As soon as the final whistle blew and Leeds United secured their second consecutive win, Howard jogged off the pitch with that unmistakable grin of a man who knew he was in form. Inside the locker room, the air was filled with high-fives, the thump of boots being kicked off, and the usual banter that came after a hard-fought win. But before Howard could even peel off his gloves or shout something cheesy like "We're on fire!", his phone rang from inside his locker.
He reached for it, glanced at the caller ID, and saw it was his agent.
"Hey, Timothy," his agent's voice came through, hushed and a little urgent. "Can you step out for a second? Someone's here to see you."
Howard blinked. "Now? Can't it wait? I've still got mud in places I didn't know existed."
"Just come. It's important."
So, still shirtless and halfway through cooling down, Howard tugged a towel over his shoulders and slipped out of the locker room. As he turned the corner, he saw his agent standing at the far end of the hallway, next to a familiar-looking older gentleman with a white beard, a suit, and that kind of smile that made you immediately suspicious.
"Timothy," the old man said, extending a hand with all the charm he could muster. "Ken Bates. A pleasure."
Howard shook his hand automatically, mentally scrolling through his memory. Ah, right. Ken Bates—the former Chelsea boss who once made headlines for buying the club for a pound. Howard had seen him from afar during a match at Stamford Bridge, but the beard was unmistakable.
"I'm... uh, happy to meet you too, Mr. Bates. What can I do for you?" Howard asked, scratching the back of his head and trying not to look too confused—or too half-naked.
Bates, meanwhile, was doing a visual inspection like he was evaluating livestock. Howard stood tall and confident, his muscles still firm and flexed from the game. Despite the heavy workload during the match, the guy didn't look tired at all. No heavy breathing, no wobbling knees. Just calm, collected, and a bit sweaty.
Bates nodded inwardly. "Not bad," he thought. "Still sharp even after ninety minutes. That's not just fitness. That's discipline. That's professionalism."
He'd caught glimpses of Gillingham's keeper earlier, and that poor guy looked like he'd just wrestled a grizzly bear for 90 minutes—gasping, bent over, practically begging for oxygen. In contrast, Howard looked ready for a jog around the stadium.
"Leeds really did pick up a bargain," Bates thought. "But that bargain's mine now."
He smiled politely and said, "Nothing too serious, Timothy. Just wanted to personally say your performance today was brilliant. Very composed. Great distribution, good positioning. That throw to start the counterattack for the second goal? Pure class."
Howard chuckled, "Thanks. I'm just trying to do my part."
But deep down, he couldn't shake off the question. Why was Ken Bates—who had nothing to do with Leeds United anymore—bothering to show up to their away match at Gillingham?
Meanwhile, just around the corner, Arthur had finished his own round of celebrations with the team. Towel slung around his neck, snack in hand, he strolled toward the locker room to give a quick team talk and maybe sneak in a jab at the Gillingham coach in the post-match interview. But as he rounded the same hallway corner, he stopped dead in his tracks.
There they were—Howard, standing tall in nothing but shorts and a towel, and Bates, flashing his pearly whites like a man who just found a twenty-pound note on the pavement.
Arthur squinted. Then frowned.
Then he understood.
"Ah… so that's what this fossil's up to," he muttered to himself.
It wasn't the match that brought Bates to Priestfield. It was Howard.
Of course. Two straight games, two standout performances, and Howard was suddenly the hottest keeper in the Championship. Arthur had even considered giving him a pay raise after the last match. Now here was Ken Bates, lurking around the tunnel like a discount Bond villain, trying to swoop in.
Arthur leaned against the wall quietly, arms folded, watching them like a curious cat watching two pigeons argue over breadcrumbs.
He could see how Bates was working his angle—friendly chat, a few compliments, and the subtle suggestion of "bigger opportunities." Arthur didn't need to hear the conversation to know exactly what was being said. He could practically read the subtitles.
"Premier League, Timothy," Bates was likely saying. "Why play in the second tier when you could be on a bigger stage again? West Brom's going places."
But Arthur wasn't worried. Not yet.
Because he knew something Bates didn't.
Howard might've looked calm and polite on the outside, but Arthur had seen the fire in his eyes after training. The guy didn't just want to play—he wanted to win. And more importantly, he wanted to prove everyone wrong about his "butterfingers" reputation from the Manchester United days.
Still, Arthur wasn't taking chances. If Bates was making his move, then it was time to make his own.
He waited until Bates turned to leave, waving his goodbyes with the smugness of a man who thought he'd just planted a winning seed.
Howard turned back toward the locker room, looking a little puzzled.
Arthur stepped out from the corner and patted him on the back.
"Nice towel," he said casually.
Howard nearly jumped. "Boss! Didn't see you there."
Arthur smiled. "I saw everything. Just remember one thing—no matter what anyone promises, we've got something real going on here. Two wins. Zero goals conceded. You're the captain now, Tim. And there's more to come."
Howard nodded slowly. "Understood."
Back in the shadows of the stadium's parking lot, Bates got into his car with a satisfied sigh. His plan was in motion.
He'd charm the player, dangle the Premier League, and then offer Arthur just enough money in January to make him think twice. And if Leeds struggled without Howard? Well, that'd just make the final sale price even sweeter.
But what Bates didn't know—couldn't possibly know—was that Arthur wasn't just another young club chairman. He had plans. Big ones. And this time, he wasn't going to be outfoxed by a beard with a wallet.
He was going to beat Bates at his own game.
***
Just as Arthur was about to take a few steps toward Bates for a friendly "accidental" chat, a loud voice rang out behind him.
"Oh! Mr. Arthur, you're here today! Are you here to supervise the match?"
Arthur turned around instinctively and—boom—a small stampede of reporters was charging right at him. Cameras, microphones, and very loud voices all pointed directly at him.
Leading the pack was that same reporter who had interviewed him last week. Apparently, someone had tipped off the local press that Arthur had come to Gillingham in person, and now, here they were, ready to pounce like seagulls at a chip shop.
Before Arthur could even raise a hand in defense, a wall of microphones surrounded him.
"Congratulations, Mr. Arthur! Another win for Leeds United! How do you feel right now?"
"Mr. Arthur, what do you think of the team's performance today?"
"Mr. Arthur, Howard played like a world-class keeper today. If Premier League clubs come in for him in the winter, would you be willing to let him go?"
"And one more thing—everyone knows Howard was a bit shaky at Manchester United. What gave you the confidence to sign him anyway?"
"Yes, and considering Leeds United's financial situation isn't exactly the rosiest, why was Howard your first move after taking over the club?"
It was like being on a quiz show where everyone was the host, and Arthur was the only contestant—without a buzzer. One question after another, fired off in rapid succession. No warm-up, no breathing room.
Arthur stood still for a second, blinking.
Then he smiled to himself.
Honestly, this was perfect. Just perfect.
He slightly shifted his position, just enough so that Bates—who had slowed down nearby and was pretending not to eavesdrop—could clearly see his face.
Arthur gave the old fox the friendliest, most cheerful grin he could muster.
Then he turned back to the crowd of reporters and put on his "serious club owner" face.
He cleared his throat and began:
"Well, I've been a football fan ever since I was a kid. Properly obsessed. Leeds United wasn't just a name to me—it was part of our family. My dad became a shareholder when I was still in school, and from that moment on, I followed this club through every high and low."
He paused. Just long enough to add some weight to the next bit.
"When my dad passed, I made a promise at his funeral—to bring Leeds United back to where it belongs. Back to the top of the Premier League."
At that point, Arthur added a slight frown, lowering his voice a bit. A classic move. It gave the room just enough of a tug on the emotional strings.
And just like that, the once-rowdy group of reporters settled down.
Silence, for once.
Arthur continued, "As for Timothy… I've been keeping an eye on him ever since he joined Manchester United. People forget—moving to a new country, a new league, it's not easy. He didn't struggle because of talent. He just needed time to settle in."
He glanced around, making sure Bates could hear this next part.
"I actually think what we've seen from him so far doesn't reflect his true value. He's better than people realize. And the upcoming matches? They'll prove that."
There was a quick rustle among the reporters as pens scratched, recorders clicked, and someone whispered, "He's really backing him, isn't he?"
Behind them, just outside the circle, Bates stood frozen with a scowl that looked like he'd bitten into a lemon.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath.
He'd come to Gillingham thinking he'd spotted a loophole, a lucky opening to snag a top-tier keeper before anyone else caught on. But clearly, Arthur wasn't some naive rookie stumbling through football ownership. The lad had timing, guts, and—worst of all—media charm.
"Lucky little punk," Bates thought, gritting his teeth.
But Arthur, blissfully ignoring Bates's presence, was now wrapping up the interview.
"Honestly, I don't want to sell players. I want to build something here. Timothy is part of that. And if someone wants to take him? They'd better have more than just a good offer. They'll have to convince me it's worth slowing down our momentum. Right now, we're flying."
Click. Snap. More camera flashes.
The questions paused for a moment, and Arthur gave the group a polite nod.
"Thanks, everyone. I've got a very happy dressing room to get back to."
As he turned to leave, Arthur made sure to walk past Bates with the kind of casual confidence that said, I know exactly what you're trying to do—and it's not going to work.
Bates stared after him for a moment, beard twitching in frustration.
"Alright," he muttered to himself. "You won this round, Arthur. But the game's far from over."
After tossing out a few more polite answers to the reporters, Arthur quickly redirected them.
"Go chat with the lads," he said with a wave of his hand. "They're the real stars today. Let them enjoy the spotlight."
He wasn't just being modest—he had spotted Bates walking over with that signature smile of his. The kind that looked friendly on the surface but had a whiff of snake oil underneath.
"Congratulations, Arthur," Bates called out, extending his hand. "Leeds United's had a pretty solid start, I must say."
Arthur gave him a firm handshake and returned the smile, though his eyes stayed sharp. "Thanks, Mr. Bates. Didn't expect to see you here today. Watched the match?"
Bates nodded, putting on his best "loyal supporter" expression. "Of course. I'm a lifelong Leeds fan, after all. And, well… I nearly became the owner, you know. Not sure if anyone told you, but I actually approached your father years ago with an offer to buy the club. Shame the deal never went through before he passed."
Arthur raised an eyebrow internally but kept his expression neutral. Ah, so that's your angle today. Fishing for something again, are we?
Since Arthur didn't respond, Bates pressed on, a little irritation creeping into his tone.
"I caught your interview just now. As someone a little older and… hopefully wiser, I'll give you some advice. Don't bet everything on Howard. His track record's a bit rocky. If he makes one big mistake in the next match, all that praise you threw out will just make you look like a clown."
Arthur instantly got it. Ah. Here it is. He's trying to lower the price.
He pulled a face like a kid caught with empty pockets. "You know how it is. Leeds is strapped for cash right now, and Timothy's the best performer we've got. I have to talk him up a bit—build the hype. Hopefully get a good fee for him come season's end."
Bates nearly chuckled out loud. What a fool, he thought gleefully. Calling himself a lifelong football fan, but he's clearly in over his head.
In Bates's mind, this confirmed it—Arthur was a naïve kid playing club chairman like it was a hobby.
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "You bought Howard for what, 3 million euros? I'll offer 8 million in January. Let me take him back to the Premier League where he belongs."
Arthur's heart almost leapt with joy. Bingo. He took the bait. But on the outside, he pulled a face like someone just offered him half a sandwich for his entire lunch.
"That won't do," Arthur said, pretending to sound regretful. "Timothy's been on fire lately. I think he'll only get better. Plus, he's got a release clause—15 million euros. You're a bit off the mark."
Bates's smirk flickered. Fifteen million? What?
That number smacked him like a cold bucket of water. He had planned to quietly contact Howard's agent and try to trigger a release clause if it wasn't too high. Now Arthur had served it up to him on a silver platter—along with a big "NOPE" on a price discount.
Fifteen million for a guy Ferguson benched? You're out of your mind, Bates cursed inwardly. If Howard slips up even once, you won't be able to give him away, let alone sell him.
Trying to hide the sudden irritation in his face, Bates gave Arthur one last tight-lipped smile.
"That's too high," he said flatly. "But I am interested. If you change your mind, give me a call."
And with that, he turned around and stomped off toward the stadium exit, not bothering with any fake pleasantries this time.
Arthur watched him go, the "concerned chairman" act fading from his face.
In its place was a wide, wicked grin.
Eight million? You want to bargain-hunt in my black shop? Keep dreaming, old man.
He crossed his arms, still watching Bates shuffle off.
Give it two more months, and even ten million won't be enough. If you want Timothy then, you'd better bring a bigger briefcase old man.