Chapter 131: Champion's League

Leeds United Training Facility – Arthur's Office, Late Evening "Ohhh... what a mistake..." Arthur let out a long sigh and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as regret weighed heavy on his shoulders. The softly lit room was silent, except for the tapping of his pen against the desk and the occasional groan of frustration. He stared at the whiteboard in front of him—half-filled with player names and red scribbles, injuries and absences marked out like landmines. The depth chart was a mess, the formation options shrinking by the minute. And now, in the worst possible moment, he couldn't help but scold himself. "If I'd just kept one of them... even one..." he muttered. He had let both Jamie Vardy and Edin Džeko leave on loan at the end of the transfer window. At the time, it seemed like a logical decision—more minutes elsewhere, more experience for the future. But now, looking at his depleted squad, that decision felt like a punch to the gut. The Champions League group stage was just around the corner. The match was in two days, and tomorrow morning, they'd be boarding a flight to the Netherlands. With a battered squad and half his starting eleven still nursing injuries, Arthur was staring down the barrel of an opening night fixture that suddenly looked far more difficult than it should have been. He leaned forward again and tapped his pen on the name "EINDHOVEN" at the top of the fixture board. "Not ideal," he muttered. The room was quiet except for the rustle of papers and the distant hum of cleaners outside in the hallway. Arthur continued scribbling formations, trying to make sense of what he had left to work with. With no proper strikers available and midfielders playing out of position, he felt like a general about to march into war with farm tools instead of weapons. And the pressure wasn't just internal. The media had begun circling like vultures after Leeds' frustrating defeat to Portsmouth. Headlines in the sports pages hadn't been kind. Leeds United had been branded with nicknames like "International Break Victims" and "The Rehab Eleven." One tabloid called them "The Walking Wounded." Arthur didn't even have the energy to argue. Elsewhere, Chelsea—also set to begin their Champions League campaign—were riding a completely different wave. After a shocking loss to Middlesbrough earlier in the season, Jose Mourinho's men had flipped a switch. Whatever hairdryer treatment Mourinho had unleashed behind closed doors clearly worked, because Chelsea had looked ruthless in their last two Premier League matches, brushing aside opponents with cold efficiency. They were now set to host Werder Bremen at Stamford Bridge—a home fixture with no travel fatigue, and against a side that, while solid, didn't exactly strike fear into the heart of the Premier League champions. The press were already fawning over them again. "Treble Bound," "European Heavyweights," "Title All But Assured"—the usual pre-Champions League fanfare for an English giant. Arthur scoffed at one of the headlines pinned on the wall across his desk. Funny how short memories are. In contrast, the outlook for Leeds was anything but optimistic. Their upcoming opponent, PSV Eindhoven, was no pushover. Last season, they had dominated the Eredivisie, securing the title with weeks to spare. In Europe, they'd progressed to the Champions League Round of 16 after finishing second in their group. Sure, they were later thrashed by Lyon across two legs—losing 5–0 on aggregate—but that was a Lyon team in peak form. Crucially, Eindhoven had kept their core squad intact heading into the new season. There had been no major sales, no disruptive transfer sagas. The same manager. The same system. The same chemistry. And now, they were fully fit, rested, and ready to open their European campaign on home soil. Arthur knew exactly what that meant. High tempo. Slick passing. Relentless pressing. PSV would be going for blood from the first whistle, especially with the home crowd behind them. And he... had to figure out how to keep a team stitched together with medical tape from falling apart. Arthur rose from his seat and walked over to the training reports pinned to the corkboard. Mascherano—still doubtful. Bale—not traveling. Kompany might be cleared for light running tomorrow, but a start was unlikely. Touré and Podolski? At least another week out. "God, I really should've kept Vardy," he muttered again. "Or Džeko. Just one of them..." The regret was real, but time was not on his side. He glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight. Tomorrow, they'd board the flight to Eindhoven. And in less than 48 hours, they'd be standing under the floodlights at the Philips Stadion. There was no more room for mistakes. No more time for regrets. It was time to make do with what he had—and hope the patched-up squad could hold its ground against a very dangerous opponent. *** 8:00 PM – September 13, Champions League Matchday Under the bright floodlights of the Philips Stadion, the UEFA Champions League anthem thundered through the crisp Dutch evening air, echoing across the packed stadium. The crowd roared, flags waved, and cameras flashed. Amid the noise, pressure, and anticipation, Arthur stood on the touchline, his arms folded, eyes fixed straight ahead. This was his first appearance in the Champions League as a head coach. And the timing couldn't have been worse. His Leeds United squad was battered by injuries, thinned by the international break, and forced to travel away from home for a tough opener against a disciplined PSV Eindhoven side. But Arthur didn't have time for nerves. He had decisions to make—and tonight, every one of them mattered. Despite the setbacks, Arthur stuck with a classic 4-4-2 formation, hoping familiarity and structure would help weather the storm. Kasper Schmeichel remained the man between the sticks. Arthur had no doubts about the Dane's reliability—even on the biggest stage, Kasper had the temperament and command that calmed the backline. In defense, Cannavaro, Thiago Silva, and Lahm returned to the starting eleven after being rested in the league. But all eyes were on the surprise selection: Maicon. Every media outlet had predicted he'd be benched tonight. And to be honest, Arthur had been close to agreeing with them. The numbers didn't lie—Maicon's fitness rating had dropped to 55%. For Arthur, that was a red flag. Based on his previous experience with the squad, anything below 60% was pushing it. In a high-intensity match like this, the risk of injury went up dramatically. He'd sat in his office for nearly an hour staring at the system data, weighing his options. The problem was simple: Leeds had no real backup on the right flank. With so many players sidelined, Arthur was out of cover. He couldn't patch that side with makeshift defenders—not against a team like PSV. So, after a long internal debate and one reluctant sigh, he scribbled Maicon's name onto the starting sheet. "Just don't get hurt," he had muttered under his breath. In midfield, the core pairing of Xabi Alonso and Luka Modrić remained untouched. Arthur had full trust in their chemistry. Alonso's calm control and deep passing range paired perfectly with Modrić's nimble footwork and vision. But it was on the wings where Arthur made the biggest changes. He shifted Franck Ribéry out to the left wing, where the Frenchman's pace and dribbling could stretch the field. On the right, instead of a more experienced option, Arthur made a bold choice: Kevin De Bruyne. It wasn't just about offense. With Maicon's fitness concerns, Arthur needed someone willing to track back and absorb defensive pressure. The young Belgian, full of energy and eager to prove himself, was tasked with the extra responsibility. Arthur pulled him aside before the match and simply said, "Keep an eye on your side. Don't leave Maicon alone." Up front, it was the striking duo of Zlatan Ibrahimović and Fernando Torres—both of whom had come on as substitutes in the previous match. Arthur was hoping their fresh legs would make a difference tonight. Ibrahimović, always towering and composed, was the target man. Torres, with his pace and sharp instincts, would look to break behind the line and latch onto through balls. They hadn't started together often this season, but Arthur didn't have the luxury of gradual chemistry tonight. He needed instant impact. The pre-match buzz slowly faded as the teams took their positions on the pitch. Arthur stood calmly near the bench, hands in his coat pockets, scanning the setup one final time. PSV had lined up in a compact 4-3-3, with pace out wide and pressing midfielders—just as he expected. This match wasn't just about tactics or fitness. It was about surviving the opening storm, staying disciplined, and striking when the chance came. Arthur glanced down the touchline, where De Bruyne was adjusting his socks, Modrić was giving final words to Ribéry, and Maicon was flexing his legs with a distant stare. The Champions League lights were bright. The challenge was immense. But the whistle was seconds away. And Arthur's first night in Europe's biggest competition had officially begun. *** "Ladies and gentlemen, good evening! I'm your old friend, Eddie Gray! And I'm honoured to be joining you on this special European night!" Eddie's familiar voice rang out confidently over the broadcast as the live Champions League coverage began. For Leeds United fans glued to their TVs at home, the sound of Eddie on the mic offered a bit of comfort, a thread of familiarity in what promised to be a tense evening. "Let's take a look now at the lineup Arthur's chosen for his Champions League debut," Eddie continued, as the camera panned across the pitch in Eindhoven. Back in Leeds—and all across the UK—pubs were packed, living rooms were lit, and fans had drinks in hand. But halfway across the world, the time had already crept past midnight. Even so, in countless quiet homes, the dull glow of television screens flickered in dark living rooms. Fans sat shirtless in the dim light, arms crossed or legs bouncing nervously, surrounded by open cans of lager and plates of snacks. On coffee tables lay crisps, leftover wings, and half-eaten takeaways, but no one paid them much attention. Voices were hushed. No one wanted to risk waking up a sleeping wife or child in the next room—not when Leeds United were about to kick off in Europe. On the screen, a second commentary team came into view. "Hello everyone, and welcome to the live coverage of Matchday 1 of the 2006–2007 UEFA Champions League," said one of the presenters with practiced enthusiasm. "Tonight's fixture features Dutch champions PSV Eindhoven hosting Premier League side Leeds United. I'm your commentator, Sam Carter." "And I'm Michael Evans. A pleasure to be here." As their introduction wrapped up, Sam turned to his co-commentator. "So, Mike, what's your take? Which side do you think holds the edge tonight?" Michael didn't hesitate. "To be honest, Sam, I think PSV Eindhoven have a real advantage." "Oh? Why's that?" Michael leaned in slightly. "Leeds have been hit hard by injuries—really hard. And if you look at the lineup, you can tell Arthur tried to rotate his main players last week in preparation for this game. He wanted to protect the squad and prioritise Europe. But instead, they slipped up in the league. Losing to a weaker side and dealing with a crowded injury list? That's a double blow to morale." Sam nodded thoughtfully. "Fair point. We'll see how that plays out tonight. The players are lining up now, so let's take a look at the starting elevens for both sides." As the lineups were announced, Arthur stood silently near the dugout at the edge of the pitch, his eyes scanning the opposition and the formation they'd rolled out. The nerves didn't show on his face, but they were there—buried under layers of focus and calculation. He'd seen the same predictions everyone else had. Analysts didn't expect Leeds United to come out of this match with much. The squad was thinned out. The previous loss had shaken confidence. And now, in an away fixture against the Dutch champions, the odds weren't exactly in their favour. And yes, as Michael had said on the broadcast—morale was low. Arthur had checked the system earlier. The players weren't down in the dumps, but the spirit wasn't where it needed to be for a match like this. There wasn't enough energy in the warm-ups. The body language looked flat. He could feel it. But Arthur wasn't about to take that lying down. As the players took their positions, the final moments before kickoff ticking down, he slid his hand into the inside pocket of his coat. He found the digital panel, opened up the team status interface, and tapped on the morale card. Instantly, the system reacted. A soft ping. A flash of green. The team status shifted—morale: high. Arthur let out a small breath. "Come on," he muttered, eyes back on the pitch. "Let me see if that works." There was no magic wand in football. But if this helped sharpen focus, lift the energy, just enough to survive the early storm, it would be worth it. He glanced toward Ibrahimović and Torres exchanging a brief nod. Midfielders were bouncing on their heels now. Even Maicon, whose fitness had been a concern, looked alert and ready. The crowd in Eindhoven was in full voice, PSV fans waving red and white flags, roaring out their chants. Arthur knew what kind of pressure his side was walking into. This was a seasoned team, experienced in Europe, confident at home. But Leeds weren't here just to make up the numbers. With the whistle seconds away, Arthur stood tall on the sideline, arms crossed, coat collar turned up against the night breeze. The Champions League anthem still echoed faintly in the background, the adrenaline building with every heartbeat. It was time. And whatever happened next, his team was ready to fight.