Chapter 129: Deisler Relapsed

After barely two days back in England, Leeds United found themselves thrown straight into action again—this time for their first home league match of the season. Elland Road was absolutely buzzing. Over 50,000 fans packed the stands, flags waving, scarves held high, and chants roaring through the late summer air. The crowd hadn't been this loud since the team's dramatic promotion, and now that Leeds were back on the big stage, there was a sense of pride pulsing through the stadium. From kickoff, Leeds showed their intent. The newly-promoted Reading were eager and scrappy, trying to spoil the party, but Arthur's side kept their composure. The team looked sharp, even after the long trip to the Middle East. Players zipped passes across the field with confidence, keeping Reading pinned in their own half for long spells. The breakthrough finally came midway through the second half. A sweeping move down the right flank saw the ball played into Ibrahimovic just outside the box. With two defenders closing in, he feinted to shoot, shifted left, and then smashed a low strike past the keeper. The ball nestled into the far corner, and Elland Road erupted. 1–0. The roar of the crowd shook the stands. Ibrahimovic ran toward the bench with arms outstretched, sliding on his knees in celebration as teammates swarmed him. Arthur, standing calmly in the technical area with his arms folded, finally cracked a smile. That was enough. No drama, no extra risks. Leeds managed the final twenty minutes professionally, controlling possession, running the clock smartly, and ensuring Reading never had a real look at goal. Full time. Leeds United 1, Reading 0. A solid start to their Premier League campaign. With the job done and another three points in the bag, Arthur could finally take a breath. The coaching staff gathered for post-match routines, but Arthur's role, at least for now, was winding down. He had earned himself a short vacation. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for the players. Leeds United was no longer a second-tier side with a handful of internationals. With their recent rise and transfer signings, most of the squad now featured regulars or rising stars from various national teams. As the international break approached, the team would be pulled in ten different directions. Arthur sat alone in his office later that evening, slouched in his chair, staring at his laptop screen. "Unbelievable," he muttered to himself, rubbing his temples. "I used to worry about having no internationals... now I'm worried they'll all come back in pieces." He let out a sigh and leaned back, eyes half-closed. "Good fortune, please bless my players. Let them come back in one piece." The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the laptop fan. Recently, Twitter had exploded in popularity across England, and Allen—knowing Arthur liked to keep tabs on media buzz—had helped him set it up on his computer. Now, with a rare break on his hands and nothing else pressing to do, Arthur sat refreshing Twitter like a man trying to escape boredom with every click. "Anything interesting today..." he murmured, scrolling through news, club banter, and the usual flood of pundit takes. After a few minutes of nothing exciting, Arthur leaned back and pulled out his phone. It was time for something a little better than transfer rumors and hot takes. He called Shakira. She picked up on the second ring, her voice playful and warm. "Well, well, if it isn't my football genius." Arthur grinned. "Hey, aren't you supposed to be dancing your heart out on stage right now?" "Rehearsals in an hour," she said, giggling. "I've got time for my favorite man. Missing me already?" Arthur smirked, pretending to sound pitiful. "Maybe just a little. Maybe a certain busy superstar should find time to visit her lonely boyfriend." Shakira laughed, the sound light and teasing. "Aww, poor baby. Then I'll graciously accept this royal request and fly out soon. What would you do without me, hmm?" "Complain to Twitter," Arthur replied dryly. "Maybe start writing sappy songs in your absence." They both laughed. The conversation drifted from teasing to casual updates. She told him about her tour stops, the chaos of rehearsals, and the usual pressure of back-to-back performances. He gave her the rundown on the match, the travel, and how he was worried about his players heading off for international duty. Shakira suddenly said, "You know, maybe you should sign a Colombian player. That way I've got a reason to visit more often. I can just pretend to visit your games saying I'm a fan of that player or something." Arthur raised an eyebrow, grinning. "Sure. But only if you're willing to cover the transfer fee." "Oh, so now I'm the club's sugar mommy?" She laughed. "Hey," he said, trying not to laugh, "football's expensive." Eventually, she had to get ready, and the call ended with a few sweet words and a promise to see each other soon. " Take care of yourself dear, I'll come visit you soon. mwah~" She hung up reluctantly. Arthur stared at his phone for a second longer, then set it down. "I'm looking forward to seeing you soon." He muttered. The smile lingered on his face, but boredom quickly crept back in. He glanced back at the laptop. Back to Twitter it was. Click. Refresh. "Come on... somebody post something interesting." *** Arthur had been slouched in his chair for what felt like hours, head resting lazily in his hands, mind slowly slipping into a vacation coma. Then—click. His posture shot upright, eyes narrowed. Something on his screen had just caught his attention. His mouse hovered over a news headline that instantly stirred his curiosity. "Liverpool Player Sebastian Deisler Suspected of Mental Health Relapse, Seen at Local Clinic" Arthur's brow lifted, and with one swift click, he was reading the full article. The blogger, likely a local football enthusiast or amateur reporter, claimed to have seen someone resembling Deisler entering a mental health clinic in Liverpool just a few days earlier. The description was oddly detailed—height, hair, the way the man walked, even the subtle twitch in his left eye. The author hadn't provided any photos, but the conviction in their tone was enough to raise eyebrows. As Arthur read on, the blogger began connecting dots. They pointed out that Deisler's performances in Liverpool's opening Premier League games had been—at best—lackluster. His usual energy on the pitch seemed drained. He barely pressed the ball, didn't track back as often, and seemed to be drifting through matches like a shadow of his former self. Then came the bombshell of speculation: Was Deisler having a relapse of his depression? Arthur leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Deisler. He'd managed him just last season at Leeds. On his day, the German was one of the most technically gifted players in the squad—quick, intelligent, and creative with the ball. But everyone at the club had known his past. The mental health issues weren't a secret. Deisler had publicly taken breaks before to deal with depression. Even after the Injury Recovery Card, Arthur had made sure to handle him with care, giving him space when needed and support when required. But after his high-profile summer move to Liverpool following a stellar World Cup, Arthur had wondered how he'd cope under the pressure and when his depression relapsed. Expectations at Anfield were huge, and Arthur knew from experience that big clubs weren't always patient or understanding when it came to sensitive matters like mental health. As he kept reading, Arthur scrolled down to the comment section. The internet had, predictably, exploded. Some commenters jumped to Deisler's defense. "He's just fatigued! He went from a brutal club season straight into the World Cup without a proper break. That's bound to catch up with anyone." "Deisler was carrying Germany on his back in the summer. He deserves some grace. Let him find his rhythm again." "World Cup hangover. Simple. Happens to the best of them." Others weren't so forgiving—or were more cynical. "He's not the same player. Watch him closely—he looks like he doesn't want to be out there." "Depression doesn't just disappear. It's a lifelong battle. Liverpool may have taken a big risk here." "He was misfiring in both games. Walking around the pitch like he didn't care. Something's off." Arthur frowned. The analysis wasn't unfair. Deisler had looked unrecognizable in the matches Arthur had watched. The usual spark was missing. No bold dribbles. No clever through-balls. No fight. But it was the underlying tone of the debate that bothered him more than anything. Football fans, pundits, and media alike were often ruthless. When a player underperformed, few stopped to ask why. Fewer still were willing to give a player space if the problem wasn't physical but psychological. Arthur sighed and leaned back again. As someone who had worked closely with Deisler, who'd seen both his brilliance and his fragility, it was difficult to read. Although he hated Liverpool for trying to scam him, he didn't hate Deisler. In fact , he felt pity for him. He stared at the screen a little longer, refreshing the feed to see if anything else had surfaced—any official statement, any club denial, or at least a response from Liverpool's camp. Nothing. Just more speculation. More armchair analysts drawing conclusions from grainy TV footage and tabloid whispers. Arthur tapped his fingers on the desk. He didn't know if the report was true. He hoped it wasn't. But he also knew better than to dismiss it outright. He somehow hoped even if the card expired, Deisler would be able to atleast hold on for a year . Because if it was true... Deisler would need more than just medical support. He'd need understanding. And Arthur wasn't convinced Liverpool would offer that. He closed the tab slowly, eyes still lingering on the headline. Another long sigh escaped his lips. **** But as soon as he thought about the problem Liverpool faced, Arthur felt happy. "Hehehe~" Arthur let out a soft, sinister chuckle as he leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk. That devilish grin of his crept wider across his face. He couldn't help it—this was just too perfect. He'd completely forgotten about the expiration of Deisler's injury card. That card had been the only thing protecting Liverpool from the storm that was now brewing. It wasn't until he stumbled upon that Twitter post just moments ago that it all came flooding back. And Arthur? Arthur knew exactly what was happening. In fact, short of Deisler's own therapist or agent, no one else on Earth probably understood the player's condition better than him. Arthur had managed Deisler closely during his time at Leeds—monitoring his ups and downs before and after the Injury Recovery Card, giving him space when the fog of depression threatened to close in. He'd seen the signs. And now after the card expired? It didn't take a genius to put the puzzle together. There was no need for further speculation, no second opinion. As far as Arthur was concerned, it was clear: Deisler had relapsed. With a satisfied nod, Arthur closed the tab and exhaled, still chuckling under his breath. "Benítez... Moores... you poor sods," he muttered, shaking his head. The images of Liverpool's manager and club owner appeared vividly in his mind—both probably pacing in some Anfield office, trying to make sense of the mess. Arthur smirked. "That's what you get for trying to pull one over on me." He stood from his chair, stretching his arms with a lazy swagger. "You tried to lowball me for Deisler halfway through the season... and then you went and poached my captain, Milner, during the transfer window. Now look at you." The grin never left his face as he powered down the computer. The lights of the office dimmed behind him as he walked out, a satisfied man with nothing but smug satisfaction in his stride. Although he felt pity for Deisler, atleast he got to enjoy playing at his best for a season before retiring, even played the world cup . That was good enough for his conscience. **** Meanwhile, over in Liverpool, the mood couldn't have been more different. At the Melwood training ground, the tension inside Rafa Benítez's office was thick enough to cut with a knife. The manager sat slumped on the edge of the sofa, rubbing his forehead as if trying to physically squeeze out an answer. Across from him sat David Moores, club owner and lifelong Liverpool man—his expression darker than the Mersey River on a stormy night. "Is it confirmed?" Moores asked finally, his voice a low growl that broke the oppressive silence. Benítez exhaled and shook his head, the motion weary. "Not yet. We're still waiting on the final reports... but honestly, it's not looking good. His behavior, the lack of focus, the body language—everything points to a relapse." BANG. Moores's hand slammed down onto the armrest of the leather sofa, echoing through the room like a gunshot. Benítez didn't flinch, but his eyes stayed glued to the floor. "You told me there were no issues in the medicals," Moores snapped. "I specifically told the medical staff to double-check his mental health records. I asked you whether his depression was under control! And now this?!" His voice rose with every sentence. He was furious, and with good reason. After all, Deisler hadn't come cheap. Moores had personally signed off on the deal, sending Xabi Alonso plus €1.5 million to Leeds United in exchange for the German midfielder. It had been a calculated gamble—a world-class talent with a known history, yes, but who had looked so sharp under Arthur's management. Now? Half a year in, and the gamble looked like a complete disaster. A player they'd paid handsomely for was barely functioning. If the reports were true, he'd have to take an extended leave from football, maybe even step away for good. Meanwhile, Liverpool would still be responsible for his wages, medical care, and media fallout. "Am I supposed to just sit here and smile while the money goes down the drain?" Moores snarled. Benítez wanted to answer. He really did. But what could he say? He wasn't a doctor. He hadn't personally reviewed every detail of Deisler's medical file. That had been up to the club's specialists—Moores' own handpicked staff. Yet none of that mattered now. The owner was staring daggers at him, and as far as he was concerned, this mess fell squarely on the manager's shoulders. So Rafa said nothing. He simply kept his eyes on the documents in his lap, shoulders tense, lips sealed, praying silently for a miracle... or at least a distraction. After a long silence, David Moores finally took a breath, his voice now low and steady, but still tense. "Rafael," he said, his gaze fixed on Benítez across the office, "I want you to answer me honestly. Can Sebastian still play?" Benítez didn't respond right away. He leaned back slightly in his chair, fingertips pressed together, brow furrowed as he sifted through the last few weeks in his mind. His thoughts drifted back to pre-season, to the first sessions after the World Cup ended. When Deisler had returned to the squad in late July, everything had seemed normal—encouraging, even. He'd looked sharp in training, composed on the ball, still brimming with the class he had shown last season at Leeds and during Germany's World Cup campaign. Benítez had felt relieved at the time. After all, Liverpool had paid a heavy price for Deisler—trading away Alonso and throwing in cash. There was pressure. But Sebastian had looked every bit worth it during those early sessions. Calm, poised, deadly with his passing. And then came the first league match against Sheffield United. That's when it all began to unravel. Benítez remembered it vividly. From the very first minute, something was off. It wasn't just rust or early-season sluggishness—this was something deeper. Deisler's entire performance in the first half had been, in Benítez's words, "a disaster." On the ball, he was hesitant. His passes either missed their mark or were easily intercepted. There were two occasions when teammates—Gerrard, even Agger—called clearly for a short option, only for Deisler to ignore them entirely, turning into trouble and losing possession. His shooting? Weak and uncommitted. His movement off the ball was sluggish, almost as if his legs were moving through molasses. That wasn't the worst of it, though. When Liverpool were out of possession, Deisler was nowhere to be seen. He just wandered around the pitch like a ghost, not pressing, not tracking, not even reacting to urgent shouts from the sideline. Benítez had nearly lost his voice barking instructions at him—"Track back! Help Lucas!"—but there was no response. Deisler was on his own island. At halftime, the dressing room was heated. Benítez had stormed in furious, tearing into his players, but especially Deisler. He didn't hold back, calling him out in front of everyone. And yet... Deisler hadn't argued. He hadn't pushed back. He didn't even look bothered. He simply nodded, said he was "a bit off today," and that he would "sort it out in the second half." That reaction should've been the first red flag. Still, Benítez had held off on a substitution. Liverpool were lacking creativity, and they desperately needed someone like Deisler to pull the strings. He gave him another chance. But it didn't last long. Just minutes into the second half, Liverpool kicked off and began their usual patient buildup. Kuyt rolled it back, Mascherano moved it along to Agger, and then Gerrard dropped into space and made a run forward. As planned, the ball was fed into Deisler near the centre circle—a move they had rehearsed countless times. But what happened next stunned everyone. The ball rolled to Deisler's feet... and he just stood there. No touch. No turn. Not even a glance up. Sheffield United's midfielder pounced, nicked it cleanly, and launched a counterattack. Three passes later, the ball was in the back of Liverpool's net. It was an avoidable goal, an unforgivable error—and it broke the dam. Benítez had seen enough. He immediately turned to the bench, called for a sub, and yanked Deisler off. But what struck him most wasn't the mistake. It was Deisler's reaction. Or rather, his complete lack of one. No frustration, no apology, no hint of emotion at all. He simply jogged off, tapped the incoming player on the shoulder, and disappeared down the tunnel without so much as a glance back. At the time, Benítez chalked it up to guilt. Maybe Deisler was ashamed, embarrassed. After all, his error had cost Liverpool the lead. Benítez had planned to speak with him after the match—ask what was going on, clear the air. But he never got the chance. The media obligations after the 1-1 draw with a newly promoted side had consumed his attention. Questions flew left and right about Liverpool's title credentials, dropped points, the lack of energy. And amidst all that, the issue with Deisler was temporarily shelved. It wasn't until the following Tuesday, when training resumed at Melwood, that the real alarm bells rang. Deisler was the same. Not just tired. Not just distracted. Hollow. His eyes lacked focus, his movements were mechanical. He barely spoke to anyone. During a routine possession drill, he stood still while the ball rolled past him. Benítez watched closely—and suddenly, it clicked. This wasn't fatigue. This wasn't tactical. This was something else entirely. The realization hit like a punch to the gut. "Oh no," Benítez had muttered under his breath that day on the sideline, the sinking feeling setting in. "Not again." That's when it dawned on him. Sebastian Deisler wasn't out of form. He wasn't being lazy. He was battling something far more serious—a relapse. Depression. The dark cloud they all thought had been left behind in Leeds had come back. And by the time Benítez had figured it out, it was already too late.