Chapter 102: Investment,Closer to the goal (2 in 1)

"♪ Today is a good day~ Everything you want can come true~ ♪" Arthur swaggered into his flat like he'd just won the lottery, humming like a man who'd been kissed by luck itself. He kicked the door shut behind him, tossed his keys onto the nearest table with theatrical flair, and practically danced his way into the kitchen. And why wouldn't he? Leeds United had just flattened Liverpool, the squad was buzzing, and every result around the league had gone in his favour like a perfectly scripted sitcom. Arthur couldn't stop smiling. Today was a perfect day. Back at Elland Road, even before the sweat had dried on their shirts, the Leeds dressing room was in full celebration mode. Music blasted. Laughter echoed off the walls. Someone had brought in a crate of fizzy drinks and chocolate bars, which had somehow turned into an impromptu food fight by the time Arthur left. But the best part wasn't just the victory over Liverpool—it was the sheer comedy of what had happened after. Leeds' game was the last of the Premier League round. So when the final whistle blew, someone burst in with a tablet shouting, "You're not gonna believe this!" Tottenham—third in the league—had drawn 1-1 with Sunderland. Away. Meaning they were now just one point ahead of Leeds United in the table. The best part? They were Leeds' next opponent. In a week. At Elland Road. "Oh that's not even the punchline," said one of the analysts, scrolling further. "Arsenal dropped points too. Drew 1-1 with Bolton. At home." The room exploded. Arthur tried to act calm and composed, but his smile was fighting a losing battle. "You're telling me... not only did we win, but Spurs choked and Arsenal bottled it again?" He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and let out a long, satisfied sigh. "Yeah, I'm feeling generous today." He turned to the squad, arms open. "Two days off. That's right. Two. Go rest, go party, go get your hair cut—I don't care. Just don't end up on the front page." The cheer that followed could've blown the roof off the stadium. And so Arthur floated through the next two days like a man in a dream. He even started his Monday singing that ridiculous tune. "♪ Everything you want can come true~" he crooned again while searching the fridge for something vaguely edible. But just as he opened the yogurt, his phone buzzed. Julian Anderson. Now that was a surprise. Arthur blinked at the name for a second before answering. "Julian?" "Morning, mate!" came the voice on the other end—confident, upbeat, and very much on a mission. "Hope I didn't wake you." Arthur glanced at the clock. "It's 10:30. I'm not a teenager." "Brilliant. Listen—just wanted to say thanks for meeting up the other day. I've had a word with my dad. He's in." Arthur blinked. "Wait—what?" "The investment thing," Julian said casually, like they were talking about buying a round of beers. "Dad's actually flying in next week. Wants to meet you face to face. Said he's all in." Arthur stood there, frozen in the kitchen, holding a half-eaten yogurt like it was a sacred relic. "You're serious?" "Dead serious. You said there might be room, I told him, and now he's planning a full trip to Leeds. He's excited, mate. Said something about 'taking a chance on football's most unorthodox genius.' His words." Arthur nearly dropped the yogurt. "Okay... um... great. Fantastic." After the call ended, Arthur stood in silence for a moment, staring out the window. Julian Anderson wasn't just some bloke from school. He was the heir to the Anderson Mining Corporation—a company so rich that their annual office coffee budget probably outpaced the GDP of some small countries. When they'd met up a few days ago, Arthur thought Julian was just being polite. Throwing around words like "investment" and "future of English football" the way rich people do when they're feeling generous. But now? Now Julian had gone full throttle. Called his dad. Booked flights. Prepared an actual pitch. Arthur blinked. "Well then," he muttered to himself. "I guess I'd better shave." Because whether he was ready or not, the next chapter of Leeds United was about to begin—and it was going to involve suits, negotiations, and possibly a mining magnate who thought Arthur was a "genius." He wasn't sure whether to laugh or start rehearsing business jargon in the mirror. ( it was some random chigga, and I have no idea who to replace these guys with, so replaced them with this. I cut off the original shit because I didn't want to risk brain cells changing it.Things we do for sanity.) After hanging up the phone, Arthur let out a long sigh, the kind you exhale when you've narrowly avoided something catastrophic—or, in his case, accidentally launched something brilliant. What started as a casual chat with Julian over coffee had somehow turned into the first step of a serious investment deal. At the time, Arthur barely gave it a second thought. Julian had asked if there was room to invest in Leeds United, and Arthur, thinking he was just being polite or playing Fantasy Football with real money, nodded and said, "Yeah, sure, why not?" Fast forward to today, and now Julian's billionaire father was flying in to talk numbers. Arthur chuckled to himself. "Guess I've got to start dressing like a responsible adult now. Or at least pretend." But as wild as that phone call had been, it wasn't just about money. If the deal went through, it meant one thing Arthur had quietly dreamed about ever since taking over the club: expanding Elland Road. The old stadium was full of charm, sure, but charm didn't sell out box seats or boost matchday revenue. More seats meant more fans, louder noise, bigger profits—and with a bit of luck, some spare change for the summer transfer window. Maybe even enough to snag a marquee signing. Someone flashy. Someone who could sell shirts and score goals with the same flair. Back at Leeds United, things were finally starting to click. Results had shut up the critics. The ones who'd spent all season moaning about Arthur's "weird" decisions and winter signings were now conveniently silent—especially now that Camoranesi was turning defenders into cones and Rivaldo looked like he'd been drinking from the fountain of youth. Leeds were still fighting in the League Cup, sitting strong in the league, and even the doubters on TV had started admitting—grudgingly—that Arthur might actually know what he was doing. Meanwhile, elsewhere in the land of stressed-out managers, Benítez and Wenger were slowly turning into human stress balls. Let's start with poor old Wenger. The man had thrown the League Cup and FA Cup out the window like they were bad leftovers. Arsenal's focus now rested entirely on the league and the Champions League. The league wasn't a disaster—they weren't out of the top-four race—but it was getting dicey. Arsenal were slipping, and Wenger knew it. That's why he'd started rotating his team weeks in advance, resting key players like Fabregas and Henry so often that even the Arsenal ball boys were starting to ask if they'd been benched too. And then there was the Champions League. Oh boy. Arsenal had drawn Real Madrid in the round of 16. Arthur nearly choked on his tea when he read that. Real Madrid. Galácticos. Zidane. Ronaldo. Beckham. It was like drawing a cheat code in a knockout round. Even with Wenger planning meticulously, it was hard to be optimistic. Most pundits looked at the fixture and simply shrugged: "Good luck with that." Compared to Wenger, Benítez's life was only slightly less miserable. Liverpool were slowly slipping out of the top four race. Leeds had blown past them like a turbocharged tractor, and the gap was growing wider by the week. Every press conference now involved the same question: "Rafa, do you still believe Liverpool can make top four?" Benítez would do that little smile he always did when irritated. The one that said, "I'm fine," while his blood pressure said otherwise. The league situation looked bleak, but Liverpool weren't entirely out of options. They still had the FA Cup. And, crucially, the Champions League. Now, unlike Arsenal, Liverpool got a relatively lucky draw. Their round of 16 opponent? Benfica. No disrespect, but that was about as good as it could get for a club in Liverpool's situation. Most English journalists practically handed them a spot in the quarterfinals before the first leg was even played. "Easier path," they said. "Benítez can focus on Europe," they wrote. But Arthur knew better. European nights had a funny way of humbling people. And Rafa, who once had the luxury of rotating like a DJ at a wedding party, now had to juggle injuries, media pressure, and his slowly melting league position with the precision of a circus performer. Arthur, meanwhile, sat back on his sofa, kicked his feet up, and smiled. For once, it felt good not to be the manager in panic mode. *** The 2005–2006 UEFA Champions League knockout stage officially kicked off on a cool Wednesday night, and with it came chaos, drama, and enough headaches to keep a dozen Premier League managers up all night popping aspirin like candy. Three English teams had made it to the Round of 16, and two of them—Arsenal and Liverpool—were set to play under the lights that evening. Fans across the country were glued to their TVs, hoping for magic. Or at the very least, something not humiliating. Arthur, for one, had his snacks ready, feet propped up, remote in hand, and a cheeky grin plastered on his face. He wasn't playing tonight—Leeds had their turn coming later—but he wasn't about to miss watching two of his rivals sweat it out live. And sweat they did. Let's start with Liverpool. Before kickoff, every pundit in the country was practically spoon-feeding praise to Benítez and his men. "Favorable draw," they said. "Benfica are good, but they're no threat to Liverpool," they declared confidently. Some even dared to use the words "comfortable win." Yeah. About that. Liverpool came out at the Estádio da Luz like a team on a mission. For 80 straight minutes, they ran, they passed, they crossed, they yelled at the ref, and they shot. A lot. But here's the twist—none of those shots actually went in. Deisler looked like he'd left his shooting boots in the hotel, and Gerrard, for all his usual thunderbolts, was barely given space to breathe. Benfica had done their homework, and it showed. Every time Gerrard tried to unleash one of his patented screamers from outside the box, a red shirt was already in his face like an overprotective mother. And just when it seemed like the game would drag into a frustrating 0–0 draw that would have at least let Liverpool save face, disaster struck. The 83rd minute. Boom—Benfica hit them with a counterattack so sharp it could've sliced a brick wall in half. A few passes, a cheeky flick, and bang—goal. The stadium erupted. Arthur nearly choked on his popcorn. Liverpool's players looked stunned, as if someone had unplugged their collective confidence. They tried to rally, but it was too late. The whistle blew. 1–0 to Benfica. Benítez stood there on the touchline, arms folded, lips tighter than a drum. He looked like a man trying very hard not to scream into the night sky. Arthur sighed, watching the screen. "I'd feel bad," he mumbled to himself, "if I weren't so relieved that wasn't us." He genuinely sympathized with Rafa. Leeds had been in that exact position before—dominating the game, looking like world-beaters, and still somehow ending up on the wrong side of the scoreline. It hurt. And now Liverpool had to go back to Anfield with nothing but bruised egos and angry newspapers waiting for them. But the surprises weren't over. Because across the continent, in the heart of Spain, something even stranger was happening. Arsenal won. At the Bernabéu. Against Real Madrid. Let that sink in. Everyone had written them off. The moment the draw paired Arsenal with Madrid, the headlines practically screamed, "RIP Wenger's Dreams." Yet somehow, the Frenchman and his ragtag bunch of occasionally brilliant footballers pulled off the impossible. Thierry Henry, in first-half stoppage time, waltzed through the Madrid defense like it was Sunday at the park and slotted home a gorgeous goal. One-nil. At the Bernabéu. Nobody could believe it. Back in England, the media pounced like hungry wolves. "Wenger's Masterclass!" "Henry the Hero!" Meanwhile, poor Benítez was still dodging rotten tomatoes in Merseyside. Arthur couldn't help but chuckle. "Football's wild, man," he muttered. "One minute you're a genius, next you're the punchline." And just when things couldn't get more chaotic, along came Mourinho. Chelsea hosted Barcelona at Stamford Bridge in what was supposed to be a heavyweight rematch. But what unfolded was something straight out of a daytime soap opera. For thirty-five minutes, Chelsea held their ground, even though Messi had decided the left wing was now his personal playground. The kid zipped up and down the flank like someone had swapped his Gatorade with rocket fuel. Chelsea's left-back, Del Horno, tried everything short of tackling him with a folding chair. But nothing worked. Finally, after enough failed attempts to win a blooper reel award, Del Horno lunged in with a tackle that looked more like an accidental shoulder-barge from a drunk uncle at a wedding. Down went Messi. Up came the red card. The crowd exploded. Del Horno stood there like he'd just been asked to leave his own birthday party. Mourinho, on the sideline, had already exploded into full opera mode, flailing and muttering dark prophecies in several languages. Playing with ten men, Chelsea held out for a while. But eventually, Barcelona's pressure paid off. Eto'o pounced late on to make it 2–1 to the visitors. After the match, Mourinho, never one to go quietly, gave the post-match interview of the year. "That wasn't a red," he snapped. "Messi? He dived. When it's 11 vs 11, we never lose to Barcelona." Arthur was still laughing when he turned off the TV. "What a night," he said, shaking his head. "And to think, we haven't even played our game yet..." In England, the football media operates like a moody ex. Win a match? You're a genius. Lose one? Suddenly you're clueless, arrogant, and possibly responsible for global warming. Nobody gets this treatment more than Mourinho—a man who treats reporters like flies buzzing around his dinner plate. So when Chelsea stumbled midweek, the press didn't just criticize. No, they launched into full-scale theatrical roasts. Headlines were so brutal, Arthur nearly choked on his sandwich reading them. From his couch in Leeds, Arthur scrolled through the sports pages with the grin of a man watching a house he didn't own burn down. "'Chelsea Collapse Under Messi Magic'... oof, that one's spicy," he muttered, mouth half-full. Another headline screamed, 'Mourinho Outclassed, Outplayed, Out of Excuses!' He actually had to set his tea down to laugh properly at that one. But he knew the joy wouldn't last forever. Two days after the Champions League chaos, it was time to get back to the grind—Premier League matchday. And while most of the big clubs were facing lower-table teams this round, the media wasn't interested in routine wins. No, all eyes were locked on two fixtures: Tottenham vs. Leeds United, and Blackburn vs. Arsenal. Arthur's Leeds had beaten Spurs narrowly last time, and now the rematch was set at White Hart Lane. Tottenham were hungry for revenge. The tension was thicker than gravy in a dodgy pub. And the match? Pure madness. Barely nine minutes in, Rivaldo reminded everyone he wasn't just a fancy name on a squad sheet. Picking up the ball just outside the box, he turned, looked up, and fired a low screamer that zipped into the bottom corner. The away end erupted. Arthur barely had time to fist-pump before disaster struck. By the 22nd minute, Spurs had hit back. A rapid counter led by Keane saw him skip past two defenders like they weren't even there, then calmly slot it past the keeper. 1–1. And with that, the game turned into an all-out sprint. End to end. Attack after attack. Both sets of fans were on edge, chewing their nails, yelling at referees, and inventing new curse words. After halftime, the intensity didn't drop—it somehow got worse. Players were charging up and down like they'd been fed pure espresso during the break. In the 68th minute, Leeds won a corner. Modrić jogged over, arms in the air to signal the delivery. He whipped it into the box with wicked curl, and Kompany—towering above everyone like a Belgian skyscraper—smashed in a thunderous header. Boom. 2–1 Leeds. Arthur leapt up from his seat at home. "YES! That's what I'm talking about!" And then he sat right back down, because one minute later, Leeds did what Leeds do best—immediately concede. Keane, again, was a menace. He darted into the box, danced past a defender, and baited Kompany into a clumsy tug. Down he went. The ref didn't even hesitate—yellow card, penalty. Arthur stared at the screen in disbelief, shouting, "Come on, Vince! You just scored!" Keane picked himself up, dusted off like he'd planned it all along, and calmly slotted the penalty past the keeper. 2–2. The home crowd went berserk. Arthur groaned, burying his face in his hands. Still, the game was electric. Tackles flew in, crosses rained down, but neither side could break the deadlock again. After ninety minutes of chaos, the whistle blew, and the two teams walked off the pitch, exhausted and still level. 2–2. A thriller, sure—but Arthur wasn't thrilled. He wanted all three points. Just as he began doing mental math on the league standings and grumbling about the dropped points, someone on the coaching staff burst into the room holding a phone. "You're gonna wanna see this," he said, barely containing a grin. Arthur took the phone and read the message. "Arsenal lost 0–1 to Blackburn." There was a beat of silence. Then Arthur's frown twisted slowly, beautifully, into a smug, full-face grin. He didn't just smile—he beamed. "Oh-ho-ho... now that's what I call timing." All that moaning about the draw with Spurs? Gone. With Arsenal slipping up at Ewood Park, Leeds had actually gained ground. Arthur leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head, a look of pure satisfaction on his face. "This league, man," he said. "You can't write this stuff."