Chapter 174: Against Chelsea-2

Torres wasn't the kind of striker you could just bump off the ball—not without risking your dental insurance—but even with his upper body strength and solid footwork, he still had to respect Ashley Cole's mastery of the dark arts of defending. As the ball dropped from the sky like a Christmas ornament from a shaky tree, Torres used his chest to control it while subtly backing into Cole. It was a textbook hold-up move. But Cole, one of the craftiest left-backs to ever lace up a pair of boots, wasn't having it. He crouched low, legs braced like a spring-loaded trap, and shoved his shoulder into Torres' spine with surgical precision—just enough to make the Spaniard uncomfortable, but not enough to catch the ref's eye. And then, just to sprinkle a little extra mischief on top, Cole gave the hem of Torres' jersey a sneaky tug. Just a little one. Just enough to say, "You're not going anywhere, mate." Torres tried a half-turn to see if he could shake him off. Nope. It was like trying to spin around in a straitjacket. If he forced the turn, he knew Cole would poke the ball away in a heartbeat, maybe even start a counter. So, with a frustrated grunt that sounded vaguely like someone trying to open a jammed jar of pickles, Torres laid the ball back to Yaya Touré. Now that was a man who didn't mind a bit of pressure. Touré was already gliding toward the scene like a freight train in silk slippers. He didn't break stride. He didn't look up. As the ball rolled to meet him, he calmly wound back his right foot and, with the elegance of someone passing a love letter, slotted a long, arcing diagonal pass across the pitch to the left wing. "Wow!" Lineker's voice jumped in through the commentary feed, clearly impressed. "That pass was a beauty! Toure didn't even stop to take a breath! One-touch vision right into the open space—Bale is waiting for it like it's Christmas morning!" Jon chuckled on the other mic. "Under Arthur's training, Touré's turned into an absolute beast of a midfielder. It's like giving a tank the passing vision of Andrea Pirlo. Strong, fast, and now he's threading passes like a tailor." Lineker kept going, swept up in admiration. "I mean, I'd kill to have a player like that in my squad. Honestly, if there's a club with a blank checkbook—" "Ahem," Jon interrupted quickly, knowing Lineker was about two sentences away from trying to sign him on air. "Yes, yes, Touré's development has been incredible. But that's also down to Arthur pushing him further forward this season, especially after bringing in Alonso to anchor the midfield." On the pitch, meanwhile, Bale was licking his lips. He'd seen the ball floating toward him, the spin perfect, the arc beautiful, like a Christmas gift sent from midfield heaven. He was already picturing himself cutting inside, blazing past defenders, maybe even whipping in a shot that made the highlight reels. But Gareth Bale, for all his blistering speed, didn't see the other figure storming in from the right. Paulo Ferreira had read the whole thing like a mystery novel with spoilers. The moment Touré wound up his pass, Ferreira took off. He knew what Arthur had in mind—Bale vs Ferreira, a race down the flank. The problem? Ferreira was usually slower in a straight line. But positioning and anticipation were his forte. And this time, it paid off. Just as the ball was about to land at Bale's feet, Ferreira leapt in front of him like a ghost in a horror movie, stuck out his right boot, and snatched it away. In one swift motion, he not only intercepted it but spun on the ball and took off the other way. Bale blinked. One second he was alone with the ball, the next he was chasing Ferreira's heels like a kid trying to catch the ice cream truck. "Whoa! Look at that!" Lineker yelled, practically standing. "Ferreira's read it perfectly! Bale's still recovering from whiplash!" Ferreira didn't stop to admire his work. He charged past the halfway line, passing the center circle, then released the ball forward with a quick inside pass to Shevchenko. Now Shevchenko had no time to dawdle. Lahm was breathing down his neck—like a terrier chasing a tennis ball—and the Ukrainian striker was forced to drift wide under pressure, steering the ball toward the left touchline to avoid being dispossessed. "Nice pressure from Lahm," Jon pointed out. "Forced Shevchenko into the wide area—but hold on, look at the far post!" Lineker didn't need to be told twice. "Robben and Drogba are making their runs! They're charging into the box like it's Black Friday at a furniture store! Leeds United need to be careful now!" Inside the penalty area, Drogba was already jostling with Cannavaro, and Robben was surging down the opposite flank, looking hungry. From the stands, the fans roared louder. Some were screaming encouragement. Others were yelling at defenders to wake up. Arthur stood near the technical area, eyes narrowed, coat half-unzipped as if he was about to roll up his sleeves. He could see the danger coming—a single misplaced clearance, and Chelsea would be on the scoreboard. His jaw tightened. This was exactly the kind of end-to-end chaos Mourinho thrived in. Rapid turnover, lightning-fast break, then overload the box. If Shevchenko could get the cross off, Leeds would be in trouble. **** The moment Shevchenko darted into the Leeds United penalty area with the ball glued to his foot like it was his long-lost child, the Elland Road crowd erupted—not with cheers, but with a cascade of boos so loud they could have shaken the fillings out of your molars. "BOOOOOOOO!" The Leeds faithful were trying to do their part, hoping their passionate heckling might rattle Chelsea's Ukrainian striker, but Shevchenko wasn't some rookie from the reserves. He was a veteran of Champions League wars, a man who had stared down the fiercest defenders in Europe without flinching. Even if his Premier League form had been more "meh" than menacing, his instincts were still razor-sharp. Spotting Lahm blocking the route inside, Shevchenko didn't waste a breath trying to cut in. Instead, he shifted into fifth gear and tore down the touchline like someone had just told him they were giving out free sports cars on the byline. "Don't let him cross!" Arthur shouted from the touchline, arms flailing like he was trying to wave down a helicopter. But it was too late. Shevchenko had already opened up half a meter of space—just enough for him to send in one of his signature low, venomous crosses. The ball zipped off his boot with the precision of a laser-guided missile, angling back toward the top of the six-yard box in a perfect inverted triangle. It was the kind of delivery strikers dream about. And one such dreamer was already on the move. Drogba. You could almost hear the cinematic music swelling as he surged forward. His frame was like a tank wrapped in a footballer's kit—broad shoulders, powerful legs, and a glare that could melt glaciers. Silva, the Brazilian center-back tasked with marking him, was hanging on like a guy trying to stop a freight train using nothing but shoelaces. "Drogba! It looks like Silva's getting overpowered!" Jon's voice practically cracked in excitement through the television broadcast. The two men collided in the box, Drogba muscling his way through as if Silva were just an inconveniently placed traffic cone. With one hand keeping Silva at bay and the other swinging freely, Drogba positioned himself perfectly in line with Shevchenko's pass. "Bang!" The sound of his shot echoed across the stadium like a starting pistol at the Olympics. Even Arthur, standing all the way on the sideline, could hear the explosive thud. Time slowed for a second. The ball streaked toward the near post like a heat-seeking rocket. Behind it, thousands of Leeds fans held their breath in synchronized terror. But there was one man standing in the way. Kasper Schmeichel. The Danish goalkeeper had already read Shevchenko's intentions before the ball had even left his boot. His eyes had locked on the pass trajectory, his gloves already twitching with anticipation. By the time Drogba's shot came screaming toward him, Kasper was already mid-dive. He didn't catch the ball. He punched it. No, scratch that—he obliterated it with a full-blooded Superman punch, fists clenched like Thor swinging his hammer. The ball ricocheted off his glove and out behind the goal line, soaring into the stands like a wayward meteor. Chelsea had a corner, but Leeds still had their clean sheet. Gasps filled the air, followed by a chorus of relieved cheers. On the pitch, Drogba clutched his head in disbelief, eyes wide as if someone had just told him his favorite bakery had gone out of business. Schmeichel, meanwhile, got to his feet calmly, gave his right fist a discreet flex like he was checking for damage, and stared at Drogba like he was trying to figure out what species he was. "Damn monster," he muttered under his breath. Back in the broadcast booth, Jon let out a groan of disappointment. "Oh, what a shame for Drogba! That was a thundering shot aimed perfectly at the near post, but Schmeichel... he's just too good!" "Fantastic positioning," Lineker chimed in with a nod, "and that reaction speed—look at that replay! He'd already moved before Drogba even made contact. That's what separates great keepers from the rest. Leeds United owes him a thank-you card after that save." "Robben stepping up for the corner now," Jon continued. But the moment Robben's left foot whipped the ball into the box, Schmeichel soared through the air once again. With both hands extended, he plucked the ball out of the sky like he was picking apples in the garden. There were Chelsea players still trying to get off the ground by the time Kasper had already thrown the ball out to start the next counterattack. It was that kind of moment that made Leeds fans remember why Arthur had never once wavered on his starting goalkeeper. As the players jogged back into position, Lineker took the chance to talk tactics. "Jon, you were spot-on earlier. In just the opening minutes, you can already see how both coaches have planned to attack down the wings. Mourinho's got Shevchenko and Robben trying to stretch Leeds wide, hoping to find space for Drogba. And Arthur? He's countering by having his midfielders collapse toward the flanks, using Mascherano and Alonso to double-team anyone daring to cross." "Exactly," Jon agreed. "And now that both teams have made their intentions clear, it's going to be a matter of who can execute better over 90 minutes. Will Leeds be able to exploit Chelsea's slightly aging fullbacks? Or will Mourinho's bet on Robben and Shevchenko finally pay off?" Arthur, standing on the sideline with his arms crossed, wasn't thinking about that. Not yet. He was busy shouting at Lahm for getting burned by Shevchenko. "Philipp! What are you doing out there, sightseeing?! He's not your pen pal! Stay on him like glue! Super glue, even!" Lahm, who was jogging back into position with a look of sheepish guilt, gave a thumbs-up. Whether it was sarcastic or sincere, only he knew. Meanwhile, Drogba was still shaking his head as if trying to comprehend how Schmeichel had stopped that rocket. Robben jogged over and slapped him lightly on the back. "You'll get the next one," he muttered. Drogba said nothing. He just stared down the field, eyes narrowing. This game was only a few minutes gone, and it already felt like a heavyweight boxing match. Punches thrown, none landed—yet. And with Arthur barking like a drill sergeant from one bench and Mourinho silently brooding on the other, one thing was clear: This Christmas Eve clash wasn't going to be festive. It was going to be war.