Chapter 177: Against Chelsea-5

Inside the Chelsea dressing room, the mood was anything but cheerful. The players filed in, damp with sweat and frustration, their boots thudding against the tile floor. The first man already inside? José Mourinho—standing in front of the whiteboard like a storm about to burst. He wasn't yelling. Not yet. But the sharp screech of the marker against the board as he drew two bold arrows down the flanks felt louder than shouting. By the time the last Chelsea player sat down, Mourinho had turned to face them. Wordlessly, he strode over to the door and, with a loud thunk, closed it himself. The room fell still. Back at the center, he pointed toward the whiteboard with the intensity of a general staring at a war map. His eyes zeroed in on one man: Shevchenko. "Andre," Mourinho said in a low, cold tone that seemed to make the air drop ten degrees, "did you not hear the tactical instructions I gave before the match? Should I repeat them for you?" Shevchenko, who had been catching his breath in silence, suddenly looked up, his face somewhere between surprised and offended. There was a flicker of disbelief in his eyes—Me? He couldn't understand it. Hadn't he put in a decent shift? Hadn't he passed the ball around and helped build the attack? Sure, he hadn't squared it to Drogba during that breakaway—but he had made some dangerous runs. And it wasn't hisfault that Leeds scored off a long ball, right? What about the high defensive line? Shouldn't someone else take the blame? He opened his mouth, just a little, about to argue. But Mourinho wasn't finished. "This—" Mourinho slammed the butt of his marker against the board for emphasis—"is the data from the first 45 minutes. Silvino compiled it. Our most effective plays came from the left. Seventy percent success rate down that wing!" He jabbed the left arrow furiously. "Leeds' right-back may as well be a mannequin in a kit. Honestly, if I put Cudicini out there as a left winger, I'm convinced even he could beat that defender." There was a long pause. No one dared laugh. Shevchenko's jaw tensed. "Overall," Mourinho said, exhaling sharply, "most of you followed the plan. That goal was unfortunate. But we're not done here. We've still got forty-five minutes to win this game." His tone softened slightly—until his eyes landed on Shevchenko again. "But let me be absolutely clear. If anyone—and I mean anyone—deviates from my tactical instructions again in the second half, then I will have no choice but to look to the bench. There are plenty of players out there hungry for minutes." The message couldn't be more obvious. Play my way—or don't play at all. Meanwhile, the energy inside Leeds United's dressing room couldn't have been more different. While not overly relaxed, the squad carried a sense of momentum. A one-goal lead against Chelsea was something to be proud of—especially after weathering that early storm. Arthur, the manager of Leeds, wasn't about to let that pride turn into arrogance, though. He stood tall at the front of the room, clapping his hands once to bring the players' attention back. "Good work, lads. That's a solid first half," Arthur said, his tone calm but firm. "But I don't want a single one of you thinking this is over." He turned to the tactics board and tapped a spot near their penalty area. "Chelsea are like bloody sharks. You show one drop of blood, and they'll tear you to pieces. One mistake. One loose ball. That's all it takes." Then, moving away from the board, Arthur walked toward Danny Mills, who was sitting with his back pressed against the bench, wiping his forehead with a towel. The right-back looked utterly drained, shoulders heaving. Arthur knelt beside him and placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "How're you holding up, Danny?" he asked, keeping his voice low. Mills managed a crooked smile, though his face was still red from the first half's punishment. "Boss, if they send Robben at me one more time, I might just fall over and roll off the pitch." Arthur chuckled, but Mills shook his head seriously. "No joke, I've probably got ten minutes left in these legs. Tops." Arthur was quiet for a moment, nodding. "Right. We might get you through a little longer, maybe—" "Forget it, boss," Mills interrupted, waving a hand like a tired uncle brushing off a family barbecue. "You saw it out there. I was practically telling Robben, 'Come on through, mate, help yourself.' If it wasn't for Javier and Fabio covering me, I'd have been eaten alive." Arthur burst out laughing. "You old bugger." Mills smirked. "You're lucky I'm not forty yet, or I'd be demanding a testimonial after this one." Still chuckling, Arthur stood up and turned to the door, where Simeone was leaning casually, arms crossed. "Diego," Arthur said, "go let Frank know he's coming on. We're switching to 3-5-2 for the second half." Simeone gave a sharp nod and disappeared. Arthur clapped his hands again and turned back to the squad. "Alright, listen up. We're changing shape. I want you to hold your ground. No risks. Play it smart. Get the ball out wide, and if Gareth gets another chance like the first, we finish this game." He pointed toward the squad, one by one. "No heroics. No panic. Stick to the plan. We're halfway there." A few players nodded. Torres stretched his calves. Mascherano took a swig from his bottle. Ibrahimovic, half-reclining like a Roman emperor, just muttered, "I'll make it 2–0 if they let me." Arthur grinned. "Zlatan, if you could do that without getting sent off, I'd be forever grateful." Everyone laughed—just enough to loosen the tension in the room. As the final minutes of the break ticked down, Arthur gathered his notes and walked toward the tunnel. The roars of the Elland Road crowd echoed in the distance. One more half to go. **** "Alright folks, the 15-minute halftime break is over in a flash, and the players from both sides have returned to the pitch," Lineker announced with renewed energy, the Sky Sports commentary team now back on air as the cameras swept across the stadium. Elland Road was buzzing with anticipation again, and the camera quickly panned across both teams as they lined up. Jon, sitting next to Lineker, leaned in closer to the mic, ready to weigh in. "It looks like Mourinho is sticking to his original eleven. No halftime changes for Chelsea," Lineker observed, a touch of surprise in his voice. "But Leeds United—there's been a switch! Ribéry is on, replacing right-back Mills, and it looks like Arthur has changed the formation to a 3-5-2!" Lineker blinked in mild disbelief, squinting at the positioning on the pitch. "And... wait a second—Lahm's playing as a left centre-back now!? That's not something you see every day." Jon gave an exaggerated eye-roll and jumped in with a chuckle. "How do I see it? I see it with my eyes, mate! It's pretty clear: Mills couldn't survive much longer against the Robben-Drogba combo. Arthur's just playing it smart. Ribéry is coming in to match Robben's speed, and Cannavaro's there to keep Drogba in check." Mourinho, standing on the touchline with arms crossed, gave a quick side-eye to the Leeds United bench. His expression twisted in frustration. "This sneaky devil..." he muttered under his breath, watching Arthur chatting casually with his assistant Simeone. "I thought he'd park the bus in the second half, but not this soon! If Mills stayed on, that whole flank was ours." Now, with the 3-5-2 looking more like a fortified wall of five defenders, Mourinho's plan to break through on the right suddenly looked a lot more complicated. And sure enough, once the second half kicked off, Arthur's new defensive setup started showing its teeth. Leeds United retreated into a compact shape. Every single player, including Ibrahimović and Torres, pulled back past the halfway line. The home side was clearly switching from offensive flair to sturdy discipline. Chelsea, unsurprisingly, started pushing again through Robben down the right. It had worked wonders in the first half. Why not try it again? But something was different this time. Just minutes into the half, Robben took the ball near the sideline, and with his usual burst of pace, tried to zip past the fresh-legged Ribéry. He knocked the ball ahead, expecting to fly by and leave his opponent in the dust. Except—he didn't. Instead of getting beat, Ribéry stayed neck-and-neck with him. Not only that, he leaned in just enough to edge Robben off balance. The Dutch winger stumbled slightly, tried to recover, but by then, the ball had trickled harmlessly out of play. "Wait, what!?" Mourinho blurted, flinging his arms in disbelief. "That's not how this is supposed to go!" Jon's laughter echoed through the commentary box. "Oh, Robben's not going to like that! Ribéry just outpaced him AND outmuscled him." Lineker smirked. "I don't think Robben expected to be stonewalled like that. Ribéry might look like a winger, but he's got thighs like tree trunks. That was a brick wall with pace." Frustrated by this sudden resistance, Mourinho decided it was time to shake things up. He spotted a throw-in opportunity and waved Lampard over to the technical area. He pulled him in close and started gesturing furiously. "Frank, listen carefully," he said in a hushed but intense tone. "Enough of the wings. Forget Robben. Go central. I want more short passes. Get behind Alonso and Mascherano. They're slower on the turn." Lampard nodded sharply, jogged back on, and relayed the new instructions. And just like that, Chelsea's game plan shifted. Instead of the lightning runs from the flanks, Chelsea started funneling their attacks through the middle. Essien, Makelele, and Lampard tried quick one-twos in tight spaces. They probed, tried to draw out Leeds United's midfielders, and looked for that tiny gap behind Alonso or Mascherano. Problem was... Leeds weren't biting. Arthur's midfield trio held their line like seasoned veterans. Mascherano was snapping at ankles. Alonso was orchestrating passing patterns like a conductor with a metronome. Even Frank Lampard found it hard to get free in the final third. "Chelsea's midfield is built like tanks," Lineker admitted. "But when it comes to control and rhythm, Alonso's running the show. He's dictating the tempo like it's his backyard." "Yeah," Jon agreed, tapping the desk lightly. "The tug-of-war in midfield is heating up again. Feels a lot like the first half before Bale's goal—neither side giving an inch." And that's exactly what the fans saw. Every Chelsea attack was met with a Leeds United interception. Every Leeds clearance was chased down by Chelsea midfielders. It was like a heavyweight bout in the middle third, full of sweat, grit, and fancy footwork. Arthur, arms crossed on the sideline, watched it all quietly. His eyes scanned the movement patterns, his brain already whirring with possible tweaks. On the other side, Mourinho paced furiously, his coat flapping with each step. Every time Robben got stuck or Drogba got crowded out by Cannavaro, the Portuguese manager clenched his jaw tighter. And so, the deadlock continued. Tactically locked. Midfield chaos. Energy high. Fans biting their nails. The only thing everyone knew for sure? Something had to give. And soon.