The morning after the Champions League defeat, the mood around Leeds' training ground was… complicated. The players jogged out in their tracksuits, so still rubbing the sleep from their eyes, others kicking loose balls around half-heartedly as though the leather spheres had personally offended them the night before. The defeat was still fresh, like a bad taste that refused to leave no matter how much water you drank.
Arthur, however, wasn't the type to hand out pity days. Four days until the league clash with Tottenham Hotspur — that wasn't ti for sulking, that was ti for sharpening swords. Champions League exit or not, the Premier League crown was still dangling right in front of them.
But before Arthur could even properly step onto the training pitch, he found himself intercepted. Charging toward him, frowning like a man whose morning coffee had been swapped for vinegar, was his assistant, Diego Sione.
"Boss, we've been slaughtered in the papers again today." Sione's voice was sharp, his accent making the word 'slaughtered' sound even more dramatic.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, I figured."
Diego blinked, clearly unimpressed with the lack of reaction. "That's it? Just 'yeah'? So of these headlines are brutal! Do you even want to read them?"
Arthur didn't even slow down as he walked past him, hands in his jacket pockets. "No."
"No?" Sione jogged after him, eyes widening. "Boss, I don't think you're grasping the gravity of this. We've been criticized! Criticized everywhere! Shouldn't we fire back? Maybe get the Yorkshire Post on our side, have them write sothing flattering? A little counter-attack in the press?"
Arthur finally stopped, turned, and gave Sione a long look — the kind of look that said you've just asked if I'd like pineapple on pizza. He let the silence sit there for a mont, just long enough for Diego to shuffle nervously. Then Arthur sighed.
"Diego… you're forcing to do this again." He put a hand dramatically over his chest. "You're making give you one of my life lessons."
Sione folded his arms, though his lips twitched like he was bracing for so nonsense. "Alright then, enlighten . What qualities should a manager have, apart from winning gas non-stop?"
"Unity and stability in the locker room," Sione added quickly, rembering sothing Arthur had drilled into him before.
Arthur squinted at him. "You've rembered one thing? Just that?"
"Well, it was in the cafeteria! You made a big speech while waving a fork at . Hard to forget."
Arthur groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Good grief. You're impossible. Fine. Since you want to play dumb…" He suddenly lifted his leg as if to kick Diego squarely in the backside.
"Hey! Hey, hey, hey!" Sione dodged away, laughing nervously as he side-stepped behind Arthur. "Don't start attacking in front of the whole squad, boss! They're watching!"
Arthur glanced over, and indeed, several Leeds players had stopped mid-warmup to enjoy the free cody show unfolding between manager and assistant. A couple were even whispering, clearly placing bets on whether Sione's backside was about to et Arthur's boot.
Arthur spun on them with a thunderous glare. "What are you staring at? Run! Five extra laps for everyone! Go, go, go!"
The groans echoed across the training pitch instantly, the players dragging their feet into reluctant jogs, muttering curses under their breath. But the punishnt worked — they were no longer spectators.
Arthur turned back, still scowling. Sione tried to hide a smirk but failed miserably. "See? That's exactly what I'm talking about. Why keep us in suspense? Just tell the answer before you start threatening my backside again."
Arthur took a deep breath, resisting the overwhelming urge to actually land the kick. Instead, he dropped his voice into his "wise ntor" tone. "A manager needs to keep a stable ntality. It's as essential as tactics or fitness. Doesn't matter how loud the critics scream, you don't flinch, you don't panic, you don't start a shouting contest with the tabloids."
Diego tilted his head. "Stable ntality? But I am stable on the pitch. You've seen . I'm like a rock."
Arthur snorted. "A rock that yells at referees every five minutes and chases opponents like you've got a vendetta? Sure. But I'm talking about handling pressure. dia, fans, politics. If you start barking back at every insult, you look weak. Pointless."
Sione frowned, chewing it over. "So what — we just let them insult us? No counter-attack? No revenge?"
Arthur chuckled, patting his assistant's shoulder like he was teaching a child about patience. "Revenge cos later. Think about it. What's the point of begging the Yorkshire Post to defend us? We lost. End of story. If we'd won, the sa dia would be singing our praises, calling us the second coming of Johan Cruyff. That's how it works. If you can't handle being kicked when you're down, you don't belong in football."
"But boss, their language is nasty. It's ugly." Sione pouted like a kid whose ice cream had been stolen.
Arthur shrugged. "Let it be ugly. Look at Ferguson. Manchester United haven't exactly been racking up trophies in recent years. He's been slaughtered in the press for ages. Has he ever clapped back in public? No. He just sits there with that thundercloud face of his, waiting. And then when United start winning again, suddenly the sa journalists are writing poems about him. That's the ga."
Diego scratched his chin. He had to admit, Arthur had a point. Ferguson had been pilloried more tis than he could count, but the man never wasted ti replying. He just simred in silence until the next victory.
"Alright, fine," Sione muttered. "But we can't just sit here and let them have the last word, can we? No counter-strategy?"
Arthur grinned mischievously. "Oh, we'll have a strategy. Do you rember what I told you about competitive sports?"
Diego brightened. "That losing is the original sin?"
"Exactly." Arthur's grin widened. "So here's what we do. Let them write whatever they want now. Note down their nas, their outlets, the ones who've gone in hardest. Keep it in a little black book. And when we win the Premier League…" He leaned in, lowering his voice for dramatic effect. "…when they co crawling back for interviews, we slam the door in their faces. Nothing hurts a journalist more than being ignored when they're desperate."
Sione's eyes went wide. "Boss!"
"What?" Arthur asked innocently.
"I've just realised… you're a terrible man. Properly evil!"
Arthur straightened up, smirking like a cartoon villain who'd just unveiled his masterplan. "Thank you, Diego. Took you long enough to notice."
*****
After Arthur's little "philosophy class" on how to handle the press, Sione's mood had clearly improved. The man had been sulking like a bulldog with its bone stolen, but now he was grinning again, even if it was the sort of grin that made Leeds United's players nervous. And for good reason.
Because while Arthur leaned back and congratulated himself on soothing his fiery assistant, Sione decided the best revenge against the dia would be to drill the players so hard they wouldn't have the energy to even glance at a journalist. If the tabloids wanted to say Leeds were weak, fine — Sione would make sure every player crawled ho from training half-dead, proof that they were anything but.
So while Sione barked, cursed, and waved his arms like a conductor of a very angry orchestra, Arthur happily strolled out of the training ground at four o'clock sharp, punching out like an office worker heading ho after a shift.
"Diego's got it," Arthur muttered to himself, hands in pockets as Sione scread, "FASTER! YOU CALL THAT RUNNING? MY GRANDMOTHER MOVES QUICKER THAN YOU!" behind him.
The players groaned, sweat pouring down their faces, but Arthur? He was practically whistling as he left the training ground. Free man. Mission accomplished.
Back ho, Arthur did what any sensible man would do after a long day of not overexerting himself — he had dinner, took a hot, relaxing bath, and then sprawled across his sofa like a king. With a flick of the remote, both televisions in his living room lit up. He liked to watch two gas at once — one wasn't enough stimulation for a football addict like him.
Tonight was a Champions League night. The quarterfinals. Big gas, with big consequences. Arthur leaned back, rubbing his hands together as though he was about to eat a feast.
But there was sothing odd about this season. The appearance of Leeds United had already shifted history. Arthur knew it — in his mory, things had gone differently. AC Milan should've knocked out Bayern Munich to reach the semis. But now, thanks to Leeds' existence shaking things up, both Milan and Bayern had advanced. That wasn't supposed to happen.
The top half of the bracket had changed. So Arthur was curious: would the bottom half follow history, or would that change too?
In the lower half, Manchester United had lost 2–1 to Roma away, while Chelsea had drawn 1–1 at ho with Valencia.
If things followed history as Arthur rembered, then United were about to absolutely batter Roma at Old Trafford. Chelsea, anwhile, would edge out Valencia with a narrow away win. Two English sides marching into the semifinals. That was the script.
But Arthur wasn't convinced anymore. With Leeds in the picture, history wasn't always reliable.
"Alright then," he muttered, grabbing a drink and sinking deeper into the sofa. "Let's see what happens."
At 9:45 sharp, both gas kicked off. The living room filled with noise — the roar of Old Trafford from one TV, the sharp whistles and chants from stalla on the other. Arthur's eyes darted back and forth between the two screens like a man trying to follow two thrilling novels at once.
But within twenty minutes, the choice was made for him.
Manchester United had already scored three goals. Three. In twenty minutes. Roma were being torn apart like paper.
Arthur let out a low whistle, shook his head, and turned off the volu on that screen. "Well, that's that. Poor Roma. Might as well start praying now."
From then on, his attention was all on Chelsea's ga. That was where the real drama was unfolding.
Valencia were no pushovers, especially at ho. stalla was loud, hostile, and fiery. And in the 32nd minute, the place erupted when Morientes slotted in the opener for Valencia. One-nil to the Spaniards.
Arthur leaned forward on the sofa, eyebrows raised. Chelsea looked rattled. Mourinho's side weren't clicking, and the crowd was on their backs.
Half-ti ca, Valencia ahead, and Chelsea frustrated. anwhile, on the other screen, Manchester United had already extended their lead to four. The massacre was real.
Arthur sighed, grabbed a handful of crisps, and switched United's ga off entirely. "No need to watch more slaughter. This is just cruelty now."
When the second half began, Chelsea had to respond. Mourinho, being Mourinho, had already started plotting. In the 51st minute, his adjustnt bore fruit. Shevchenko, brought on as a substitute, found space and fired ho the equalizer.
The away end erupted. Chelsea were alive again.
"Classic Mourinho," Arthur muttered, chuckling. "Throw on a big na and hope the guy rembers he used to be world-class."
With that goal, the tie was balanced. 2–2 on aggregate. Both sides with an away goal. The tension was suffocating. Chelsea probed. Valencia resisted. Every tackle seed like it might decide the tie.
Arthur shifted on the sofa, sipping his drink more quickly now. "Co on then… soone crack this open."
The clock ticked on. Eighty minutes. Eight-five. It looked like extra ti was inevitable. Arthur was already picturing Mourinho's smug face as he planned for penalties.
But then, in the 90th minute, it happened.
Drogba, bulldozing through defenders as only he could, rose for a header. The ball dropped perfectly into the path of Essien, who struck it with venom just outside the penalty area. The net bulged. Silence fell over stalla for a split second, followed by the roar of the Chelsea fans.
Arthur shot up from the sofa, arms in the air, almost spilling his drink. "There it is! That's the killer!"
Chelsea had done it. Ninety minutes of struggle, and then in the dying monts, they broke Valencia's heart.
The last few minutes of stoppage ti were tense but uneventful. Valencia huffed and puffed, but their fire was gone. When the final whistle blew, Chelsea were through. 3–2 over two legs. Mourinho could smile again.
Arthur slumped back on the sofa, satisfied. "Typical Chelsea… make you sweat, then pull it off at the death."
anwhile, news from Old Trafford confird what everyone already knew. United had obliterated Roma 7–1. Seven goals. Absolute demolition. Roma were humiliated, and United had strolled into the semis.
So in the end, history had stayed true in the lower half, at least this ti. Chelsea and United both advanced.
Arthur turned off the TVs, stretched out on the sofa, and smirked. "Well, the semis are shaping up nicely. Let's see who survives next."
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