Let me think about it," he finally replied, his voice low, almost a whisper. "I need to think about it."
Neubauer leaned back, smile still firmly in place. "Of course, Sebastian. But don't think too long. Moores is pushing hard. They want you as soon as that window opens."
Deisler nodded slowly, eyes still locked on the steak he hadn't even touched. His mind was already a thousand miles away—standing in the tunnel at Anfield, hearing the roar of the crowd, pulling on that famous red shirt.
For the first time in a long while, Deisler felt truly conflicted.
In the end, Neubauer left Cielo's without a clear answer from Deisler. The midfielder had simply rubbed his temples, sighed, and muttered something about needing more time to think it over. Neubauer, visibly disappointed but masking it with a salesman's grin, patted him on the shoulder. "Take your time, but not too much," he had said, before disappearing into the night, probably off to whisper sweet nothings about contract clauses into some other player's ear.
Deisler walked back to his car, hands shoved deep in his pockets, mind swirling with thoughts. On one hand, Arthur had given him a fresh start at Leeds. He'd brought him in when everyone else had written him off, and the fans at Elland Road had embraced him like he was their long-lost son. It felt like home—muddy, rain-soaked, and far from glamorous, but home nonetheless.
But on the other hand…Liverpool. The Champions League. Triple his current salary. It was like someone dangled a golden carrot in front of him, and it was just out of reach. If he left, he'd be playing on the grandest stage in Europe again. And with the World Cup around the corner, regular Champions League football would do wonders for his chances to be called back up to the national team.
"Damn it," he muttered, slumping into the driver's seat and staring blankly at the steering wheel. His mind was a wrestling ring, and neither side was giving up. He barely slept that night, tossing and turning as visions of Elland Road's roaring crowds battled against the floodlights of Anfield in his mind. His alarm blared the next morning, and Deisler sat up in bed with bags under his eyes that made him look like he'd just pulled an all-nighter at a casino.
And it didn't get any better from there. In training, he looked like he was running through syrup. Passes went astray, shots went wide, and Arthur—keen-eyed as ever—took notice. If Deisler wasn't shanking crosses into Row Z, he was staring off into the distance like a poet brooding over lost love. It didn't take long for Arthur to sniff out that something was wrong.
Back in his office, Arthur leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes narrowed. He knew Deisler's recent funk wasn't just a bad run of form—it was something deeper. The man had been practically floating on the pitch just a couple of weeks ago. Now, he was moving around like he'd just heard his dog ran away. Arthur drummed his fingers on the desk, mind racing.
"Liverpool," he muttered under his breath. It was the only thing that made sense. Chiellini had been snapped up so quickly by Moores that Arthur still hadn't quite gotten over the whiplash. And now, out of nowhere, Deisler was playing like he'd forgotten how to kick a ball? Arthur's eyes narrowed. "That sneaky old fox…"
Without wasting another minute, he grabbed his phone and dialed Allen. The phone rang twice before Allen's voice crackled through. "Hey, boss. What's up?"
"I need you to do some digging," Arthur replied, his voice sharp and businesslike. "Find out what Neubauer's been up to lately. Specifically, if he's been getting cozy with anyone at Liverpool."
Allen chuckled. "You think he's been sweet-talking his way into a deal?"
"I don't think, I know," Arthur replied. "I want eyes on him. If he's even sneezing in Liverpool, I want to hear about it."
"Got it," Allen said. "Give me a couple of days. My little bees will buzz around."
True to his word, Allen got back to him two days later. His voice came through the phone with a tone of satisfaction. "You were right. My people spotted Neubauer in Liverpool. But, and this is the kicker—there's no direct link to any of the staff. Just him floating around, looking suspiciously pleased with himself."
Arthur leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Of course there's no link. Moores is too clever for that. But you don't just wander around Liverpool for the weather, do you?"
Allen laughed. "Definitely not for the weather, boss."
That was enough for Arthur. He didn't need a photograph of Neubauer shaking hands with Moores to put the pieces together. First Chiellini, now Deisler's head was being turned. Liverpool was circling, and Moores was playing it smart—avoiding direct contact, using agents to grease the wheels. Arthur drummed his fingers on the desk, eyes hardening with resolve.
"If Moores wants a fight," he muttered, voice laced with determination, "then a fight is exactly what he'll get."
The week's big match against Portsmouth was set for Sunday, and Arthur had been pacing his office like a caffeinated squirrel. He had been fully prepared to bench Deisler after the midfielder's recent "lost-in-space" performances. Arthur even had a dramatic speech ready—something about "commitment" and "not being a zombie on the pitch." But then, just as if someone had flipped a switch, Deisler showed up at Friday's training looking like he'd guzzled a gallon of motivation juice.
Suddenly, he was sharper, quicker, and his passes actually found teammates instead of invisible friends on the sidelines. He even threw in a few cheeky nutmegs during rondos, and Arthur found himself watching from the touchline, eyebrows raised. "Oh, so now you remember how to play football," he mumbled, shaking his head.
Arthur had half a mind to bench him anyway, just to make a point. But with Liverpool looming on the fixture list and a string of tough matches ahead, Arthur knew he needed every bit of quality he could muster. His desire to make a dramatic statement was crushed under the weight of tactical pragmatism. With a sigh that sounded like defeat, he scribbled Deisler's name back into the starting eleven for Sunday.
When matchday rolled around, Leeds United lined up strong, almost at full capacity now that most of the walking wounded had returned to action. The only absentee was Bale, still recovering, probably wrapped in bubble wrap somewhere to prevent further mishaps
.
The match itself was almost routine.
Portsmouth put up resistance for about 15 minutes before Leeds' superior quality began to shine through. Deisler, apparently deciding he'd like to still be employed, put on a solid display. He pulled the strings in midfield, distributed the ball with purpose, and even unleashed a few curling crosses that made the Portsmouth defenders look like they were trying to catch butterflies.
Leeds secured a comfortable 2-0 win, with goals from Adriano (wink) and Falcao. Arthur spent the last 10 minutes leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed, looking more smug than a cat that had just found its way into the cream pantry.
As the final whistle blew, the traveling Leeds fans erupted, and Arthur gave a satisfied nod. "Ninth place," he murmured, glancing at the live standings. Leeds had just leapfrogged Manchester City, who had somehow managed to lose.
Of course, the win itself was practically ignored by the media. Leeds beating Portsmouth wasn't going to sell papers. All eyes were on Old Trafford, where Manchester United and Chelsea were preparing to bash each other's brains in both on and off the pitch. The managers had been flinging insults at each other all week with the grace and maturity of schoolchildren fighting over a swing set.
Arthur couldn't help but chuckle as he flipped through the morning papers. United's manager had called Chelsea's tactics "prehistoric," while Chelsea's boss had fired back by suggesting United's lineup looked more suited for a retirement home than a football pitch.
And the club's media teams? They were practically lighting bonfires, tossing gasoline, and dancing around with marshmallows. Arthur loved every bit of it.
But as much as the drama amused him, Arthur's focus remained sharp. Liverpool was lurking just around the corner, and he knew the circus at Old Trafford wouldn't matter one bit if he couldn't keep Deisler's head in the game. He slapped the newspaper shut and leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin.
"Alright, Deisler," he muttered to himself. "Show me if Friday was a fluke or the real deal."
The media circus kicked into overdrive the moment the barbs started flying. First came the whispers from Old Trafford—rumors that Ferguson had been openly mocking Mourinho's infamous "bus-parking" tactics during training sessions. "It's not football," Ferguson supposedly snorted, waving a hand dismissively. "It's traffic management." The papers gobbled it up like they'd been starved for weeks.
Naturally, Mourinho wasn't one to let things slide. His response was sharper than a two-footed tackle. "Ferguson? He's living in the past," Mourinho sneered during a press conference, eyes glimmering with that signature arrogance. "His tactics are as outdated as his last title. Look at the table—10 points behind. Maybe he should park a bus. It would be less embarrassing."
The back-and-forth set the stage for their showdown at Old Trafford, and when matchday arrived, the world was practically glued to their screens. United versus Chelsea wasn't just a match—it was a battleground, a grudge match dressed up in Premier League colors.
The game itself was a tight affair, with neither side giving an inch. Mourinho's Chelsea played like they'd been welded to their own penalty box, while United threw wave after wave of attack. Finally, the deadlock was broken—not by Rooney, not by Ronaldo, but by Darren Fletcher of all people, floating in a header that caught everyone, including himself, completely by surprise. 1-0 to United.
As the final whistle blew, Old Trafford erupted. Ferguson clapped his hands, grinning from ear to ear, while Mourinho…well, Mourinho looked like he'd just bitten into a lemon. He didn't even bother with the post-match pleasantries, storming down the tunnel without so much as a glance at Ferguson. The assistant coach was shoved out to face the press, wearing the expression of a man who'd just been told his car was on fire.
The English FA, never one to miss a chance for some righteous discipline, slapped Mourinho with a fine worth tens of thousands of euros for his antics. The media had a field day, of course, plastering his fuming face on every back page. It was chaos, it was drama, it was everything Arthur loved about Premier League football.
But while the world was busy devouring the Mourinho-Ferguson saga like it was the season's main event, Arthur's mind was already on next week. Arsenal was coming to Elland Road, and Arthur knew full well that this wasn't just any match. This was a test—a measuring stick for how far Leeds United had come under his stewardship.
Arsenal was the oddball of English football. While the rest of the Premier League was obsessed with raw power and aerial duels, Arsenal played like they were auditioning for a ballroom dance competition—smooth, intricate, and annoyingly elegant. They didn't just win games; they pirouetted through them, stringing passes together like it was an art form.
And who was behind it all? The man with the wire-frame glasses and the perpetual look of someone who had just cracked the code to football: Arsène Wenger. Under Wenger's guidance, Arsenal had not just won; they had dominated. The 2003–2004 season wasn't just a victory lap; it was a declaration. They went 49 games unbeaten in the league—a feat that was still whispered about in awe. Even though Chelsea had snatched the title last season with their wallet-stuffed approach, Arsenal was still a force. Debt-free, well-oiled, and more than capable of dismantling anyone who dared to get in their way.
Arthur knew all of this. He'd studied their play, watched how they weaved around desperate defenders like it was a training drill. But he wasn't intimidated. If anything, he was excited. Arsenal might have their elegant football and their smug Frenchman at the helm, but Arthur had grit, unpredictability, and—most importantly—absolutely nothing to lose.
"Alright, Wenger," Arthur muttered under his breath, leaning back in his chair. "Let's see how your ballroom dancers handle a proper fight."