Chapter 109: Aftermath

"Beautiful! Beautiful! Beautiful!" Eddie Gray's voice cracked like an overworked car engine as it blasted through living rooms across the country. Viewers at home could hear the raw emotion, but what they didn't see was that Eddie was no longer even sitting down. He was running full laps around the commentary desk in the studio with both hands on his head like he'd just seen aliens land on the pitch. "Beautiful" was apparently the only word left in his vocabulary after that Ribéry goal, and frankly, no one blamed him. Back at the Millennium Stadium, the moment Ribéry slipped past Van der Sar, time seemed to freeze. There was a split-second of stunned silence. Manchester United fans stared in horror. Leeds fans leaned forward in disbelief. And then—BOOM. The entire stadium exploded like someone had dropped fireworks into a packed pub. Screams, roars, howls, and very creative swearing filled the air. It was impossible to tell which side was louder—Leeds United fans losing their minds or Manchester United fans losing their will to live. Ribéry didn't even stop to look at the goal. He knew it was in. He just took off in a mad sprint down the sideline, heading straight for the coaching area. Arthur, arms already wide open like a dad welcoming home his son from battle, braced himself. Ribéry flew into him like a high-speed train, nearly knocking Arthur off his feet. But Arthur didn't care. He wrapped his arms around him, laughing like a lunatic, rubbing Ribéry's head with the kind of affection usually reserved for golden retrievers and lottery winners. Within seconds, a tidal wave of Leeds players came crashing in. Lahm, Alonso, Milner—all of them leaping, yelling, piling onto their coach and each other like kids celebrating a snow day. It looked less like a football match and more like a group therapy session that had ended in mass euphoria. On the other side of the pitch, it was pure devastation. Ferguson stood frozen, hands in his pockets, staring at his players sprawled across the lawn like broken furniture. A few were covering their faces. Others just sat there, blinking. Whatever hope they had left had vanished with Ribéry's toe poke into history. Ferguson glanced over at Arthur, who was still being crushed under a mound of euphoric footballers. And for once... Sir Alex didn't even look angry. No chewing gum. No shouting. Just a long, quiet sigh from a man who'd seen everything—except this. Eventually, the referee had to intervene like a parent breaking up a birthday party that had gone on too long. He signaled for Leeds United to get back on the pitch, pointing sternly toward the halfway line. Time was ticking again. There were still fifteen minutes left to survive. The miracle wasn't finished yet. Just as Sir Alex Ferguson feared deep down in that grumpy football-obsessed heart of his, the final thread of belief holding Manchester United together had snapped like a cheap shoelace. Ribéry's outrageous goal didn't just put Leeds ahead—it emotionally detonated the Red Devils' entire squad. For the last fifteen minutes of extra time, Leeds United dropped into full defensive mode. It wasn't exactly elegant football—they weren't trying to make art anymore. It was pure grit, desperation, and the kind of last-ditch defending that makes fans chew their fingernails down to the elbow. Manchester United? They looked like a group of kids who'd just found out Christmas had been canceled. Heads down, legs heavy, and every pass seemed just a little off. Even Cristiano Ronaldo, the human highlight reel himself, tried to wake them up with a blistering long shot from well outside the box. The crowd held its breath. It looked good—until it soared over the bar and straight into the atmosphere, possibly landing in Cardiff sometime next Tuesday. That was it. The final nail. The referee, now basically counting the seconds like he was late for dinner, raised the whistle to his lips and blew. Game over. And just like that—Leeds United, who had been four goals down, were champions. The stadium exploded. Leeds players collapsed on the turf, some screaming, some crying, some just laughing in disbelief like they'd pulled off a prank on national television. Over in the commentary booth, Lineker looked like he'd aged five years. "Too exaggerated!" he barked, throwing his arms in the air as if yelling at invisible football gods. "It's truly unbelievable!" He watched as the battered, ecstatic Leeds players slowly made their way toward the podium, soaking up every cheer from the crowd. "Can you believe it?" he continued, almost in disbelief himself. "Seventy-five minutes ago, I was standing here making fun of Manchester United, telling them to start thinking about how they'd pose with the trophy... and now, seventy-five minutes later, it's Leeds United on the podium. Leeds! The same Leeds who were four-nil down in the first half!" He turned to the camera with a half-crazed smile. "It's incredible. I don't even have the right words anymore. I could pull out every cliché, every dramatic line, and it still wouldn't be enough. This—this is just football. Beautiful, ridiculous, unpredictable football." He paused as the crowd roared again behind him. "In 90 minutes, or in 120, this sport shows us everything. Tenacity. Courage. Self-belief. The kind of insane hard work that makes your legs cramp and your brain forget what losing even feels like." Then, finally, as Arthur and his team stepped onto the podium, their faces still lit with disbelief, Lineker said what everyone watching already felt in their hearts: "Let's just give them the biggest congratulations possible. To Leeds United—the final winner tonight. What a comeback." The celebration hit full throttle the moment Milner lifted the trophy over his head like he was holding up the moon. Confetti rained down, champagne corks launched into orbit, and the Leeds United squad collectively lost what little composure they had left. Arthur, of course, tried to sneak off like a ninja in a tracksuit. He'd quietly accepted his medal, slipped away from the mob of euphoric players, and was tiptoeing toward the tunnel like a man trying to sneak out of a surprise birthday party he didn't want. Unfortunately, his players were on full party alert. Schmeichel spotted him first. "Oi! Boss! Where do you think you're going?!" Before Arthur could even lie and say he left the oven on, Maicon cut him off, flanked him, and with a grin that screamed mischief, dragged him back toward the mayhem. Milner, grinning like a Cheshire cat, led the charge. The next thing Arthur knew, he was airborne—hoisted up by the entire team and launched skyward like a sack of potatoes in a human catapult. "Wheeeee—OH GOD!" "Feel the Premier League elevator, boss!" Milner shouted as Arthur flailed mid-air. As soon as he landed with a thud that rattled his spine, he barely had time to catch his breath before Alonso and Modrić emerged from who-knows-where holding two massive bottles of champagne. Without warning, they popped both and drenched Arthur head to toe in a sticky, freezing downpour of celebration. "WHY IS THIS SO COLD?!" Arthur screamed, stumbling backward like he'd just been dunked into the North Sea. "You didn't expect warm champagne, did you?" Alonso laughed, offering no apology as Modrić sprayed the last few drops right in Arthur's face. Soaked and freezing but laughing like an idiot, Arthur followed the squad back into the locker room—where the celebration only got louder. There was no organization, no logic, and definitely no dry clothes. Milner was dancing on a bench. Ribéry was singing something in French that sounded suspiciously off-key. Lahm had somehow ended up wearing a bib made of tissue paper and was pretending to serve water like it was wine. Champagne was now mixing with water bottles, sweat, and some mysterious fizzy drink someone found in a corner. Arthur, fully giving up on any form of control, jumped right into the chaos. The next five minutes were pure, glorious madness. There was shouting, hugging, a few victory chants that quickly turned into pub songs, and even Scholes from United popped his head in just to shake his head at the noise before retreating like he'd walked into the wrong classroom. Finally, soaked to the bone, eyes stinging from champagne and sweat, Arthur raised his arms like a drenched general on the battlefield. "Alright, alright! Listen up!" The room didn't quiet down so much as gradually devolve into a slightly less deafening rumble. "Starting tomorrow, you lot have three days off!" The cheer that followed was enough to make the lockers rattle. "And tomorrow night," Arthur continued, wiping liquid off his brow, "dinner's on me! Whole team. Leeds city. No excuses!" The cheer grew louder. Milner looked like he was ready to cry from happiness. Ribéry raised a shoe like it was a wine glass. Modrić tried to start a conga line but crashed into the bench. Arthur grinned through it all, knowing full well they still had matches left and a Champions League spot to chase. But tonight? Tonight was for Leeds United—wet, wild, and victorious. **** On Sunday night, the entire Leeds United squad—players, coaches, and a few staff who were brave enough—gathered at the most well-known restaurant in Leeds for a celebration worthy of a Hollywood movie... or at least a really enthusiastic pub ad. Arthur, who normally played the responsible coach, had declared a complete truce for the evening. No curfews, no lectures about hydration, no dramatic frowns about "team discipline." Training was cancelled for the next day, and most importantly: drinks were allowed. No, encouraged. It was chaos. Loud laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional champagne cork ricocheting off the walls filled the air. Someone—probably Schmeichel—tried balancing a spoon on his nose. Ribéry challenged Alonso to a chicken wing eating contest. Modrić was attempting to teach the waiter how to salsa, despite the fact that neither of them knew how. Arthur? He was right there in the middle of it, sleeves rolled up, red wine in one hand, grilled lamb in the other, grinning like he'd won the lottery. Because in many ways, he had. The feast lasted until almost 10 p.m. By then, most of the squad was stuffed, half-drunk, and fully satisfied. Plates were empty, glasses were chipped, and everyone was reaching for their coats and mumbling about how they couldn't eat another bite. That was when the restaurant's TV, perched high in the corner above the bar, suddenly lit up. "Wait—turn that up!" someone shouted. "Hey! That's the boss!" Milner pointed, mouth still full of dessert. The screen showed Arthur—wet, flushed, and still recovering from the champagne ambush after yesterday's match—being interviewed by the media. Everyone slumped back into their seats like they were settling in for a movie. Arthur's image on the screen wasn't exactly what you'd call flattering. His black suit was soaked, clinging to his body like seaweed, and his hair was dripping wet, bangs plastered to his forehead in a way that made him look like a very drunk boy band member. Whoever had dumped the champagne on him had clearly gone for volume. But despite the soaked mess, his face was lit up like Christmas. He was grinning so wide you'd think someone told him Ribéry had learned to sing in tune. "Thank you! Thank you!" he was saying, his voice half-hoarse but buzzing with adrenaline. "I feel good—I feel verygood! You know, especially after a game like that... to come back and win? There's no better feeling!" The players burst out laughing. Ribéry clapped. Schmeichel mimicked Arthur's hand gestures like a puppet show. Even Maicon shouted, "Speech! Speech!" The reporter onscreen, trying to get a word in over Arthur's excitement, finally asked the big one: "Mr. Morgan! Everyone wants to know—what on earth did you say to the players at halftime? What happened in that locker room? That second-half turnaround was unreal!" Back at the restaurant, all the players leaned forward like kids hearing a bedtime story. Some even pointed at Arthur at the other end of the table, who by now had buried his face in his hands. On the TV, Arthur chuckled, clearly amused by the question, then shrugged with exaggerated humility. "I just did what most coaches do," he said, grinning like a magician refusing to reveal his trick. "Encouragement! That's all it was. Simple, really. We're the youngest team in the league. When you've got a group of brilliant young lads like these, you don't need to scream or throw bottles. Just a bit of belief—and they'll show you what they're made of." He looked straight into the camera with the kind of pride that couldn't be faked. "I'm proud of them. Every single one of them." Back in the restaurant, all eyes had shifted away from the screen. They were now focused on Arthur, who was trying very hard to appear nonchalant while quietly sipping from his water glass like nothing had happened. Milner, seated nearest to him, shook his head with a smile. Of all the players, he'd been with Arthur the longest. He had watched the club transform from an uncertain, scrappy group into a squad that had just pulled off one of the greatest comebacks in modern football. And he knew exactly who had made that possible. He raised his glass, tapped it once with a fork, and said just loud enough for everyone to hear: "Yeah, the boss is right—we've got plenty of potential. But he's the only one who knew how to unlock it." A murmur of agreement swept across the table. Ribéry nodded. Alonso clinked his glass with Modrić's. Even the waiter, still recovering from his failed salsa lesson, gave a discreet thumbs-up. Arthur, now red-faced and awkward, waved them off. "Oh, shut up and eat your dessert," he muttered, trying to hide the grin that was clearly stretching across his face again. But it was no use. Tonight wasn't about modesty. It was about celebrating a miracle, a team, and a manager who, champagne-soaked or not, had just made history with Leeds United.