Chapter 15: Bates is not having a good day

Inside Bates' office, it looked like a tornado had hit. Broken mugs, shattered photo frames, and a poor lamp that didn't deserve its fate were all scattered across the floor. Bates had smashed everything within reach. The man had officially lost it. Fifteen million euros. That was how much he paid for Tim Howard. And what did he get in return? A comedy show in goal. Two massive mistakes in one match. Two! One cost them an early goal, and the other gifted Tottenham the winner in stoppage time. All that hype, all that money—and the long-awaited win for West Brom still hadn't arrived. It was like ordering a five-star steak and getting a burnt fish finger instead. The moment the final whistle blew, Bates stood up like he was escaping a crime scene. He tried to walk out of the stands quickly, hoping to avoid eye contact with the shareholders sitting nearby. But it was too late. Some of them were already snickering, their eyes full of sarcasm. One of them even gave him a little wave, which felt more like a slap. Bates picked up the pace, hoping to vanish before anyone could say anything worse. But he didn't get far. Just a few meters from the stairs, he was surrounded by angry fans. Very angry fans. West Brom had now lost six games in a row, and Howard's performance had pushed them over the edge. The crowd didn't care about transfer prices or adjustment periods. All they cared about was the scoreboard—and it said 1-2. The next 30 seconds felt like walking through a battlefield. Bates heard every insult under the sun. His ears were ringing with curses so creative, they could've been written by poets. One fan even yelled, "Put a scarecrow in goal next time—at least it won't bend over for corners!" If his assistant hadn't been there to shield him, Bates was fairly sure he would've taken at least one flying kick to the backside. Probably two. These weren't polite season ticket holders. These were the infamous English hooligans who'd rather fight than forgive. By the time Bates got back to the safety of the tunnel, his shirt was wrinkled, his tie was loose, and he looked like a man who'd just barely survived a riot. And the worst part? There was another game on Saturday night. An away match against Manchester United. Yes, that Manchester United. Two days later, in a meeting that felt more like a funeral, Blackwell came to see Bates. "Boss, I've been thinking," Blackwell said carefully, as if afraid Bates might throw a chair. "Maybe we should let Howard sit this one out. Let him rest. Maybe just have him on the bench against United." Bates didn't respond right away. He sat there quietly, staring at the wall like it had betrayed him. For a moment, it looked like he might actually agree. But then, he sighed and shook his head. "No," Bates muttered. "One game doesn't prove anything." Blackwell raised an eyebrow. "He made two mistakes." "So what?" Bates shot back. "Maybe he was just nervous. New club. New city. New pressure. You think I paid fifteen million euros just to bench him after one game?" Blackwell didn't say anything. He just looked at the coffee mug Bates hadn't thrown yet and decided not to push any further. To Bates, it wasn't just about football anymore. It was about pride. About not admitting he'd made a bad deal. Because if he benched Howard now, it would be like hanging a big sign on the training ground that said: "I wasted our transfer budget." And Bates wasn't ready to admit that. Not yet. So Howard would play again on Saturday. Against Manchester United. Away from home. What could possibly go wrong? *** But Howard let everyone down again. If last week's match was a mess, this one was a full-blown disaster. Facing Manchester United at Old Trafford was already hard enough. Facing them with Howard in goal? That was a nightmare waiting to happen. Unfortunately, Bates had chosen denial over logic, and now everyone was going to pay for it. United's players knew Howard too well. He'd been with them not too long ago, and they remembered all his quirks—the hesitation, the shaky hands, the flappy wrists. It was like they had his weakness cheat sheet printed out before kickoff. So from the very beginning, Scholes and Ronaldo were letting shots fly from outside the box like it was target practice. And every time the ball got close to the goal, West Brom fans held their breath. Not in excitement—more like fear. Howard, already rattled from the last match, was in no shape to handle it. He looked like he was trying to catch bricks with oven mitts. In the first half alone, Van Nistelrooy bagged two goals—both from rebounds caused by Howard fumbling simple saves. The first bounce slipped through his hands like a wet bar of soap. The second one, he somehow punched into the air straight to Van Nistelrooy's head. It was like Howard was assisting him on purpose. By halftime, it was already 3–0. The third was an own goal, just to make things extra embarrassing. And although that one wasn't directly Howard's fault, no one was really in the mood to separate blame anymore. Then came the fourth. Wayne Rooney picked up the ball at the edge of the box, took a touch, and sent in a low shot. It wasn't even particularly powerful. But somehow, Howard managed to slide down early, close his eyes, and completely miss it. The ball rolled right under him and into the net like it was playing limbo. That was the final straw. Back in his office, Bates stared at the TV for two seconds after the goal. Then boom—he launched his remote, cracked the screen, and shouted curses that would've made a sailor blush. And then he turned his anger to Arthur. Loudly. He didn't know how Howard had become this unreliable overnight, but one thing was clear in his mind: he'd been screwed over. "This was a setup," Bates muttered, kicking over a chair. "That damn Arthur screwed me over. But how did he make this idiot perform like that!" *** Arthur sat at his desk in the small office Leeds United had given him. The light above flickered slightly, but he didn't care. His pen was scribbling across a sheet of paper like he was trying to solve some advanced maths problem, except this wasn't algebra—it was football tactics. Tomorrow was matchday, and as both owner and head coach of Leeds United, Arthur had no one to blame if things went wrong. He glanced at the sheet again. Boxes, arrows, circles—his master plan for tomorrow's game looked more like a teenager's doodle during history class than professional football strategy. But to Arthur, it made perfect sense. The tactics he was sketching weren't random. In fact, they came from years of watching football and analyzing top-tier managers. He had inherited not just a football club, but also the accumulated knowledge of generations of managers—some from the future, some from the past, and most of them better paid than he was. Still, he wasn't here to copy anyone directly. Arthur had his own ideas. The problem was, English football in 2004 wasn't exactly modern. Everyone and their dog used the 4-4-2 formation. Full-backs hoofed it down the wing, wingers sprinted to the corner flag and crossed, and the strikers tried to batter the ball and each other into the net. It was a beautiful mess. Especially in the lower leagues like the Championship, where Leeds United now languished, the game was more like a battlefield. Hard tackles, flying elbows, and referees who treated yellow cards like rare Pokémon. Arthur knew if he wanted to survive, he needed to balance his ideas with reality. He scribbled again. His inspiration? Klopp. Not the cheerful, smiley Klopp of Liverpool with a million trophies, but the slightly chaotic, early version at Dortmund—the one that made football feel like a mosh pit. Arthur loved that style. High press, rapid transitions, wild pressing that made opponents feel like they were being chased by angry bees. Was it practical? Sort of. Was it going to make Leeds United look like lunatics? Absolutely. But Arthur was convinced it would work—especially with the young squad he had. The classic 4-2-3-1 formation now stared back at him from the paper. It looked neat, balanced, and completely different from what 90% of the Championship clubs were using. And that was the point. Up front as the lone striker, Arthur had placed Adebayo. Big, strong, full of energy. The man looked like he could run through a wall if properly motivated—or if there was cake on the other side. Arthur had no problem benching Viduka, who at this point in his career looked more interested in walking than sprinting. The man had technique, but in Arthur's heavy-metal football plan, that wasn't enough. You had to run. A lot. So Viduka was politely benched in favor of the younger, hungrier option. Behind Adebayo, Arthur drew a small circle. That was Tevez. Short, angry, and willing to chase down defenders like they owed him money. Perfect. On the wings were McLean and Caldwell. They had one job—run fast, cross the ball, and don't forget to breathe. Then came the double pivot in midfield—Sneijder and Milner. This was the engine room. Sneijder, despite his clear talent and vision, had the stamina of a man who'd just run a marathon every time he jogged five yards. But Arthur didn't care. Sneijder could pass a ball through three defenders blindfolded, and that was enough for now. Milner, on the other hand, was the opposite. Not the flashiest, but he ran like he had a personal grudge against grass. He'd cover the ground Sneijder wouldn't. Arthur had already decided—Sneijder would be the brain, Milner the lungs. One would create, the other would chase. A perfect duo, as long as Milner didn't die of exhaustion by halftime. The defense wasn't neglected either. At centre-back, he had Kompany and Chienelli—tall, strong, and young enough to not complain about playing twice a week. They still made some silly mistakes during training, but Arthur had hope. In a few years, he imagined Kompany lifting Premier League titles. For now, though, he just hoped he could keep a clean sheet against teams who still treated long throws as legitimate attacking strategies. Full-backs were McKenna and Mills. They were serviceable. Not fast enough to outrun a winger, but aggressive enough to make them think twice. And in goal, the young Schmeichel. Son of a legend, but at least he didn't have "butter hands" like Howard. Arthur sighed. He still hadn't gotten over watching Howard single-handedly sabotage West Brom. He was kind of glad now that he had kept the American out of his plans. The man couldn't catch a cold in a snowstorm. Just as Arthur was admiring his tactical masterpiece, he looked to the side of the desk and noticed another piece of paper—Gareth Bale's name was on it. The kid had just joined from Southampton. He was still in school, barely fifteen, and probably more worried about homework than corner kicks. Arthur had no plans to toss him into the chaos just yet. Maybe in a few months. For now, Bale would run drills, eat lunch, and try not to trip over his own feet. Arthur stretched his arms, paper in one hand, and stood up. The office chair creaked like it was protesting the workload. He stepped out of the study and into the hallway. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. He was about to head toward the kitchen when he heard it—someone yelling from the bedroom down the hall. "Tremble, English champion!" Arthur blinked. That was his younger cousin, who had clearly snuck into the club house and was now living his own dream. Arthur rolled his eyes. "Go to sleep,you little troll." he muttered, but a small smile crept onto his face. He looked down at the tactical sheet one last time. He had no idea how tomorrow's match would go. But one thing was certain—Leeds United weren't going to play boring football anymore. It would be fast, chaotic, and possibly give the fans heart attacks. But at least it wouldn't be dull. And with that, Arthur turned off the lights and headed to bed, still clutching the tactical plan like it was a winning lottery ticket. Whether it worked or not... well, that was tomorrow's problem. *** Join my Patreon for more than 20 Advance Chapters and my other stories for only 7$ Link is Below. Remove space after http. https:// www.patreon.com/c/Virtuosso777?redirect=true ***