Chapter 164: Sneijder in trouble?

With the final whistle still echoing in the chilly December air, Elland Road was a cauldron of celebration. Leeds United's gritty win over Arsenal had brought them level with Chelsea on 39 points, but with a better goal difference, Arthur's men leapfrogged into second place. Only five points now separated them from Manchester United, who sat comfortably at the top of the Premier League table. For Arthur, the victory wasn't just three points—it was a message. Leeds weren't just hanging on this season; they were in the fight. And as the campaign approached its halfway mark, the league table began to take a sharp, unmistakable shape. Manchester United, guided by the seasoned hand of Sir Alex Ferguson, had hit a rhythm that reminded everyone of their glory days. With 17 wins, two draws, and only one loss, they were tearing through opponents with a side that had finally gelled after years of tactical reshuffling. Meanwhile, Chelsea and Leeds were now locked in a dead heat, both sitting on 39 points, but Arthur's men had scored more and conceded less. Arsenal, ten points behind, looked out of the title picture for now, and Liverpool were still trying to find consistency, though they lurked only a point behind the Gunners. Everyone watching the Premier League knew what the top three teams were capable of. But football is never predictable. Only two days after the bruising encounter against Arsenal, the next round of matches rolled in. The Premier League, relentless as ever, offered no rest and no mercy. Liverpool were the first to strike. They traveled to Charlton and dismantled them 3-0 with clinical ease. Goals from Kuyt, Gerrard, and Crouch saw them leapfrog Arsenal and claim fourth place. At the same time, Arsenal, still nursing their wounds, stumbled again—this time held to a frustrating 1-1 draw at home by Portsmouth. Wenger looked livid on the sidelines as chance after chance was squandered, and his team looked out of rhythm. But the real shock came at Elland Road. Leeds United, fresh off their emotional win, hosted Sheffield United. On paper, it should've been a comfortable three points. In reality, it was anything but. Arthur knew from the moment his players walked out for warmups that something was off. The energy wasn't there. The sharpness in the passes, the urgency in their movement—missing. He had given Zlatan a rest and rotated the squad as carefully as he could, but the truth was, the players were tired. Tired physically. Tired mentally. And Sheffield United were the kind of team that fed off such moments. They didn't come to play football. They came to dig in. For ninety minutes, Sheffield United sat deep, closing every passing lane, doubling up on wingers, and frustrating every attempt Leeds made to carve them open. Podolski fired wide twice. Torres hit the bar once. Even a last-gasp scramble in the box was somehow cleared off the line. Arthur had accepted by the 85th minute that this might end goalless. It wouldn't be ideal, but at least it was a point. Then came the dagger. In the second minute of stoppage time, Leeds were caught flat after a sloppy corner. Sheffield broke out with a rare counterattack. A long ball was floated over the top, and one of their forwards chased it with nothing but green in front of him. Kompany, the last man back, raced into position and threw himself into a block. The shot never came. Instead, the ball ricocheted off a knee, hit Kompany's arm on the way down, and the referee pointed to the spot. Worse still, he reached into his pocket and flashed a red card. Arthur's stomach dropped. The penalty was coolly converted. Leeds 0, Sheffield United 1. Full-time. The winning streak was over. Arthur didn't speak to the players right away. He just stood in the tunnel for a while, hands in his coat pockets, letting the cold bite through him. There were losses in football, and then there were nights like this—when your team didn't even play badly, but the schedule, the fatigue, and a cruel bounce of the ball stole it from you. The dressing room was silent. No rants. No lectures. Just the sound of boots being unstrapped and tape being ripped off sore ankles. The defeat wasn't what stung the most. It was the fallout. Kompany's red card meant he'd miss the next match—a direct showdown with Chelsea. One of the biggest matches of the season, and Arthur would be without his best center-back. But not all was lost. When he returned to his office that night, Arthur stared at the fixture list pinned to the corkboard above his desk. There it was: a full week before their next match. Seven full days without a game. A rare gift. Without hesitation, he made his decision. The next morning, Arthur stood in front of the squad, arms folded, face serious. The players braced for a scolding. Instead, he smiled. "You've got three days off," he said. A ripple of disbelief swept through the room. "Go rest. Sleep. Do whatever you need to recharge. Because after this, we've got Chelsea." He paused, then added, "And I want them to meet the real Leeds United." **** The surprising home defeat to Sheffield United may have cost Leeds United three points, but it also handed the media a golden opportunity to pile on the pressure—and none seized it more eagerly than Charles Walters. Charles, a longtime columnist for the Manchester Evening News, had been waiting for a chance to take another swing at Arthur. After all, his last attempt to stir up controversy during the Maicon affair had backfired spectacularly. This time, though, with Leeds stumbling unexpectedly at Elland Road, he wasted no time. The very next morning, his column was plastered across the sports section under a bold, inflammatory headline: "Arthur's Arrogance Finally Meets Reality". In the article, Charles didn't hold back: "As I've written before, Arthur is a manager with ambition—but ambition without pedigree can be dangerous. Let's not forget that when Mourinho came to England three years ago, he brought with him a Champions League trophy and a proven track record. Arthur? He won a League Cup and got Leeds back into the Premier League. That's it. And yet here he is, claiming Leeds United are title contenders, brushing shoulders with the likes of Sir Alex Ferguson and Mourinho, as if he belongs. Yesterday's loss to Sheffield United—at home, no less—was not just a fluke. It was a warning. A reality check. A team with real title ambitions doesn't collapse like that, not when they're supposedly in the hunt for a championship. And Arthur's reaction on the touchline? Silent. Still. No instructions. No urgency. Maybe he knew deep down what the rest of us have been saying all along: Leeds United have hit their ceiling. Their momentum is gone, and now they face Chelsea and Manchester United in back-to-back matches. I, for one, can't wait to see Arthur's smug smile replaced with the cold glare of defeat. Watch this space." The moment the paper hit desks, phones buzzed. Social media lit up. Pundits started picking sides. Some agreed with Charles. Others slammed him for overreacting. But no one ignored it. The pressure on Arthur had suddenly grown tenfold. At Leeds' training facility, the article sparked an entirely different reaction. Alan, the club's general manager and Arthur's close ally, barged into Arthur's office like a storm cloud. He was clutching the newspaper so tightly that the pages crumpled at the edges. "Boss!" Alan barked, slapping the paper down on Arthur's desk. "This guy has gone too far this time. Just look at this nonsense. He's calling you arrogant, delusional—saying we don't belong near the top of the table!" Arthur, who had been calmly watching footage of Chelsea's recent matches, didn't even flinch. His eyes flicked from the monitor to the paper, then to Alan. He leaned back in his chair and gave a small, amused snort. "Charles Walters again, huh?" he said, voice as steady as ever. "This guy never gives up." "He's begging for attention. I'm serious," Alan snapped. "Let me handle it. I'll find someone—quietly. He'll think twice before running his mouth again." Arthur raised a hand, cutting him off with a smirk. "You're the general manager of a Premier League club," he said calmly. "You're not some thug from a mob movie. You go chasing after journalists with fists, and you'll be the one making headlines. And not the good kind." Alan opened his mouth to argue, but Arthur was already shaking his head. "Let him talk," Arthur continued. "He's doing his job—stirring up controversy, selling papers. But we have a bigger job. Let the results speak for us." Alan exhaled through his nose, visibly trying to rein in his anger. "Still," he muttered, "he said you're going to get crushed by Chelsea and United. Like we've already lost." Arthur chuckled and leaned forward, eyes glinting with fire now. "Good," he said. "Let him think that. Let everyone think that. The only thing better than proving someone wrong is doing it while they're watching." That got a grin out of Alan at last. He crumpled the paper into a ball and lobbed it into the trash can like a basketball shot. It landed with a satisfying thud. "Treat it like a dog barking at the gate," Arthur said, standing up and stretching. "Loud, annoying, but harmless." Alan nodded. "Still," he added, with a grin, "I hope we thrash Chelsea so hard that Charles has to write a public apology—daily—for a month." Arthur laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Now that's something I'd hang on my wall." As Alan left the office, finally relaxed, Arthur turned back to the monitor. The footage of Chelsea's build-up play resumed. He watched their midfield triangle shift, their full-backs surge forward, and their striker peel off defenders. There was no denying it—Chelsea would be tough. But Arthur's smile didn't fade. He knew his team. He knew what they'd been through. And he knew what they were about to do. **** Arthur was still watching Chelsea's game footage when Alan barged back into his office—this time, a lot calmer than earlier when he'd nearly gone nuclear over Charles Walters' hit piece in the Manchester Evening News. Arthur didn't even glance away from the monitor, where Chelsea's midfield trio were weaving together another slick attack. "Boss," Alan said, "before I got distracted by that idiot Charles, there's something more important. Real Madrid just sent another email." That made Arthur pause. His eyes finally flicked toward Alan, who had a familiar glint in his eye—the one he always had when transfer news was brewing. "They've upped their bid for Maicon," Alan continued. "Calderon wants to offer twelve million euros plus Wesley." Arthur leaned back slowly in his chair, his expression shifting from mild curiosity to something sharper. "Wesley?" he repeated, eyebrows raised. "As in Wesley Sneijder?" "The very one," Alan nodded, then pulled out a folded printout of the email and placed it on Arthur's desk. Arthur reached for it but didn't read. He frowned instead, staring at the table for a moment. "I haven't really been following La Liga lately," he muttered. "Has Sneijder not been playing well?" Alan let out a heavy sigh and leaned against the desk. "Not well is putting it kindly," he said, shaking his head with a hint of regret. "He tore his cruciate ligament in a pre-season match back in August. Spent over two months in rehab. And you know how Capello is—he doesn't wait around." Arthur nodded slowly. "So he lost his spot." "Completely," Alan confirmed. "Since recovering, he's only come on as a sub three times. All late, all meaningless minutes. He's basically just been warming the bench. From what I've gathered, Capello's moved on—and Calderon's probably trying to offload him quietly before the press catches on." Arthur ran his hand down his face, then laced his fingers together in front of his chin. "Funny," he said. "I thought Calderon was the one who pushed for Wesley in the first place." "He was," Alan confirmed, "but politics over there is messy. With Florentino breathing down his neck and the pressure to rebuild, Sneijder's just become... dispensable." There was a moment of silence between the two of them. The only sound came from the video footage still running quietly in the background. Chelsea were finishing another fluid attacking move, and Arthur watched as their left back overlapped with surgical precision. But he wasn't thinking about Chelsea anymore. He was thinking about Sneijder. Arthur remembered when Wesley Sneijder was still a part of Leeds United. Back then, the club had been clawing its way back from the wilderness, and Sneijder had been one of the few sparks of brilliance in an otherwise ragged squad. He wasn't flashy, not in the way Ribery or Ibrahimovic were—but he was consistent, technically gifted, and sharp-minded. He was, quite simply, the engine that had helped Leeds rediscover itself. "He helped us get back to the Premier League," Alan said quietly, as if reading Arthur's mind. "I don't like seeing him thrown away like this." Arthur nodded. "Neither do I." Then he shook his head, snapping out of his thoughts. "But sentiment doesn't win you titles," he said, more to himself than to Alan. "Letting Maicon go for twelve million and a midfielder who hasn't played properly in six months? That's not business. That's charity." Alan sighed and nodded. "Figured you'd say that." Arthur sat up straighter and looked Alan in the eye. "Tell Calderon no," he said firmly. "And be clear this time. I wasn't bluffing on the phone. If they want to talk about Maicon, it starts at thirty-five million euros. Not a euro less." Alan cracked a small grin. "Understood. Want me to throw in a reminder that Maicon's being watched by half the top clubs in Europe right now?" Arthur smirked. "You don't have to. They already know it." As Alan gathered the email printout and turned to leave, Arthur called after him. "Oh—and Alan?" "Yeah, boss?" "If Sneijder's really on his way out," Arthur said slowly, "and if he gets back to full fitness... keep an eye on him. He might not be part of the Maicon deal, but there's always room here for a player with something to prove." Alan gave a small nod of approval. "Will do. I'll start making a few calls." The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Arthur alone with the Chelsea footage again. But now, he wasn't thinking about Chelsea at all. He was thinking about something else—something more familiar. Something like unfinished business.