Chapter 155: Unsettled?

***Bonus chapter for 200 votes*** Leeds United's dominant 3–0 win over Bordeaux in the Champions League felt like more than just three points. It was a statement—and a perfect way to kick off the month of November. But there was no time to celebrate. The 11th round of the Premier League loomed just around the corner. This time, Leeds were heading to the Reebok Stadium to face Bolton Wanderers on Sunday afternoon. And unlike years past, this was no soft fixture. Bolton, under the ever-pragmatic Sam Allardyce, had turned themselves into a formidable unit. With a strong record of 6 wins, 2 draws, and only 2 losses, they were sitting fourth in the table, punching well above their weight. Organized, disciplined, and physically punishing, Bolton weren't just surviving—they were thriving. And with the likes of Nicolas Anelka and El Hadji Diouf leading their front line, they weren't lacking in flair or pace either. Arthur knew it wouldn't be a walk in the park. Still, Leeds were flying. Confidence was flowing through the squad after a string of wins in both Europe and the league. Morale was high, momentum was theirs, and Arthur had no intention of slowing down. He sent out a familiar 4-3-3 formation—the same blueprint that had worked so well against Bordeaux. The only enforced change was at the back: with Kompany sidelined due to his ankle injury, Thiago Silva stepped in to partner Philipp Lahm at centre-back. From kickoff, the match unfolded exactly as Arthur feared—tight, ugly, and frustrating. Allardyce's tactics were clear from the outset. Bolton played a low block with two banks of four sitting deep. Every time Leeds tried to advance through the middle, they were met with bodies, tackles, and congestion. Modrić, De Bruyne, and Alonso found little room to operate. Ribéry and Bale were often double-marked out wide, and Ibrahimović had barely touched the ball by the 30-minute mark. And while Leeds dominated possession, Bolton were dangerous on the break. Twice in the first half, Diouf broke down the right, twisting past Lahm before cutting inside. One of his crosses found Anelka, whose header flashed narrowly over the bar. Another time, a sloppy pass from Alonso gifted Anelka a run through on goal—but Neuer, always alert, rushed off his line to smother the chance. Arthur stood on the touchline, arms folded, lips pressed into a frown. He shouted for quicker passing, more movement, more urgency. "Don't get drawn into their pace!" he barked. "Keep switching the flanks—stretch them!" But Bolton refused to budge. As the game wore on, frustration crept in. Leeds' tempo dropped, passes became impatient, and the clock ticked on with the score still locked at 0–0. It took a moment of pure brilliance to break the deadlock. In the 82nd minute, with the game dragging toward a draw, Leeds earned a throw-in deep on the left. Bale tossed it short to Modrić, who took a single touch to control and another to shimmy inside. No one closed him down quickly enough. With a glance up, he let fly from nearly 30 yards out. The ball swerved wickedly through the air, bending away from the keeper before snapping back toward the top-right corner. It clipped the underside of the bar, struck the netting, and bounced out again—but the referee immediately pointed to the center circle. Goal. 1–0, Leeds. Modrić didn't celebrate wildly. He just raised one fist and jogged calmly back toward midfield. But Arthur was pumping both fists on the touchline, roaring to the sky, knowing just how important that goal was. Bolton tried to rally in the final minutes, but Leeds managed the game professionally—bringing on fresh legs, closing down the spaces, and keeping the ball away from danger. When the whistle blew, the reaction said it all. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't dominant. But it was three points—and that's what mattered. With the League Cup no longer a concern, Leeds now had a full week to recover and prepare. And in that week, the squad found rhythm and unity. They were clicking now—midfielders knew where their teammates would be before receiving the ball, defenders trusted each other's positioning, and attackers were growing in confidence. The next three Premier League fixtures saw Leeds face Charlton, Aston Villa, and Tottenham Hotspur—a run that could easily trip up a title-chasing side. But Leeds handled it with maturity. They beat Charlton 2–0 with goals from Torres and Bale. Against Villa, it was a tight 1–1 draw at Villa Park, where Arthur admitted his side lacked energy late on. But they bounced back with a sharp 2–1 win over Spurs at Elland Road, where Ibrahimović finally found the net again after a brief dry spell. Meanwhile, in Europe, Leeds hosted PSV Eindhoven on the 23rd of November in their penultimate group stage match. Though already in a strong position, Arthur wanted to seal top spot with a game to spare. And that's exactly what they did. Leeds played with assurance and control, defeating Eindhoven 2–0 with goals from Podolski and De Bruyne, and officially secured first place in Group C—a huge achievement. By the end of November, something remarkable had happened. Quietly, without fanfare, Leeds United had climbed to third place in the Premier League table, now sitting on 27 points—with a game in hand. Only Manchester United (35) and Chelsea (32) were above them. From mid-table mediocrity a month ago to serious title contention, Arthur's side had defied expectations once again. The morning after their win over Spurs, headlines filled the sports sections across England: "UNSTOPPABLE: Leeds Climb Into Top Three!" "Chelsea, United... and Now Leeds? The Title Race Just Got Interesting." "Arthur's Men Go Unbeaten Since Round 8—Are They for Real?" "Arthur: 'Winning the League? Just a small goal.'" "The Devil's December Awaits—Arthur Says Team Is Ready for War." The tone had changed completely. The same reporters who once mocked Arthur's ambition were now singing his praises—at least for now. But he knew better than to believe all of it. This was England, after all. The press here could turn faster than a full-back chasing Ribéry. They'd kick you while you were down. And when you started winning? They'd pretend they believed in you all along. ***** Despite the flattering headlines and sudden media adoration, Arthur's days had become downright miserable. Ever since Leeds United's form exploded in November, his daily life had turned into a circus. From sunrise until late afternoon, a thick crowd of reporters gathered outside the entrance of Thorp Arch. Microphones, cameras, flashbulbs, and flying questions formed an obstacle course that Arthur had to navigate every single morning. "Arthur! Are you confident Leeds can challenge Manchester United now?" "What do you make of Chelsea's drop in form? Is this your moment?" "Any comment on your off-pitch life distracting the team?" He didn't bother answering. Hoodie up, head down, Arthur walked straight through the crowd as if they were ghosts. He had more important things to focus on. Training sessions. Match tactics. Squad dynamics. The kind of things that won games—not headlines. There was no time for distractions. Not now. Behind the scenes, the next phase of his vision was already underway. Since the start of November, Arthur had instructed Allen, the club's football operations chief, to begin contract renewal talks with key players. Leeds were flying high: third in the Premier League table, undefeated for weeks, and already into the Champions League knockout rounds. It was time to build on that momentum. And Arthur understood the most basic truth of football management—if you want to build something long-term, you start by securing the dressing room. Thankfully, most of the players didn't need much convincing. Arthur's leadership had earned him loyalty, and the club's newfound financial strength allowed him to back it up. Allen had been authorized to offer significantly improved contracts—salaries raised by two to three times in most cases—but tied to longer four-year deals. One by one, agents signed off. Modric, Bale, Alonso, even the younger lads. No drama. No delays. Then came Maicon. It was a foggy Tuesday morning when the matter landed on Arthur's desk—literally. He had just arrived at the training complex, still buttoning up his jacket, when Allen knocked on the door. Arthur glanced at the clock, then waved him in, expecting the usual update. "Boss," Allen said, shutting the door behind him, "we've got a problem with Maicon." Arthur paused mid-step. "What kind of problem?" he asked, turning to face him. "Someone sniffing around? Another club?" With the January transfer window looming, it was a fair suspicion. Leeds United's squad had become the envy of Europe, and scouts were circling like hawks. Even Rivaldo had reportedly received offers from abroad—one of them from a team in Asia, no less. Arthur had brought it up jokingly with Rivaldo, asking him if he fancied palm trees and karaoke. The veteran just laughed, saying he had no intention of leaving. He wanted to finish his career at Leeds, doing what he could for the team until his legs gave out. But Maicon? Arthur hadn't seen this coming. Allen shook his head. "I don't think it's about another club. Not from what I gathered talking to his agent, Antonio. No whispers of bids or approaches." Arthur narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "Then what is it?" Allen hesitated, then finally replied, "He wants a raise. A big one." Arthur rolled his shoulders and gave a half-smile. "So what? Didn't we agree all wages would at least double in the renewals? That's already generous." "That's what I told him," Allen said. "But Antonio wasn't talking about doubling. Or tripling." Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Then what?" "He wants five times his current salary." The room went quiet. Arthur, who had been heading for the door, stopped mid-stride. He turned slowly, giving Allen a look that mixed disbelief with a twinge of amusement. "Five times?" he echoed. Allen nodded solemnly. "Five. Times." Arthur blinked. "You sure he didn't say five drinks? Or five goals?" Allen didn't laugh. Arthur exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. "And he's serious?" "Dead serious. No room for negotiation yet. They've drawn that line right off the bat." Arthur didn't answer at first. He crossed over to the window and looked out at the training pitches. The squad was already out there warming up under the morning mist—sprinting, laughing, stretching. Maicon was there too, jogging with the others like nothing was amiss. Arthur's mind ticked. Losing Maicon wouldn't be the end of the world. But it'd be a headache. Sun Jihai was still recovering and wouldn't be match-fit until March, if then. And even if Arthur wanted to offload Maicon, finding a reliable replacement mid-season wouldn't be easy—not with such a specific role in his setup. He finally turned back toward Allen. "Do you think it's Maicon himself pushing for this, or his agent being greedy?" "Hard to say," Allen replied. "Maicon's not the type to make a fuss. But he hasn't pushed back on Antonio's demand either. So he's clearly onboard." Arthur grunted. "If I give him five times his salary, every player will be knocking on your door tomorrow asking the same." "That's what I was thinking too," Allen said. Arthur crossed his arms, then walked back to the doorway. He glanced at the clock again. "Well, I'm heading out to training. For now, stall them. Tell Antonio we'll review it after the next few fixtures." "And if he keeps pushing?" Arthur looked over his shoulder, smirking. "Then tell him Maicon's agent will be five times more unemployed."