Chapter 133: PSV -1

The temperature inside the home team's dressing room at the Philips Stadion felt colder than it should have been. Not because of the air conditioning—no, this chill came from silence, the kind that lingers when expectations crash hard into reality. For nearly three full minutes, no one said a word. PSV Eindhoven's head coach Ronald Koeman stood in front of his players, arms crossed, a deep frown etched on his face. His gaze scanned the room slowly, shifting from one slouched figure to another. Sweat still clung to their brows, some drank from bottles half-heartedly, but most just kept their eyes down, avoiding his. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Before kickoff, everyone—Koeman included—believed this would be a straightforward home win. The Dutch media had practically chalked up the three points already. Leeds United were arriving battered and bruised, coming off a loss to Portsmouth in the Premier League, with a laundry list of injuries. Arthur's squad was so thin they could've named their starting eleven on a napkin. Koeman had done his homework too. He'd studied the Portsmouth match from a few days prior. He saw the gaps, the lack of attacking bite, the sluggish second half. It all pointed to a team that would crumble under pressure. But now, after 45 minutes, Koeman's side were trailing 1–0 on their own turf. And they hadn't just been unlucky—they'd been outplayed. Pinned back. Outrun. Out-fought. Koeman hadn't expected to see his midfield overrun, or his defenders chasing shadows. Most of all, he didn't expect to see Leeds United pressing like wolves when they barely had enough fit players to field a starting lineup. But Koeman wasn't some wide-eyed assistant on his first night in the dugout. He was experienced, and more importantly, he was observant. He'd noticed something. Arthur's side came out with immense energy, yes—but after the goal, they immediately slowed the tempo. The full-backs stopped overlapping. Midfielders recycled the ball instead of bursting forward. Even Torres and Ibrahimovic, who had been pressing high early on, began to drop and conserve their runs. That wasn't normal. That was calculated. It told Koeman one important thing: Leeds United were running on fumes. He slowly reached for the whiteboard behind him, grabbed a marker, and began tapping it sharply—bang, bang, bang. The sharp sound cut through the thick air like a whistle. Players stirred, turning their heads toward him. When he had their attention, Koeman finally spoke, voice even but sharp. "Alright," he said. "Forget the first 45 minutes. Yes, we were poor. Yes, we got caught on the back foot. But the game isn't over." He looked around again, catching each player's eyes in turn. "We still have time. We still have a chance." A few players nodded, others shifted in their seats, the tension lifting slightly. "Now listen carefully." Koeman turned back to the board and began sketching out new instructions, diagrams forming in quick, confident strokes. He leaned sideways to keep an eye on them while explaining. "The second half, we abandon the middle. No more trying to pass through Alonso and Modrić. We've been feeding them the ball ourselves half the time." A few players grumbled in agreement. "We switch the focus to their right side. That's where they're weakest. Maicon's playing, yes—but barely. He's running on empty. Their young winger, De Bruyne, is quick going forward but doesn't track back. That entire side is vulnerable." He circled Maicon's position on the board twice with the marker for emphasis. "We overload that flank. Two-on-ones. Quick switches from left to right. Isolate him. Force mistakes. And once we break them down on that side, the gaps will open in the center." The players' expressions began to change—eyes sharpening, postures straightening. Koeman put the pen down and turned fully to face them again. "They've got momentum now, but it's artificial. Watch them—every time they stop, they stay stopped. That tells you everything. Their tank is empty." He took a breath and added, "We push them. We run them. And in twenty minutes, they'll have nothing left." The room had shifted. Doubt had been replaced by a simmering hunger. Koeman clapped his hands once. "Let's go out there and turn this around." With that, the players stood up and began moving. Shirts were pulled back on. Shin pads were re-strapped. The murmur of focused chatter filled the air. And as they lined up near the tunnel, Koeman stood quietly behind them, his eyes fixed ahead. Whatever Arthur had done to get that first-half performance out of Leeds, Koeman was banking on one thing now— It wasn't going to last. Not if PSV followed his plan. Not if the cracks in Arthur's patched-up lineup started to spread. And with that, the second half was about to begin. **** As the second half wore on, Arthur stood motionless near the technical area, arms folded tightly across his chest. His eyes were laser-focused on the far side of the pitch—specifically, the right flank. More precisely, Maicon. Something was wrong. Arthur had sensed the shift within the opening ten minutes after the restart. PSV Eindhoven, who had looked disjointed in the first half, were now pressing with purpose—and they had changed their point of attack. No longer trying to probe through the center, they had clearly redirected their offense to target Leeds United's right flank. Arthur cursed under his breath. Koeman had figured it out. PSV's tactics were now clear: stretch the weakened side, isolate Maicon, and force him into sprints and challenges he had no legs for. Arthur had been watching the Brazilian closely since the whistle. Maicon, who had assured him at halftime that he could go another half-hour, was now visibly wilting. His body language screamed fatigue—shoulders slumped, breath heavy, knees slightly bent like he was bracing for collapse. "Manuel! He's broken in!" The voice of the stadium commentator rang out over the loudspeakers, snapping Arthur out of his analysis. Arthur's gaze shot to the field. PSV's full-back had just danced past Maicon and burst down the wing to the byline. A low, dangerous cross fizzed into the six-yard box. "Ahhh—what a chance! Cone didn't quite connect! Cannavaro clears!" It was a narrow escape, but it changed Arthur's mind instantly. "Nope. That's it. I don't care if Maicon has complaints, he's coming off." Arthur spun on his heel and sprinted toward the bench. He scanned for Mills, the versatile left-back. There was no natural right-back left on the bench—he'd have to reshuffle. Lahm would switch flanks, Mills would go left. Crude, but workable. But just as he opened his mouth to bark Mills' name, the Philips Stadion erupted in a deafening roar. Arthur's blood ran cold. The scoreboard changed before he even turned. 1–1. The commentator's voice roared with it: "Goooooooal! Aruna Koné! PSV Eindhoven are level!" Arthur spun around and saw it—the home fans were already on their feet, flags waving, scarves spinning. PSV's players had mobbed the corner flag, dancing in a chaotic circle of celebration. "Absolutely clinical!" shouted the English broadcaster in the booth above. "Salcido's pinpoint cross from the left, Simmons with the decoy run, and Koné—well, he just ghosted in behind Maicon and buried the header past Schmeichel!" Arthur's jaw clenched. There was no hiding from it. Maicon had been roasted on the wing again. It was his man who scored. It was his side that had collapsed. The camera cut to Maicon, who now bent over, hands on his thighs, a picture of exhaustion and guilt. He didn't even look up as the players jogged back for the restart. Up in the booth, the commentary team broke down the moment. "Leeds have been brilliant in the first half," said the co-commentator. "But they paid for their lack of depth here. You can't press like mad for 45 minutes and expect to survive without legs in the second half. Maicon, frankly, looks finished. This was coming." His partner agreed: "And to be fair, this isn't just on him. De Bruyne hasn't been tracking back, and with Leeds stretched thin by injuries, you can feel the cracks starting to form." Arthur paced back to the technical area, one hand gripping his notepad tightly. He stared at it but wasn't reading. His mind was already rewriting the plan. His original idea was to preserve the lead. Shut up shop. Absorb pressure. Counterattack with fresh legs. But that was off the table now. A draw wasn't enough—not after how dominant they were in the first half. And worst of all—he could feel the mood shifting. His players, who had surged with energy earlier, now looked stunned. Heads down. Shoulders sagging. He couldn't afford a collapse. Arthur turned to his assistant. "Get Mills up. Tell Xavi and Ferreira to warm up too." The man blinked. "All three?" "All three," Arthur said firmly. "We're going for it." The restart came and Leeds pushed forward again, but Arthur could see that PSV's confidence had grown. They were pressing harder now, emboldened by the equalizer. Every minute that ticked by tilted the balance further in their favour. As he waited for the ball to go out of play for the substitution, Arthur looked at the touchline referee, already holding the digital board. He had to act fast. Every second Maicon remained on the pitch risked another disaster. When the ball finally rolled out, Arthur made his move. Maicon off. Mills on. Lahm shifted right. De Bruyne out. Ferreira in to shore up the middle. And Xavi Garcia came on to anchor the midfield, giving Alonso the freedom to roam again. It was drastic, but it had to be. And just as the changes settled, the commentator's voice rose again in surprise. "Wait a minute—what's this? Leeds aren't parking the bus. They've reshaped into a 4-3-3! Arthur's not settling for the draw—he's going all in!" Arthur remained stone-faced on the touchline, but inside, his blood was pumping. He didn't drag Leeds United all the way back into Europe to play it safe. It was time to gamble. **** While PSV Eindhoven's players celebrated wildly after Koné's goal, Arthur's mind raced. That equalizer had thrown a wrench right into his carefully crafted plan. A draw wasn't enough—not for a team like Leeds United, especially not on this stage. He glanced quickly toward the bench and saw Mills stretching, ready to enter the game. Without hesitation, Arthur called out, "Mills, Xavi, Ferreira—warm up, now!" The whistle blew, and Leeds United kicked off again. From the commentary box, Eddie Gray's usually upbeat voice held a hint of concern. "Leeds have got to make some changes quickly. I see Simeone chatting with the assistant referee—looks like Leeds are preparing to shake things up. Let's see how Arthur handles this challenge now that PSV have drawn level." As predicted, not long after a stoppage, the fourth official raised the substitution board. The numbers told the story: three changes incoming for Leeds United. Mills would replace the exhausted Maicon on the left-back spot, Xavi Garcia would come on for Modric in midfield, and Rivaldo would take De Bruyne's place out wide. Watching Rivaldo's name appear on the board, the announcer's brow furrowed slightly, sensing something subtle but important. Turning to his colleague, he said, "You were right earlier about Leeds' approach. These substitutions look like they're geared towards shoring up the defense and holding onto this draw." His partner nodded thoughtfully. "Definitely. Let's break it down. Mills coming in for Maicon is a positional swap—Mills is fresher and more defensively reliable. Xavi Garcia's interception skills in midfield are a clear upgrade over Modric's more attacking style, which signals a shift towards a tighter midfield control. As for Rivaldo, even though he's no spring chicken, he's being deployed on the left. That's smart—PSV's attacks have rarely come down that side, so it's a less risky move and helps lessen the defensive burden on the right flank." From a tactical viewpoint, the substitutions made sense. They were about plugging holes and steadying the ship, especially with less than 30 minutes remaining in the game. But then, as the new lineup took shape on the pitch, the commentators' confident analysis hit an unexpected snag. "Oh wow, hold on a second!" Eddie Gray exclaimed, a note of surprise in his voice. "It looks like Leeds United aren't settling for a defensive stance at all. Arthur has switched to a 4-3-3 formation! They're pushing forward and going on the attack!" Arthur, standing on the sidelines, remained calm, but inside, adrenaline surged. The formation change was a statement. Rather than sitting back and hoping to survive, Leeds were committing men forward, pressing PSV aggressively. The midfield trio now had a more balanced setup—Garcia holding the defensive duties while Alonso and Ferreira supported attacks. Rivaldo slid onto the left wing, bringing experience and creativity, while Ribery was pushed back to his favored right flank, providing width and defensive cover where it was needed most. This tactical tweak was Arthur's gamble. Instead of simply locking down and defending the 1-1, he was daring his team to push for the win, despite their limited squad and the physical toll on his players. The crowd buzzed with anticipation. Leeds United's fresh legs and renewed energy added a new dimension to the game. The shifting shapes on the field, the quick passes, the pressing high up the pitch—it all told a story of a team refusing to settle for less. Arthur's eyes stayed glued to the pitch. He knew the risk: pushing forward with a stretched squad could leave them exposed at the back. But in European football, fortune often favors the bold. From the broadcast booth, the commentators broke down the new formation in detail, excited by the unfolding drama and Leeds United's gutsy approach. Leeds weren't just surviving anymore—they were fighting to take control, to dictate the tempo, and to reclaim the lead. The game had turned into a thrilling chess match, and Arthur was making his move.