Chapter 165: The Turning Tide

Arthur didn't expect Real Madrid to suddenly toss Wesley Sneijder into the deal. It was a surprising twist—one that caught even him off guard. Sneijder was no small chip. A gifted midfielder with vision and flair, he wasn't the kind of player Real Madrid would part with easily unless they had a larger plan. Still, Arthur wasn't rattled. If anything, it only confirmed what he already knew: Calderon was feeling the pressure. Real Madrid really wanted Maicon. That meant Arthur had the upper hand. With just under two weeks until the winter transfer window opened, Arthur wasn't about to rush. There was plenty of time to work the negotiation, push Madrid to dig deeper into their pockets, and—if all went well—walk away with more than just a fee. He wanted a statement. And if he could squeeze both cash and a quality player like Sneijder out of the deal? Even better. But before any more calls or transfer talk, his focus had to return to where it mattered most: the Premier League. The holiday schedule was brutal—games came thick and fast, recovery time was short, and even the strongest squads could be brought to their knees by fatigue. Surviving Christmas without dropping points was often what separated champions from everyone else. After leaving the training ground, Arthur had made plans to meet up with Julian Anderson, who had just arrived in Leeds earlier that day. They went to a cozy Italian place just off the city centre, far from the usual football fan spots. Nothing too flashy—just a quiet meal where Arthur could decompress. Julian, despite his youthful energy, had grown into a decent companion. As the son of Marcus Anderson—one of Leeds United's major backers—Julian technically owned a significant slice of the club. But he wasn't arrogant about it. In fact, he talked more like a fan than a stakeholder. "Listen," Julian said between bites of pasta, "I know you probably don't want the pressure, but I'm staying. No chance I'm missing you smashing Mourinho this weekend. I want front-row seats for that show." Arthur gave him a sideways glance. "You know we just lost to Sheffield, right?" "Exactly why I'm staying. Redemption arc!" Arthur laughed, shaking his head. "Fine. But no interfering, and no micromanaging. You're just a fan until the final whistle." "Scout's honor," Julian grinned, raising a hand solemnly. "I'll even sleep on the couch if I have to." So Arthur brought him back home. Later that night, with Julian tucked away in the guest room scrolling through TikTok, Arthur sat in the living room with two TVs on, his tactical board laid out across the coffee table like a chessboard. One screen was tuned to Manchester United's away game against West Ham; the other was showing Chelsea vs Everton. This wasn't just casual viewing. Arthur was hunting for clues. Both United and Chelsea had away fixtures tonight, and he wanted to see if fatigue might catch up with them too. After all, his Leeds squad had just dropped three points at home—he could only hope the football gods were planning something symmetrical. At 7:30 p.m. sharp, both games kicked off. Arthur leaned back, pen in hand, jotting observations on a pad by his leg. And almost immediately, things got interesting. Chelsea were up against a well-organized Everton side at Goodison Park, and the hosts weren't giving an inch. Midfield pressure was tight, and every Chelsea move was met with grit and resistance. The game felt cagey, full of tension but little rhythm. Across on the other screen, Manchester United were under siege. West Ham, surprisingly aggressive, pressed high and pushed deep into United's half. For the first half-hour, it looked like Sir Alex Ferguson's squad couldn't get out of second gear. Ronaldo barely saw the ball. Rooney and Giggs were isolated. Arthur leaned forward. "This... this could be it," he muttered to himself, hopeful. But then came the twist—and not the one he was hoping for. In the 37th minute, over at Goodison Park, Everton earned a free kick in a dangerous spot just outside the box. Mikel Arteta stepped up. Arthur narrowed his eyes. He liked Arteta—always had a good technique. Arteta curved a wicked shot around the wall. Cech dove, but he couldn't get near it. "Boom. One-nil," Arthur muttered, almost in disbelief. "Come on!" He leaned back on the couch and grinned. Maybe fate was in a balancing mood after all. By halftime, Chelsea were trailing 1–0. United, meanwhile, were still holding on to a goalless draw, but they didn't look any closer to breaking through. Fifteen minutes later, the second halves began—and Arthur immediately noticed a change in tempo. United came out sharper. It was clear Ferguson had used the break to light a fire under his players. Ronaldo started tracking back more, Giggs widened his runs, and Carrick anchored the midfield with more authority. But West Ham refused to roll over. They kept pressing, kept swarming whoever had the ball. As soon as a red shirt tried to advance, two, sometimes three defenders collapsed on them. The tackles were aggressive, the challenges rough, and the midfield battle looked like a war zone. Arthur chuckled. "They're not playing football—they're hunting." Despite United's renewed spirit, they just couldn't string together enough quality in the final third. One minute Ronaldo would break free only to be muscled off the ball. The next, Rooney would be caught between two defenders with nowhere to go. West Ham's backline, led by Anton Ferdinand and Matthew Upson, was holding firm. Arthur loved what he was seeing. Not just because it gave Leeds an opening, but because it showed how fragile even the big guns could be under pressure. On the Chelsea side, things were getting desperate. Mourinho made a double substitution around the 60th minute, bringing on Joe Cole and Kalou in an attempt to stretch Everton's backline. And while it did open up space, it also left Chelsea vulnerable at the back. In the 73rd minute, Everton broke away. A long ball over the top found Yakubu in a foot race with Ricardo Carvalho. Yakubu won, cut inside, and fired—Cech got a hand to it, but the ball trickled over the line. 2–0. Goodison Park exploded. And Arthur couldn't believe his luck. Back at Upton Park, the fight continued, but Manchester United still hadn't found their way through. Ronaldo had one decent free-kick saved. Scholes came close with a volley from the edge of the box, but Robert Green tipped it wide. With ten minutes left on the clock in both games, Arthur sat back, arms folded, watching it all unfold. Maybe, just maybe, the Christmas schedule wasn't punishing Leeds alone. He checked the scoreboard again. Chelsea—down 0–2. United—still 0–0. It wasn't over yet. But things were looking up. And somewhere deep down, Arthur knew: the real battle was just getting started. **** Arthur sat forward on the couch, eyes glinting with new inspiration. He watched as West Ham swarmed Manchester United with relentless aggression, not reckless, but purposeful—sharp tackles, heavy pressure, physical duels at every turn. The referees weren't stopping play for every bump. It was classic Premier League stuff. Rough, raw, and fair—by English standards, at least. "Interesting..." Arthur murmured, rubbing his chin slowly, as if sketching something invisible in the air. Julian, curled up under a blanket on the opposite sofa with a bottle of ginger beer, glanced over. "You're plotting something, aren't you?" Arthur gave a faint smile. "Maybe. United like space. They thrive on rhythm. Kill that rhythm, crowd their stars, make every possession a battle, and they struggle." "Like now?" Julian gestured to the screen. Right on cue, in the 75th minute, United's midfield was caught out by a quick turnover. West Ham's Jack Cork, who'd quietly bossed the game without fanfare, broke through with a neat one-two and slotted a low shot past Van der Sar. The crowd at Upton Park erupted as the ball nestled into the bottom corner. Arthur pumped his fist lightly. "Boom. That's what I'm talking about." The upset was complete. West Ham held on for a 1–0 win, knocking down the league leaders and blowing the title race wide open. United looked rattled, even Sir Alex's jaw was clenched tighter than usual. It was a rare sight. But across the city, Goodison Park was hosting a different kind of chaos. Chelsea, trailing 1–0 to Everton, had looked flat. Arthur switched screens, just in time to catch Michael Essien thunder a shot into the net to make it 1–1 early in the second half. But the joy didn't last long—Everton answered almost immediately with another blistering move down the wing, finishing off a lovely cross to take the lead again. Arthur leaned back, resting his hands behind his head. "Now that's what I like. No easy wins." The game turned scrappy, a tug-of-war in midfield with both sides throwing themselves into every duel. Twenty long minutes passed. Chelsea tried crossing, chipping, shooting from distance—but Everton's backline, organized and stubborn, refused to budge. Julian glanced up. "They've got 'em. Chelsea's done." Arthur didn't reply. He never counted Mourinho out, not until the final whistle. Especially not with Drogba still on the pitch. And just like that, the Beast delivered. In the 80th minute, Drogba dropped deep to collect the ball and laid it off to Lampard at the edge of the box. Despite pressure from two defenders, Lampard fired through traffic and into the corner. 2–2. Arthur sighed. "Should've known. These two always pull something." Five minutes later, Chelsea struck again. Lampard, operating like a chess grandmaster in the middle of the park, threaded a pinpoint through ball between two Everton defenders. Drogba burst through the gap like a freight train. He didn't panic. One touch, then a calm push past the keeper into the net. 3–2, Chelsea. As Drogba dropped to his knees and slid along the damp turf in celebration, Arthur stood up and walked closer to the screen, narrowing his eyes. He crouched slightly. "What are you doing?" Julian asked, baffled. Arthur pointed. "Just checking... see if there really are three trench lines left in the grass where Drogba slid." Julian burst out laughing. "You're ridiculous." But Arthur didn't smile. His brain was moving again, gears clicking into place. Because while Chelsea's comeback had stung, it wasn't a death sentence. Far from it. In fact, the results across the league that day opened doors. Chelsea had managed to pull off a dramatic win, overtaking Leeds United again by three points. They now sat second, just two behind United. But here's the catch—they were Leeds' next opponents. At Elland Road. And Arthur knew his squad would be rested, focused, and ready to strike. A win would pull Leeds level with Chelsea again, wiping out the gap in a single blow. And United? With their defeat to West Ham, their once-comfortable cushion was starting to crumble. Arthur ran the numbers in his head. The gap between Leeds and United was still five points. But if Leeds could win both of their next two games—Chelsea and then the following one against a mid-table side—they'd have a chance to go top of the table, even if just on goal difference. It wasn't far-fetched. It was there, within reach. Arthur turned toward the TV again, where Mourinho was giving his post-match interview with that smug, satisfied smile he always wore after dramatic victories. Next to him, Sir Alex was seen pacing in the tunnel, jaw tight, hands clenched. Two managers with very different moods. Arthur, however, remained still. He crossed his arms, narrowed his eyes, and rubbed his chin again, deep in thought. Strategies, player rotations, training adjustments, counterattacks—everything started racing through his mind. Julian glanced over. "What are you thinking now?" Arthur blinked once, still staring at the screen. "I'm thinking... it's not over." "Over?" "No," Arthur said softly. "This title race. It's just beginning." And with that, he turned off the TV and walked back toward his whiteboard, ready to sketch out his next move. Because Chelsea were coming. And Arthur? He was ready.