Chapter 187: Mourinho's Plan

Arthur stood on the sidelines with his arms crossed, quietly observing the stadium around him. The final whistle had just blown, and while the Portsmouth fans shuffled out grumbling and muttering about dodgy refs and "what could've been," the Leeds United bench was already buzzing with high-fives and back slaps. Arthur didn't join the celebration. Not because he wasn't pleased—on the contrary, he was quite satisfied with what he'd seen—but because he knew better than to get too excited over early signs. The job wasn't done yet, not even close. Still, for a day's work, he had to admit... it wasn't half bad. Three goals, all beautifully crafted. His new recruits—Reus, Sneijder, Alves—had not only debuted but made headlines. And while there were moments of hesitation, of slight miscommunication between the new lads and the old guard, it wasn't anything that couldn't be polished with a few more sessions on the training ground. "The chemistry's not perfect yet," Arthur muttered to himself as he adjusted his jacket collar against the breeze, "but we're getting there." The only true blemish on the day came near the very end. With just three minutes left in regulation time, Leeds had let their guard down. After a solid, dominant display throughout the match, Arthur had told the players during halftime to conserve energy. No need to chase every ball like their boots were on fire. They'd done the hard work in the first half—Rivaldo's spectacular free kick just before the break had essentially sealed the deal. That goal was a beauty. Torres had been hacked down right at the edge of the box—Portsmouth's left back deciding that if he couldn't beat him with skill, he might as well try ankle destruction. The referee, thankfully, had a working pair of eyes and gave the free kick without hesitation. The wall was set. The crowd held their breath. Rivaldo stood over the ball with that same expression he always had—somewhere between sleepy and terrifying. Then he struck it. The ball curled like it had been remote-controlled, sneaking into the top corner like it was trying to avoid detection. The Portsmouth keeper barely moved. He just stood there watching the net ripple, like a man witnessing art for the first time and not quite knowing what to do with his hands. 3–0. First half, job done. In the second half, Arthur slowed things down. Told the players to keep possession, recycle the ball, avoid injuries. No need to be heroes. It was all going smoothly until the 87th minute, when Portsmouth finally got a consolation goal. "Face-saving," Arthur muttered after the game, watching the highlights in his office with a lukewarm cup of tea. "That's all it was. Let 'em take one photo for the album." Final score: Leeds United 3, Portsmouth 1. Leeds advanced to the next round of the FA Cup. All was good. Well... almost all. Arthur had just gotten comfy in his chair when the draw for the next round popped up on the screen. His eyes narrowed. He squinted. Then leaned back with a groan. "Oh, for the love of—Manchester bloody United?" Indeed. While Leeds were busy dismantling Portsmouth, United had taken care of Aston Villa, setting up a clash between two of the fiercest rivals in English football. Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. "Of course. Of course it had to be them." But there wasn't time for moaning. The schedule was relentless, and Arthur wasn't about to let his team lose momentum. No rest for the wicked—or for Leeds United. On Monday afternoon, less than 48 hours after the match, Arthur had his players back at Thorp Arch. No holidays. No days off. "Save your spa trips for the summer," he said during the team meeting. "Right now, we train." The lads weren't exactly thrilled, but they didn't complain. With Arthur, everything was clear. He treated them fairly, but he expected full commitment. And with good reason. Because waiting for them that weekend was Chelsea—again. Less than three weeks had passed since their last encounter, where Leeds had managed to grind out a narrow win at Elland Road. But this time, the rematch would be at Stamford Bridge. Under the floodlights. Prime time. By Saturday night, the hype was everywhere. Social media buzzed, radio hosts debated tactics like generals discussing battlefield maneuvers, and fans piled into pubs and living rooms with snacks and screaming opinions. Every major network picked the match as their featured broadcast. Naturally, Sky Sports led the way. "Jon, what's your take tonight?" Lineker asked with a grin, holding his mic a little too close to Jon's face. "How many goals do you think Chelsea will concede at home?" Jon didn't even blink. He turned to his co-commentator with a smirk and swatted the bait aside. "Oh, get lost," he laughed. "You should be asking how many Leeds United will leak. That last match was pure luck, and you know it. If Cannavaro hadn't pulled off that miracle clearance in the dying minutes, Chelsea would've walked away with at least a draw." Lineker chuckled but nodded in agreement. "True, true. The second half was all Chelsea. They had Leeds pinned back. But..." he held up a finger, "this Leeds United we're seeing now isn't the same one from last month." Jon raised an eyebrow. "Go on." "Well, think about it," Lineker said, flipping through his notes. "Alves is in now. Reus is finding his rhythm. Rivaldo's delivering masterclasses. And Sneijder looks like he's been playing in Arthur's system for years." Jon tilted his head, conceding the point. "I'll give you that. Alves definitely makes a difference. It's almost enough to make fans forget about Maicon." He paused, then picked up Chelsea's team sheet from the desk. His eyes scanned it quickly, then narrowed. "But this is Stamford Bridge," he added ominously. "And from what I see here... Mourinho isn't taking any chances." Lineker leaned over curiously. "A strong lineup?" Jon nodded slowly. "Not just strong. It's loaded. He's made serious adjustments. He's clearly out for revenge tonight." The camera panned across the stadium as the fans roared in anticipation. Stamford Bridge looked like a fortress under the lights. The blue sea of home supporters buzzed with expectation, while a brave little pocket of Leeds fans bounced and chanted nonstop in the away corner. The players were just beginning to emerge from the tunnel, tension thick enough to chew. Arthur, hands in his coat pockets, walked with calm authority, his mind already racing through strategies, substitutions, and backup plans. Revenge match. Big stage. Arthur wouldn't want it any other way. **** "Xabi, don't bother with No. 5 right now! Slide closer, give Luca a passing option!" Arthur's voice boomed from the touchline, his hands flailing as he barked orders like a caffeinated orchestra conductor. But his words had barely left his mouth before disaster struck—Ballack pounced like a German panther, snatching the ball right off Modric's polished boots with the smug efficiency of someone stealing the last slice of pizza at a party. Arthur's eyes widened. "Oh, come on!" Ballack surged forward, all determination and square jaw, took three thunderous steps to the top of the box, and let fly. A rocket? No. More like a firecracker. The ball screamed straight into Schmeichel's arms like a lost homing pigeon. The big Dane caught it with such ease, he might as well have been picking apples in a Sunday orchard. "That's it, Michael! Keep up the pressure!" Mourinho was up and clapping on the Chelsea sideline, clearly enjoying himself way too much. He didn't care that it was a weak shot—this was about message-sending. Dominance. Swagger. And Arthur, standing just yards away, scowled so hard it could curdle milk. Frowning at his keeper who lay on the ground hugging the ball like a teddy bear, Arthur's mind was racing at a thousand miles an hour. He needed a solution. Fast. They were almost thirty minutes into the first half, and déjà vu was hitting like a hammer. Ballack, Lampard, even Drogba had all taken turns blasting shots from just outside the box. Every one of those efforts had come the same way—Chelsea hunting down Modric or Xabi Alonso like they were the last two slices of bacon in the pan. Mourinho had pulled a classic misdirection trick. Everyone expected his standard 4-3-3 formation—the setup he practically had tattooed on his forearm. But no. Tonight, he went rogue. Chelsea were lined up in a rare 4-4-2, and Arthur had to admit, it was causing him a fair bit of tactical indigestion. He'd figured Mourinho would bench Shevchenko after his invisible-man act in their last meeting. That part he got right. But what Arthur didn't see coming was Robben getting benched too. Instead, Mourinho had unleashed the Ivorian duo—Drogba and Kalou—as his front line of chaos. At first glance, Arthur hadn't been worried. Cannavaro and Kompany could handle that, right? Right? But as the minutes ticked by, the real threat revealed itself—not up top, but in the middle. Arthur stared at the pitch, arms folded, lips pursed. "That sneaky bastard," he muttered. Mourinho hadn't come for the center backs. He was going after Arthur's midfield generals—Luka Modric and Xabi Alonso. He knew their importance. He knew Arthur's system depended on those two turning and spraying passes like royal fountain statues. And tonight, they couldn't turn without bumping into someone wearing blue. Lampard stuck to Modric like superglue. Ballack was Alonso's personal shadow. And then there was Essien—the Energizer Bunny of doom—hovering like a drone over both of them, ready to pounce on any sniff of space. It was a chokehold. As soon as either Modric or Alonso received a pass, two Chelsea players swarmed in. Modric, lithe and clever as he was, kept getting caught on the ball like a kid stuck in his shoelaces. Xabi did better—he could shield and lay it back—but neither could string two passes together without being bodied off the ball. And when Chelsea won it? They didn't waste time with fancy buildup. Oh no. Lampard and Ballack didn't even bother entering the box. They simply pulled up just outside the arc, waited for Drogba or Kalou to draw defenders, and then—bam—another long-range rocket attempt. It was like a never-ending fireworks show, only without the colors or the oohs and aahs. "The pressure's building," Arthur grumbled to himself. Up in the commentary box, Lineker's voice reflected the same tension. "Leeds United really don't look comfortable right now," he said with a furrowed brow. "They haven't managed to play through the middle in nearly five minutes. Chelsea are pushing them deep into their own half." "Hahaha, Gary, I'm telling you—Chelsea are about to score!" Jon beamed, practically bouncing in his chair. "It's only a matter of time now." Lineker shot him a look, unimpressed. "Not necessarily. I mean, yes, Chelsea look sharp—but Leeds' defense is still solid. Especially Schmeichel. He's clearly locked in today. Some of those saves earlier were superb. Don't count Leeds out yet. Their counterattack can still strike like lightning." But Jon shook his head, his expression turning smug. "Gary, seriously? Haven't you been watching? Mourinho's cracked the code. Leeds United's engine room has been shut down. No Modric, no Alonso—no playmaking. If they can't find their rhythm, there's no counter to launch. They've lost their control center." Down on the pitch, Arthur paced like a man trying to remember where he parked his car. Every time his team tried to build something, they were suffocated in the midfield. It was like watching someone try to text while wearing oven mitts—slow, clumsy, and inevitably intercepted. He turned toward the bench and muttered to himself, "Alright... Plan B... If there is a Plan B." The Stamford Bridge crowd, sensing blood, grew louder. Chelsea fans were chanting, jeering, living for the moment. Every time Ballack wound up his leg, the entire stadium leaned forward like it was about to take off. Arthur glanced over at Mourinho again—smirking, clapping, whispering to his assistants like a Bond villain. Arthur wanted to throw his clipboard at him. But instead, he turned back to the field, jaw clenched. He had to think. Fast. Because if something didn't change soon, Chelsea were going to punch a hole through that midfield—and the scoreboard. And from the look of things, they were getting closer by the second.