Liverpool eyeing Leeds players

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After 11 rounds of Premier League action, the league table had twisted itself into something resembling a bad joke—at least from Arthur's perspective. Chelsea, strutting around like they owned the place, sat smugly at the top with 28 points, riding a nine-game winning streak.

Right behind them, of all clubs, was Charlton Athletic with 22 points. Arthur stared at the standings with a raised eyebrow. "Charlton? Are we in the right year? Did I wake up in an alternate universe?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes for effect.

Manchester United sat in third with 21 points, a single point behind Charlton, and looking ready to pounce. But it was Leeds United's position that truly made Arthur's head spin.

Once proudly nestled in the top four, Leeds had tumbled all the way down to 11th place with 13 points—barely keeping their heads above Liverpool, who also had 13 points, but with a goal difference just slightly more embarrassing.

Arsenal was just a bit better off, lounging in ninth with 16 points, like a student who'd done just enough to pass.

And just when Arthur thought things couldn't get more irritating, The Times decided to take a sledgehammer to his mood. Their headline in the first November issue screamed out: "Arthur's Time is No Longer Magical; Leeds United Returns to Mediocre."

Arthur spat out his morning coffee when he read it. "Magical? I didn't know I was pulling rabbits out of hats!" he scoffed, flipping through the article. It was a full-blown dissection of Leeds United's October slump.

The writer practically danced on Leeds' struggles, pointing out that injuries had left the squad paper-thin and desperately exposed. "The young guard of Leeds United," the article read, dripping with patronizing pity, "has found itself hopelessly outmatched by the league's demands. Their head coach, Arthur, seems powerless in the face of widespread injuries and a punishing schedule arranged by the English FA..."

Arthur leaned back in his chair, tossing the paper onto his desk like it was contaminated. "Powerless? More like powerless to stop reading this garbage," he muttered.

The article concluded with a flourish: "If Leeds United does not make substantial reinforcements during the winter window, their dream of finishing in the top four will become nothing more than a punchline!"

Arthur couldn't help but chuckle at that. "A punchline, huh? Not if I'm writing the script," he said, determination simmering beneath his grin.

Lina being the ever considerate assistant, gently rubbed his shoulders and said, " Ignore the British media boss. They will say whatever they can to sell paper."

Arthur knew that despite all the criticism, the system had consistently shown his squad's status as normal. The injuries had hurt, sure, but morale wasn't as shattered as the media seemed to think. If anything, the lads were itching to get back on the field and prove everyone wrong.

And with the main players slowly trickling back from their injuries, Arthur wasn't shying away from the challenge. November's fixture list looked like a gauntlet—Liverpool, Arsenal, and Tottenham.

The press already had their knives sharpened, expecting Leeds to crumble under the pressure. Arthur just smiled at the thought. "Three strong teams? More like three strong chances to shut them all up," he whispered, cracking his knuckles as if preparing for a fight.

The Times could write what they wanted. Arthur knew the winter window was coming, and he had plans. Big ones.

If Leeds United's tumble down the standings could be blamed on half the squad hobbling around on crutches, then Liverpool and Arsenal's league struggles were pure witchcraft. Arthur couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it. In the Champions League, both clubs were strutting around like they owned Europe—Arsenal had three straight wins, sitting pretty at the top of their group, while Liverpool hadn't lost a single game. They were out there treating European football like a walk in the park, yet back home in the Premier League, it was like someone had switched their boots for clown shoes.

Arsenal, for all their Champions League swagger, had managed just 5 wins, 2 draws, and 4 losses in their first 11 matches. It was as if they decided defending was optional whenever they were on English soil.

Arthur flipped through the weekend match reports with a grin. "Three wins in Europe, but four losses at home? That's commitment to inconsistency," he snorted.

But Liverpool? Oh, Liverpool was a whole different level of baffling. Fresh off their Champions League triumph, they'd strutted into the Premier League like conquering heroes…only to get their pants pulled down almost immediately. 

Chelsea had put four past them at Anfield to start October, like it was a training drill. Now, after 11 rounds, Liverpool's record stood at 4 wins, 4 draws, and 3 losses. Eight goals scored. Ten conceded. That's right—the reigning kings of Europe were averaging less than a goal per game.

Arthur stared at the numbers for a moment. "Did they switch their strikers for goalposts? Eight goals in eleven matches? Even my Sunday league team could manage more."

As December loomed and the winter transfer window crept closer, it wasn't just Arthur eyeing reinforcements like a kid in a candy store. Clubs all around England were getting antsy.

If they weren't on the phone with agents, they were tapping up scouts, desperately trying to plug the holes in their squads before things got uglier.

And then, early Tuesday morning, Lina walked into Arthur's office with a folder in hand, her heels clicking against the floor like a countdown timer.

"Got something for you, boss," she said with a grin, waving the folder.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Unless it's a miracle cure for hamstrings or a time machine to go back and slap our physio, I'm not interested," he said, only half-joking.

Lina chuckled. "Not quite. It's an offer from Liverpool."

Arthur blinked. "Liverpool? For what? Directions to the goal?"

Lina smirked. "Close. They want two of our players—Chiellini and Deisler."

Arthur leaned back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a grin spreading across his face. "Oh, Rafa must be desperate," he mused. "I mean, they brought in Reina, they dragged in Crouch… What's next, a request for Adriano too?"

Lina just shrugged, dropping the folder on his desk. "Apparently, Benítez went to the board after they lost to Fulham and basically said, 'Help, please.' And now, here we are."

Arthur picked up the folder, flipping it open. "Chiellini and Deisler, huh? Bold move, I'll give him that." He tapped the paper thoughtfully. "But unless he's offering Stamford Bridge and a Ferrari, I don't see it happening."

Lina smiled. "Shall I prepare the 'Thanks, but no thanks' letter now?"

Arthur laughed. "Make it polite. Maybe add a line about how we hope they find the back of the net someday. It's good to have dreams to snatch my players at bargain prices. "

Arthur tossed the folder onto the growing pile of paperwork. One thing was clear: the winter window was going to be interesting... and Liverpool was clearly planning to shop at Elland Road. Arthur just wasn't sure if he was ready to sell yet.

After Chiellini arrived at Leeds United, he settled in like he'd been born in a white jersey. His partnership with Kompany at the heart of the defense was turning out to be tighter than a drum, conceding just six goals in the first 11 rounds of the league. For a team that had just clawed its way back to the Premier League, that was practically a miracle. Arthur liked to joke that Chiellini could head away a meteor if it came anywhere near the box. His air control was unmatched, his physical duels were like watching a bulldozer against a shopping cart, and his positioning was almost surgical. It was no surprise Liverpool came sniffing around like a stray dog that had just smelled a steak.

And then there was Deisler. If Chiellini was the iron wall, Deisler was the magician sprinkling stardust. People were already calling his move to Leeds a rebirth, like he'd found the fountain of youth in Yorkshire of all places. It was practically a guarantee—if Deisler was on the pitch, 80% of Leeds United's goals somehow involved him. He was threading passes like a tailor and dancing through defenses like they were stage props. In just two months, he'd racked up one goal and six assists. Arthur wasn't about to let that kind of production go for a bag of peanuts.

And yet, that's exactly what Liverpool's offer looked like.

5 million euros for Chiellini? Arthur nearly laughed himself out of his chair. He'd seen more expensive handbags in Harrods.

9 million for Deisler? He wondered if they meant 9 million chocolate coins.

Without even blinking, Arthur told Lina to send a polite but firm "Thanks, but no thanks" back to Merseyside. Maybe add a smiley face for good measure.

He figured that was the end of it, but Liverpool apparently had other ideas. By the time afternoon tea rolled around, Arthur's phone lit up with a number he vaguely recognized.

"David Moores?" he muttered, eyebrows shooting up. "Well, that didn't take long."

Moores, Liverpool's owner, was clearly not a man who enjoyed waiting. Arthur picked up, and after a bit of obligatory small talk that was as hollow as a chocolate Easter bunny, Moores cut straight to the chase.

"Arthur, I believe you know why I'm calling. Let's skip the pleasantries. I want to understand Leeds United's real stance on selling Deisler and Chiellini."

Arthur leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the desk with a grin that could rival the Cheshire Cat's.

"To be honest, David, we don't have any plans to sell... not now, not soon. Deisler and Chiellini are key players, absolute essentials. In fact, I was just thinking about how to strengthen the squad in January, not weaken it."

On the other end, Moores was probably rolling his eyes so hard it would require medical attention. Arthur knew Liverpool had been struggling—floundering in the league while smashing it in Europe like some sort of schizophrenic Jekyll-and-Hyde routine. He imagined Moores biting his lip, staring at their league standing, and contemplating whether bribing referees was cheaper than signing players.

But Arthur also knew Moores wasn't buying a word of it. Not a syllable. The guy had done his homework; he'd studied Arthur's track record like it was an exam. Leeds United's transfer business since Arthur took over had been a revolving door, with star players sold at their peak, bringing in fat stacks of cash and replacements that somehow fit perfectly.

So Moores went for the throat.

"Arthur, let's cut the nonsense. Just give me a number. How much for both of them?"

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Well, would you look at that," he thought, "this old fox knows the game. He's cutting right to it." It was business negotiation 101, and Arthur had to hand it to him—the man had guts.

Arthur leaned forward, eyes fixed on the window overlooking the training pitch, where Vardy was practicing shooting...mostly at the seagulls above the net.

He chuckled to himself and responded casually, "Well, David, I could ask you the same question. How much do you think it costs to bring two of our best players to Anfield?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line, just long enough for Arthur to picture Moores grinding his teeth.

"Name your price, Arthur, and let's see if it's worth discussing."

Arthur grinned wider, knowing that the game was well and truly afoot. He had no intention of giving them away on the cheap. If Liverpool wanted Chiellini and Deisler, they'd better be prepared to pay more than just cab fare and a handshake. Arthur leaned back, fingers tapping the desk rhythmically.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll figure something out, David. But it's going to cost you...and not just a little."