The mont the referee blew for half-ti, Arthur didn't waste a second.
He spun on his heel like he'd just seen a ghost and stord down the tunnel, his coat flapping behind him like an angry superhero. There was no point sticking around the pitch. The damage was done—4-0, and his team looked like they'd accidentally joined the wrong sport.
He needed to reset. ntally, emotionally, spiritually. Maybe physically too—his legs were shaking. And more than anything, he had to figure out how to rip into his players without completely shattering what was left of their confidence. It had to be the kind of yelling that motivated, not the kind that sent grown n into early retirent.
In the locker room, Arthur grabbed the whiteboard and started scribbling furiously. Arrows, shapes, notes, angry circles—it looked like a conspiracy theory in marker pen. He wasn't even sure what he was drawing. It just felt productive.
Then ca the sound of footsteps.
Captain Jas Milner was the first one through the door, sweat dripping from his hair, looking like a disappointed dad coming ho to a broken TV.
He opened his mouth to say sothing, but Sione, standing silently in the corner like a bouncer outside a dodgy nightclub, shook his head slowly. The ssage was clear: Sit down. Don't poke the bear.
Milner sat.
One by one, the rest of the starting eleven shuffled in. They looked like kids who'd been caught cheating on a test and were now waiting for the principal to read out their sins. No one made eye contact. Alonso and Milner sat upright, stone-faced. Everyone else was staring at their boots like they expected them to disappear.
Then, suddenly, Arthur dropped the marker. With one clean swipe of his arm, he erased everything he'd just written. Gone. Back to a blank whiteboard.
He turned around.
Silence.
And then he just stared.
For a solid three minutes.
It was the kind of stare that made grown n question life choices. No words. No movent. Just Arthur looking deep into their souls like he was searching for the receipt to return them all.
The only thing anyone could hear was the sound of breathing. So shallow. So deep. Soone—possibly Lahm—was doing nervous little hiccups.
Then finally, Arthur spoke. His voice was calm, asured. Almost too calm.
"Diego," he said, turning slightly toward Sione. "Take the substitutes to warm up."
Sione, who had been standing motionless like a mannequin, nodded without a word and quietly slipped out the door.
The mont it closed behind him, Arthur's voice returned. The players braced for it—so clenched fists, so closed their eyes—but what ca next was… unexpected.
"This is the worst first half I've ever experienced," Arthur said, matter-of-factly. "No doubt about it. That wasn't football. That was... I don't even know what that was. We were out there getting slapped around like mannequins in a wind tunnel."
He paused, scanning the room again. Still calm. Still terrifying.
"I could spend the next ten minutes tearing you all to pieces. I really could. But I'm not going to."
Every player in the room blinked. What?
"I'm not interested in screaming right now. Instead, I'm going to tell you a story."
Several heads lifted.
Even Neuer, who was normally as stoic as a bank vault, perked up like a toddler hearing the word snack. His eyes sparkled. It was, quite frankly, a bit unnerving.
Arthur caught the look and smirked despite himself. Neuer's curiosity was so pure it looked like he was about to lean forward with a juice box and ask, "And then what happened, Coach?"
Arthur folded his arms, took a breath, and prepared to speak—not as the furious manager of a team getting humiliated, but as soone with a ssage.
A story.
Sothing to spark the dying fire in their chests.
But that… was for the next few minutes. For now, all they could do was sit and listen, unsure what tale was coming—but certain it wasn't going to be anything ordinary.
****
It was just a small smile. Barely a twitch at the corner of Arthur's mouth.
But sohow, that tiny expression cut through the locker room like sunlight breaking through clouds in a disaster movie. The tension in the room had been thick enough to chew on—and now, with one subtle grin, the temperature rose from arctic to rely freezing.
"Alright," Arthur said, his voice casual, as if they weren't trailing 0–4 and being flattened on live television. "Out of everyone in here, Jas has been with Leeds the longest."
Milner looked up and blinked, unsure if this was a complint or the prelude to a public flogging.
Arthur continued, eyes flicking from face to face. "When he first t , I wasn't even the head coach. Jas was playing for the U19s, full of promise, big dreams. And ?" He pointed a thumb at his chest. "I was just a rich idiot everyone thought was useless."
There was a beat of stunned silence. Then a few confused glances. Was the coach… roasting himself?
"I an it," Arthur said with a chuckle, pacing a little now. "At the ti, I had money to burn, drinks to pour, and—how shall I put this—an unlimited supply of extracurricular activities."
Neuer raised an eyebrow. Alonso snorted quietly. Even Kompany cracked a small grin.
"But," Arthur went on, his tone shifting, "my old man… was different. Obsessed with Leeds. Fanatical, really. When the club was on the verge of collapse, relegated, broke, abandoned—he didn't flinch. He bought most of the shares. Saved it, just like that."
Arthur paused for a mont, the room now completely still.
"Then," he said quietly, "he died. And just like that, everything landed on . A Championship club. In debt. Eighty million down. The team gutted—star players sold off for peanuts just to keep the lights on."
No one said a word.
Arthur leaned back against the whiteboard, looking at the players with a calm, almost eerie confidence.
"So yeah," he said. "If you're feeling miserable now, imagine being , a few years ago. Dumped into a ss I didn't ask for. The world watching, laughing. No experience. No clue. Just … and Leeds United."
He crossed his arms, eyes steady. "But I didn't sell. Didn't run. Didn't crawl back to my old life of parties and aningless nonsense. I stayed."
A few players nodded, slowly, like they were hearing all this for the first ti.
"We fought. We won the Championship. I took over as coach. And this season—we're in the Premier League. You're not just here by chance. Each of you joined this club knowing what we were trying to build."
Arthur's voice began to rise now, the fire returning.
"And I'm telling you all this, not because I need sympathy, or applause, or any of that crap—no. I'm telling you because the word give up doesn't exist in my vocabulary. It was deleted. Permanently."
He stood straight again, walking slowly toward the middle of the room. "And if I'm going to fight, then so are you. You're not just players. You're my soldiers."
The tension returned—but this ti, it ca with heat.
"In the second half," Arthur said, his voice suddenly booming, "I have only three demands."
Everyone snapped their heads up.
"Attack!" he roared.
"Attack!!"
He slamd a fist into the whiteboard. "And still bloody ATTACK!!! I don't care if we lose 1–8! I'll live with that! But if we play another 45 minutes and still don't score—then that's what I can't accept! I want goals! I want fire! I want every single one of you playing like it's the last match of your lives!"
"CAN YOU DO THAT FOR ?!" he shouted, pointing at them like a general on the battlefield.
"YES!!!!" they roared back, in perfect unison.
The sound rattled the lockers. Milner clenched his fists. Lahm slapped the bench. Even Neuer, the ever-stoic baby-faced brick wall, shouted so loud his voice cracked.
Arthur nodded once, fierce and satisfied.
Now they were alive.
Without wasting another second, he grabbed the whiteboard, yanked it back to the center, and picked up the marker. No more speeches. No more stories.
It was ti for tactics. Ti for war.
****
At the Manchester United bench, Sir Alex Ferguson's face was a brilliant shade of red—not the angry kind, but the flushed, proud kind, like a granddad watching his favorite grandchild score a hat trick at the schoolyard.
4–0. Four. Nil.
He could taste the champagne already.
The first shiny plate of the season, was practically in his hands. Sure, he'd lifted a hundred trophies in his lifeti and probably used them to prop open doors at Carrington by now, but still—who didn't like a fresh win? It was like finding a £20 note in your coat pocket. Unexpected, but delightful.
"You lads did good. Especially you, Cristiano," Ferguson said, pointing at Ronaldo with that classic Scottish smirk. "Play like that in the second half, and the little Leeds lad won't know what hit him."
Ronaldo bead like he'd just been told he was the world's most handso man. Which, let's be honest, was sothing he already told himself in the mirror every morning.
"Did you see that third nutg?" Ronaldo turned to Rooney, absolutely glowing with pride. "Right between his legs! Like threading a needle blindfolded."
Rooney, chewing gum like it owed him money, nodded. "Yeah, but I liked your second one more. The little dink over the full-back. Had him spinning like a fidget spinner."
Behind them, the squad was relaxing. Even the ever-professional Paul Scholes, usually as intense as a tax audit, looked… relaxed. His eyes half-lidded, nodding at Ferguson's whiteboard instructions like a kid pretending to understand algebra. The vibe was calm. Too calm. Like everyone had already ntally ordered the post-match pints.
Ferguson pulled the whiteboard over anyway, ever the perfectionist. He began laying out second-half tweaks with his marker squeaking furiously on the surface, but most of the lads were half-listening. Why wouldn't they be? They were four goals up. The trophy was basically in the boot of the team bus. What could possibly go wrong?
Across the pitch, however, things were oddly still.
As both teams returned for the second half, comntator Gary Lineker's voice crackled through the broadcast booth, a note of surprise in his tone.
"Hmm… interesting. Leeds United are four-nil down, but they haven't made a single substitution. No changes at all. That's… unexpected. Have they thrown in the towel already?"
The cara panned to the Leeds bench, where Arthur stood motionless, arms folded, expression unreadable. Not a single player warming up. No clipboard flapping. No staff in a huddle.
Just Arthur.
Still. Calm. Like a poker player staring down a full house.
Ferguson's brow furrowed. This wasn't right. He'd expected changes—big ones. Maybe Rivaldo off, Modric on. Or both. He'd even told Park Ji-sung to stay alert and press hard if either of those creative types ca in.
But nothing. Not even a whisper of a change.
Ferguson squinted at Arthur again.
What was the boy doing?
Was this arrogance? Naivety? Or… sothing worse?
No ti to think. The referee raised his whistle to his lips.
"BEEEEEEP~~~~~~~~"
And just like that, Ferguson snapped out of his thoughts, eyes flicking back to the pitch.
Fine, he thought. So you're sticking with your first eleven?
I'm still up 4–0.
Let's see what kind of miracle you think you're pulling off, kid.
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