Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

Capello finally gave in to Calderon's suggestion. Begrudgingly, sure—but he agreed nonetheless. He'd watched the clips of this Brazilian teenager, Marcelo, on DVD the night before, and while the quality of the footage looked like it had been filmed with a potato from the '90s, the kid's talent still sparkled through the grainy pixels. Quick feet, outrageous confidence, and a cheeky little flair for overlapping runs—he had potential.

Capello wasn't exactly thrilled to gamble on another young South American, especially after Cicinho had spent more time sprinting up the pitch than remembering he was actually supposed to defend. But Marcelo was different, Calderon had said. Young, eager, and not yet corrupted by the glamorous madness of Madrid's nightlife or the tabloid-driven egos that infested the Santiago Bernabéu dressing room.

And perhaps most importantly? Easier to control. Cicinho was more than just a full-back—he was a full-time headache with a short memory for defensive duties and an even shorter fuse. Marcelo, on the other hand, was green. A sponge. Someone Capello could mold into a proper professional—preferably one who didn't forget which side of the pitch he was meant to be on after halftime.

With that reasoning laid out, Capello gave Calderon the green light. Calderon, feeling quite pleased with himself, picked up the phone and barked an order to Julen Lopetegui.

"Pack your bags. You're going to Brazil. First flight tomorrow. Bring back that kid Marcelo. No excuses."

Lopetegui, ever the loyal servant of the Madrid machine, nodded—even though they were on the phone and no one could see him—and immediately set to preparing for the trip. Sun, samba, and scouting reports. Easy.

Or so he thought.

The Next Day

Rio de Janeiro – 4:12 PM

Lopetegui stepped off the plane with a mild case of jet lag and a suitcase full of Real Madrid tracksuits. No time for sightseeing. No time for feijoada or fancy cocktails on the beach. He grabbed his luggage, hopped into a dusty taxi with questionable air conditioning, and made a beeline for Fluminense's club headquarters.

By 4:35 PM, he was walking through the front gates, tie loosened, folders tucked under one arm, optimism still mostly intact.

By 4:45 PM, that optimism was shattered like a dropped champagne glass at a Bernabéu boardroom party.

Marcelo had already been signed.

By Leeds United.

Of all the clubs in the world—Leeds!

"Come again?" Lopetegui blinked, certain he'd misheard.

"Yes," said the club administrator, who looked far too casual delivering such bombshell news. "Marcelo signed with Leeds United at the beginning of the month. Already gone on loan to Real Sociedad, I believe."

It was like being hit by a truck made entirely of British tabloid headlines.

Lopetegui stood frozen in the middle of the office, mouth half-open, the folder slipping slightly from his hand. This wasn't just bad news—this was Real Madrid losing a race they didn't even know had started.

Madrid – 8:03 PM

Ramon Calderon was mid-chew, his knife and fork working methodically through a juicy sirloin when his phone buzzed.

"Lopetegui," the screen read.

With a smug little grin, Calderon picked up the call and hit speakerphone.

"Well, you've got him, I assume? When's the flight back?"

There was a pause. Too long. The kind of pause that let you know something horrible was about to be said.

"Marcelo's already gone," came Lopetegui's voice, laced with dread. "Leeds United signed him earlier this month. Loaned to Real Sociedad."

Calderon blinked. Then stared at his plate.

It was a beautiful steak. Medium rare. Seasoned just right. It deserved better than what happened next.

With a violent clatter, he slammed the knife down hard enough to chip the edge of the ceramic plate. His fork was flung halfway across the dining room table. His wife flinched. The family dog bolted.

"You're joking!" he roared, yanking the phone off speaker and pressing it against his ear like he was trying to crush it. "I haven't heard a single word about Leeds going after him! Since when were they even in the race?!"

"I'm afraid it's very real," Lopetegui replied, trying not to sound like he was crouched behind a couch. "I didn't know either. I walked into the club and they just told me, plain as day. Marcelo's gone. They signed him weeks ago."

"WE WEEKS AGO?!"

"Yes. Apparently, they even sent him to Real Sociedad on loan already."

Calderon's blood pressure was climbing Everest. "He'd rather go to a relegation club in San Sebastián than join Real Madrid?! That makes no sense! Did you talk to Marcelo himself? Maybe we can convince him!"

"I didn't even get the chance," Lopetegui sighed. "I don't think he's in Rio anymore. The staff here said he's probably already left for Spain."

It was like the universe had conspired to dunk Calderon's head in humiliation soup. How had he, the president of Real Madrid—THE Real Madrid—been blindsided by Leeds United?

Leeds!

Of course, there was only one man cunning enough to pull off this kind of quiet ambush: Arthur.

That smug, scheming tactician with his soft voice and mischievous grin, who seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once, slipping through negotiations like smoke in a boardroom.

"He set me up," Calderon muttered under his breath, pacing around the dining room like a furious panther. "That sneaky little fox. First Maicon, now Marcelo? He's three steps ahead of me."

"Ramon," Lopetegui cut in gently, "we don't have time for finger-pointing. If we want a new full-back before the window closes, we need to move fast. Marcelo's off the table. Who's our next target?"

Calderon took a deep breath. He was the president of Real Madrid. He wasn't going to let this become a full-blown scandal in the press. Not on his watch.

"You're right," he said at last, his voice calmer now. "I lost my temper. Let's regroup."

He narrowed his eyes, mind already spinning with alternatives.

"I'll Call De Nildo," he said. "Ask him if he's willing to sell his full-back."

He didn't even finish his dinner.

****

After snapping his phone shut like it had personally insulted him, Calderon sat motionless for a moment, staring at the silver cutlery on the table as if it might explain how the universe had just conspired to ruin his day. Marcelo was gone. Leeds United—yes, Leeds bloody United—had outmaneuvered Real Madrid. It felt like getting pickpocketed by a pigeon.

But he wasn't done yet.

Determined to recover some dignity, Calderon scrolled through his contacts like a man searching for lost treasure. Somewhere between "Cafeteria Santiago" and "Cousin Paco (Do Not Answer)," he finally found the name he was looking for: De Nildo, the president of Sevilla.

For a moment, Calderon hesitated. A strange feeling bubbled up—an itch in the back of his mind, an unsettling premonition, like the moment before you open a fridge and remember too late that you left fish curry in there a week ago. But he shook it off.

"This time," he muttered to himself, "there's no way that lad Arthur could've been this fast again. He's not a magician."

He stabbed the dial button.

The line clicked, and almost instantly came a voice as bright and bouncy as a beach ball.

"Ramon! Long time, my friend! I was beginning to think you'd forgotten my number! What's the occasion?"

"Evening, De Nildo. No time for small talk," Calderon said, skipping the pleasantries like a man running out of oxygen. "I need to ask—your full-back. Is he available?"

"Full-back?" De Nildo's voice paused, like a man trying to do a jigsaw puzzle with oven mitts on. "Which side are we talking? Left or right?"

"Right," Calderon replied crisply. "The lad who won UEFA Cup Player of the Year. The one Laporta sniffed around last month."

"Ohhh, you mean Alves!" De Nildo exclaimed, the penny dropping. "You won't believe it, but we just sold him. Deal was finalized at the start of the month."

The sound that came out of Calderon's mouth was somewhere between a cough and a small animal being stepped on. "Don't tell me it was Barcelona."

De Nildo chuckled, unaware that he was about to deliver a verbal haymaker. "No, not Barcelona. Guess who? Leeds United! They've already got the contract ready for January. He's theirs!"

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Calderon had hung up before De Nildo could finish the word 'United'. The Sevilla president stared at his phone, confused, like someone who just got ghosted mid-conversation.

Across town, Calderon was pacing his office like a man trapped in a Kafka novel. The walls felt like they were closing in. Marcelo? Gone. Alves? Gone. Both to Arthur's damn Leeds. What next? Would Arthur steal Iker Casillas just to prove a point?

In a move that reeked of both desperation and caffeine, he rang up Capello.

The Italian answered almost immediately, his tone sharp. "Ramon, tell me this is some sort of elaborate prank. Marcelo and Alves? Both gone? To the same club? And you had no idea?"

Calderon winced. "Yes, Fabio, it's true. I just got off the phone with De Nildo. It's... it's not good."

"I'll say," Capello grumbled. "Do you understand what this means? It means I'm going into the second half of the season with Cicinho. That man defends like a golden retriever—enthusiastic, but clueless."

"I know, Fabio." Calderon massaged his temples. His bravado was gone, replaced by a soft, bureaucratic despair. "That's why I'm calling. You've seen the scouting reports. If there's any decent right-back left in the market, I'll pull the trigger. Name him."

"Name him?" Capello barked. "There's no one left, Ramon. Marcelo's gone. Alves is gone. Maicon is the only one still standing, and at this point, I'd have better luck asking Gary Neville."

"Gary Neville?!" Calderon snapped. "We'd have a better chance buying Buckingham Palace!"

"I'm just saying," Capello said, a little more composed now. "This isn't like you. Real Madrid doesn't get outplayed in the transfer market, especially not by a guy who still gets mistaken for a ball boy."

The comment hit Calderon like a punch to the pride. He slumped into his leather chair, the weight of embarrassment crushing his spine into the padding. Arthur—Arthur, of all people—had taken both his primary targets while he was busy posturing and lowballing.

"This is Leeds we're talking about," Capello continued, relentless. "Not Chelsea. Not Inter. Leeds! That lad's running rings around you like it's a playground."

"I know who he is," Calderon growled.

"Then maybe start treating him like a serious opponent," Capello shot back. "Honestly, why are you even playing games? Pay the 35 million for Maicon. You'll get the player, and more importantly, you'll save face. Make it look like we always intended to win the bidding war. Call it a Galáctico signing and the media will eat it up."

Calderon didn't reply right away. His fingers drummed the edge of the desk. He hated admitting defeat, but Capello had a point. If he didn't act now, he might not just lose Maicon—he'd lose credibility, too. And in Madrid, credibility was worth more than silverware.

Finally, he let out a long breath, heavy and resigned. "You're right, Fabio. I misjudged him."

Capello, sensing the moment had passed, softened his tone. "Look, it happens. But now it's time to fix it. Swallow your pride, pick up the phone, and give Arthur a call. Reopen negotiations. Do it the Madrid way—loud, fast, and expensive."

There was a long silence on the line.

And then Calderon stood up, reached for the phone, and cursed , "Time to call the guy and smile while that bastard rips me off!"