"How's Fabio holding up?" Sione asked the mont Arthur slid back into his seat on the plane. He leaned forward with that sa half-smirk that always appeared whenever gossip was about to surface.
Arthur let out a breath and gave a faint grin. "He's fine. Co on, it's Fabio—World Footballer of the Year. You really think a little red card will break him? He's got more ntal strength than you, old man."
"Oi, boss!" Sione looked personally insulted. "You can't praise one legend by trampling another! I'm a double champion of La Liga and Serie A, rember?"
Arthur chuckled. "Ah, forgive , Mister Double Champion." His grin softened into a serious tone. "But Fabio did ntion sothing important. He says his body's not what it used to be. He's thinking about stepping back a bit, maybe joining our coaching staff when the season ends."
Sione blinked. "You're kidding."
"Nope."
"That's… actually brilliant!" Sione leaned back, rubbing his hands together with mock glee. "Finally soone to share the endless overti. I'll make him analyze all the boring defensive transitions!"
Arthur laughed and tossed a crumpled napkin at him. "Get lost, you work-dodging villain. But seriously—if Fabio does retire, we'll be short in central defence. Talk to Ron. Start scouting early. If you spot any promising kid who looks like they were born to head bricks for a living, I want to know first."
"Got it, boss." Sione nodded, suddenly serious.
October 24 – KyivFour days later, Leeds United touched down in Ukraine, and the cold wind nearly froze the players' eyelashes. Arthur stood at the Lobanovsky Stadium touchline, collar up, breath misting like smoke, and surveyed the field like a general before battle.
Dynamo Kyiv were no pushovers at ho, but Arthur had made his decision. Fabio's advice still echoed in his head. The Italian had asked to step aside for now, and Arthur—never one to waste good sense—trusted the new partnership of Kompany and Thiago Silva.
It was a gamble, yes, but Arthur loved gambles.
As the match kicked off, Leeds' rhythm was imdiate and sharp, the kind that made rival managers sigh in despair. Within fifteen minutes, Alves bombed down the right flank like a caffeinated freight train, cutting a cross back for Adriano to smash ho.
1–0 Leeds.
Arthur clapped calmly on the sideline, pretending this was all part of the script, though inside he wanted to dance a little jig.
The Ukrainians struck back with a scrappy equalizer from a corner—Arthur groaned and yelled, "Who's marking the guy who looks like a tree trunk?"—but that only poked the sleeping bear.
After that, Leeds were rciless. Rivaldo, coaching from the bench, barked instructions while the midfield trio rotated like clockwork. In the 40th minute, Reus curled a ball through three defenders like he was threading a needle in a hurricane, and Adriano buried it again.
2–1.
In the second half, the English side fully took control. Kompany was imnse—blocking, intercepting, and even yelling tactical reminders mid-jump. Thiago Silva matched him with cool precision, the pair moving like synchronized dancers in steel boots.
By the 70th minute, Dynamo were chasing shadows. Arthur, hands in his pockets, whispered to Sione, "See? The boys can handle themselves."
Sione shrugged, trying not to grin. "You sound surprised."
Arthur ignored him.
Camoranesi whipped in a corner that Thiago Silva t with a thunderous header—3–1. Then, as if just to show off, Adriano completed his hat-trick from a late counterattack that had Arthur laughing out loud on the touchline.
4–1.
Job done. Leeds had now won three straight in the Champions League group stage, and Arthur's team plane back to England that night felt like a flying pub—everyone buzzing, singing badly off-key, and Sione trying to convince Alves that he could still nutg him at 45.
October 27 – BirminghamLeeds barely had ti to breathe. Less than forty-eight hours later, they were on the pitch again in Birmingham.
Arthur hated this part of English football—the schedule was packed tighter than a cheap suitcase. The players looked exhausted, the physio staff were basically walking espresso machines, and even the mascot dog at training looked like it wanted a vacation.
Still, no excuses.
Birmingham weren't strong, but they were annoyingly scrappy—like the kind of mosquito that bites you five tis before you find it. The ho crowd roared, hoping to catch Leeds on tired legs.
Arthur tweaked his lineup again, resting a few stars and telling the substitutes, "Pretend you're playing for your next paycheck."
They laughed, but he ant it.
From the first whistle, Leeds dominated possession, but their passing lacked bite. Arthur could practically see the fatigue hanging over his midfield like fog. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, Alves unleashed a perfect low cross, and Podolski tapped in the opener.
"Finally!" Arthur shouted, clapping once. "About ti soone rembered which direction we're attacking!"
Birmingham hit back quickly with a deflected shot—1–1.
Arthur grimaced, muttered sothing that might have been a prayer or a curse, and made a change at half-ti: Adriano on. The big Brazilian didn't disappoint. Within ten minutes, he bullied his way through two defenders and slotted ho. 2–1.
Leeds looked to have sealed it, but this is England—nothing is ever that simple. Birmingham equalized again late on from a corner, and Arthur nearly kicked his water bottle into the stratosphere.
Just when despair threatened, a flash of genius saved them. Reus darted through the tired defenders like a ghost, played a one-two with Rivaldo, and chipped the keeper delicately.
3–2.
Arthur punched the air. Three points. Barely, but three glorious, hard-earned points.
When the whistle blew, he clapped every player on the back. "Good job. Next ti, try not to give a heart attack, alright?"
The lads laughed wearily, and even Sione admitted, "That was ugly football."
Arthur grinned. "Ugly football still counts."
October 28 – LeedsBack ho, the players got a well-deserved day off. Arthur, anwhile, indulged in what he called his "coach recovery ritual"—sleeping until noon and pretending the phone didn't exist.
When he finally shuffled into the kitchen, Shakira—his ever-patient partner—was already there, setting down a plate of perfectly fried eggs and toast.
"Morning, champion," she teased.
Arthur slumped into the chair. "You an morning, survivor. That match shaved five years off my life."
She laughed. "You always say that."
"Because it's true every weekend."
After lunch, he sprawled on the couch, planning the coming month with the sa dread people reserve for dentist appointnts. November looked like a battlefield: five matches, three league, two Champions League. And not just any opponents—Chelsea, Tottenham, Arsenal, Sporting Lisbon, and Roma. Every one of them strong enough to ruin his week.
Arthur stared at the list and sighed. "Fantastic. We're basically fighting all of Europe in a month."
Even worse, mid-November ant another cursed international break. Half his squad would scatter across the globe to play qualifiers, so in South Arica, others across Europe, all destined to co back exhausted, jet-lagged, and carrying mysterious injuries that "just happened in training."
He rubbed his temples. "No rest for the wicked."
Still, the imdiate focus was crystal clear: Chelsea next weekend, then Sporting Lisbon three days later. Two season-defining matches in less than a week.
Chelsea, of course, were flying high after obliterating Manchester City 6–0. Mourinho's n looked like machines—rciless, confident, and as smug as ever.
Arthur wasn't sure if Leeds could beat them, but he knew one thing: they had to try. These were the kinds of matches that shaped a season.
The English FA, in their infinite mischief, had also scheduled Arsenal vs. Manchester United the sa weekend.
Arthur chuckled when he saw the fixture list. "Brilliant. The big four, all smashing each other in one round. Soone at the FA clearly enjoys chaos."
Sione would later call it "Judgent Weekend," and he wasn't wrong. The outco would determine who grabbed the upper hand for the mid-season title race.
To make it even more crucial, victory over Sporting Lisbon in the Champions League would mathematically secure Leeds' qualification two rounds early—aning Arthur could finally give his starters so rest later. Two wins in a week, and everything would look rosy.
No pressure.
October 29 – Thorp ArchAfter their rest day, the squad reassembled at the training ground. The crisp Yorkshire air was full of chatter, laughter, and the occasional ball smacking against tal goalposts.
Arthur spent the morning session fine-tuning shape and pressing triggers, his whistle echoing across the pitches. The mood was focused but lighthearted; even the veterans looked refreshed.
By late afternoon, training wrapped up. Arthur returned to his office intending to analyze Chelsea's last few matches—five hours of video, endless Mourinho smug-face close-ups—but he hadn't even opened his laptop before Allen knocked on the door.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "You've got that 'urgent but not world-ending' look. What's up?"
Allen stepped in, two files tucked under his arm. "Boss, I've got a couple of matters that need your decision."
"Of course you do." Arthur leaned back. "Hit ."
Allen handed over the first docunt. "This is Inter Milan's reply after our bid for Balotelli."
Arthur's interest perked up. "Oh, the kid with talent and an attitude problem. Go on."
"After Switzerland, I confird Mancini's contract won't be renewed there. So I went ahead with your plan—submitted two offers. The latest one was twelve million euros. Inter still refused."
Arthur frowned. "Moratti turned us down?"
Allen shook his head slowly. "Not sure he even saw it. Sothing tells our offer never made it to his desk."
Arthur sighed. "Typical Inter bureaucracy. Alright, I'll call Moratti myself later. What's the second matter?"
Allen hesitated, adjusting his glasses. "After training this afternoon… Camoranesi found ." He paused, clearly uneasy.
Arthur straightened. "And?"
Allen exhaled. "He submitted a transfer application to ."
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