Chapter 188: It's Him Again!

"Oh? Wait, what's this? Leeds United are making a substitution? But we're still in the first half!" Jon's voice suddenly jumped an octave on the commentary mic, sounding more like someone who'd just seen a UFO than a Premier League substitution. The camera panned to the sideline where Kolo Touré was pulling his jersey down and adjusting his armband with the slow, deliberate seriousness of a man about to jump into a war zone. For the crowd and the commentators alike, it was a puzzling moment. Early substitutions weren't rare in football—but this? This was downright strange. Even Jon, who'd watched his fair share of chaos in the Premier League, blinked at the screen. "I mean... this is unusual, Gary." "You're telling me," Lineker replied, equally confused. "You don't usually see a first-half substitution unless someone's injured or absolutely stinking up the place." But on the Leeds United sideline, Arthur looked completely unfazed—casual, even. One hand in his coat pocket, the other gesturing animatedly as he whispered in Touré's ear. It looked less like tactical instruction and more like someone giving directions to a particularly confused tourist. On the opposite technical area, José Mourinho folded his arms and narrowed his eyes like a poker player trying to read a bluff. At first, he'd assumed Touré was just warming up. After all, the half was nearly over—plenty of managers sent out subs to limber up early. But then he saw the fourth official walking over with the LED board and all his mental alarms went off. Arthur was making an actual substitution—now. Mourinho's brain kicked into overdrive. Who was coming off? What was the adjustment? Touré was clearly a defensive midfielder, so surely Arthur was reinforcing the midfield. That made tactical sense. But it was the timing that threw him off. Less than 40 minutes into the first half? That was rare even by Arthur's chaotic standards. And then came the real twist. The LED board lit up. Number 6: Modric — OUT. Number 24: Touré — IN. Mourinho raised both eyebrows, genuinely stunned. "Modric?" he muttered to himself. "You're taking off Modric?" He instinctively looked across at Arthur, who was patting Modric on the back like a dad comforting his son after a school recital. Arthur grinned, said something only Modric could hear, and gave him a thumbs-up as he jogged off. No injury. No tantrum. No drama. Just... a change. Mourinho stood there, one hand on his chin, one hand on his hip, as if trying to decipher whether Arthur had just pulled a stroke of genius or a complete brain melt. Modric hadn't played terribly—he'd been swarmed by Chelsea's midfield, sure, but that wasn't exactly new. The issue had been structural, not individual. But Arthur had made up his mind. Clearly, he was seeing something the rest of them weren't. Back in the commentary booth, the confusion was mutual. "Jon, explain that to me," Lineker said, blinking at the camera like he'd just been handed a riddle. "Modric off? Touré on? This early?" "Honestly, Gary, your guess is as good as mine," Jon replied with a half-laugh. "I mean, no disrespect to Touré—he's a solid presence—but in terms of vision, passing, and control, Modric is a magician. He's the kind of player you build around, not take off." Lineker leaned forward, eyes squinting at the replay showing Arthur's grin as he made the switch. "I thought Arthur was going to take off one of the strikers—maybe Torres, or even Ibrahimović—and stick Touré in to create a three-man midfield. That would've made sense if he wanted to bunker down and grind out a draw..." "But," Jon interjected, raising a finger, "when has Arthur ever played for a draw?" That, Lineker couldn't argue with. Jon nodded, continuing. "This isn't the same Leeds United from last season. Arthur doesn't sit back anymore—not since he started playing with fire. I don't think he's looking to survive. I think he wants to take back control of the midfield—maybe not with flair, but with muscle." And muscle was exactly what Touré brought. As soon as he stepped onto the pitch, you could feel the balance shift, ever so slightly. Touré wasn't elegant, but he was effective. He didn't glide—he bulldozed. And alongside Xabi Alonso, he formed a midfield pairing that felt a bit more like a shield wall. It didn't fix everything. Chelsea's midfield pressure was still relentless—Ballack, Lampard, and Essien swarmed like hornets whenever Leeds tried to build from the back. There wasn't much in the way of attacking rhythm, and Leeds certainly weren't pinging passes around like they used to. But the key difference? They weren't losing the ball as easily anymore. Before, Modric had been constantly harassed. Every time he received the ball, he had a Chelsea player climbing up his back like a drunken octopus. Now, with Touré there, Chelsea weren't pressing quite as aggressively. The risk of running into a 6'3" wall of muscle seemed to temper their enthusiasm a bit. Arthur stood on the sideline, arms folded, eyes glued to the pitch like a chess master watching a gambit unfold. His gamble hadn't turned the match on its head—not yet—but it had stopped the bleeding. The rest of the half played out in a slow grind. Leeds regained a sliver of composure, but they still struggled to generate anything meaningful in the final third. Torres and Ibrahimović made a few diagonal runs, but the service wasn't coming. Alves tried to push up on the right flank, but Ashley Cole was glued to him like a shadow. Then came the board: +2 minutes of stoppage time. The crowd groaned. Stamford Bridge was buzzing, the home fans sensing blood, while the travelling Leeds supporters were nervously biting their nails and chanting louder to keep spirits up. Nothing changed before the whistle. The referee glanced at his watch, blew his whistle, and both sides trudged into the tunnel. Halftime. Arthur turned on his heel without a word, walking briskly toward the tunnel, his coat flapping behind him like a cape. Whether the change had been inspired or desperate, one thing was certain: He was far from done. **** Mourinho strode into the home team's dressing room with the air of a man who knew he was in control... for now. He clapped his hands sharply. "Good first half, gentlemen. You did what I asked—now let's talk about finishing the job." The players were gulping water, toweling off sweat, or catching their breath on the benches. In the middle of it all, Lampard was hunched over with a towel covering his head like a hood. He looked more like a monk awaiting judgment than a footballer. Mourinho turned his gaze on him and barked, "Frank!" Lampard immediately ripped the towel off his head like he'd been caught stealing biscuits. "Yes, boss?" "I need you to stay on top of their new No. 24 in the second half. He's your responsibility. Can you handle him?" Lampard sat up straighter and took a breath. "It's a bit tricky," he admitted. "He's stronger than the other guy—can hold the ball better. If Leeds are using him as a pivot, I don't think he'll turn and pass immediately, but it's still tough to get the ball off him." "Good. That's what I needed to know." Mourinho spun around and pointed at Essien and Makelele, sitting nearby. Essien had one boot off, casually flexing his ankle. Makelele was just calmly sipping water like nothing could faze him. "Michael," Mourinho began, "in the second half, I want you higher up the pitch. As soon as No. 24 gets the ball, I want you and Frank on him like wolves. I don't want him having time to breathe, let alone pass." Essien gave a thumbs up, already lacing up his boot. Mourinho turned to Makelele. "Claude, you're the last line before the back four. Expand your coverage. Sweep everything that gets past those two." Makelele simply nodded once. No fuss, no drama. Just ice in his veins. "Last 45 minutes," Mourinho said, clapping again. "Let's make it hell for Leeds in the midfield!" The fifteen-minute break felt like it passed in fifteen seconds. Both teams emerged from the tunnel to the roar of Stamford Bridge, which was buzzing with anticipation. As the second half whistle blew, Arthur immediately noticed something odd. Essien had pushed forward. Way forward. "Huh," Arthur muttered on the touchline, arms folded. "Mourinho bit the bait." Sure enough, just as Arthur had planned, Mourinho had responded exactly as he'd hoped. The old fox couldn't resist the temptation. Arthur's earlier move—subbing on Yaya Touré for Modric—hadn't just been a tactical switch. It was psychological bait. Manchester United had already won their game yesterday. If Chelsea dropped points today, the gap in the title race would stretch. Arthur knew Mourinho couldn't tolerate that. So, he gave Mourinho a glimpse of vulnerability—Touré muscling through midfield, giving Lampard problems—and let him draw his own conclusions. And now Mourinho had committed Essien forward, trying to overload and trap Touré. Arthur turned to his bench, satisfied. "Alright then... let's open the door." On the pitch, Leeds had a throw-in near the halfway line. Arthur quickly waved Alonso over like a coach whispering secrets in a spy movie. "Xabi," Arthur leaned in, speaking low but fast. "Get a message to Touré. Watch the space behind Essien. He's getting too greedy. Makelele can't cover that much ground on his own. Slip the ball behind him into that gap between midfield and defense. That's where we hit them." Alonso gave a determined nod. "Got it." He jogged back on, muttering the message to Touré as they repositioned. The camera zoomed in on Touré, his serious expression giving nothing away, but the glint in his eyes said it all. He understood. Chelsea's pressure ramped up. With Essien now pressing aggressively, Touré found himself under more fire than ever. Every time he got the ball, Lampard would crash in from one side, and Essien from the other, like two lions pouncing on a lone gazelle. The first few times, Touré had to quickly turn and pass back to Kompany or Cannavaro. It wasn't pretty, but at least it avoided disaster. Arthur watched intently. His arms were folded, but his foot tapped impatiently on the ground. He knew these moments were just groundwork. The trap was still being set. And sure enough, Chelsea were getting bolder. They smelled blood. Mourinho was animated on the touchline, barking orders and gesturing frantically at Leeds' goal. "Press higher! Get in their faces!" he shouted. Arthur smirked. "Yeah, keep coming forward... leave the back door wide open for us." Sure enough, Chelsea's midfield triangle had shifted further upfield. Essien was barely in his own half now. Lampard had joined Drogba and Kalou near the final third. Even their fullbacks looked tempted to push up. And just as Arthur predicted, that patch of space between Makelele and the center backs—what coaches lovingly call "the danger zone"—was growing. It was like watching a balloon fill up. And Arthur was just waiting to pop it. Back on the pitch, the game was getting tense. Leeds still couldn't carve out a clean attack, but they were holding on. Touré was absorbing pressure like a sponge, playing smart, safe passes to Alonso or wide to the fullbacks. Chelsea kept trying to swarm him, but he never panicked. Meanwhile, Alonso was scanning the field constantly. Every time Essien pressed, Xabi's eyes flicked behind him. He was waiting. He knew the gap would open—Arthur had told him where to look. Mourinho, still near the edge of his technical area, sensed Leeds were cornered. He turned to his assistant. "They can't even get it past the halfway line now. Tell the wingers to stretch them—force the back line to open up!" Arthur saw Mourinho's gesture and let out a quiet laugh. "Oh, you're all in now." The game continued like a high-stakes chess match. Leeds hadn't found their move yet, but Arthur could see the board. He knew which piece was next. The moment was coming. And just as Mourinho signaled for another wave of pressing, Arthur turned toward the field and whistled, loud and sharp. "Patience, lads," he muttered under his breath. "It's almost time." The ball was back in Leeds' half again. Kompany lofted a long clearance toward Ibrahimović, who leapt and battled for it in the air. It wasn't pretty, but it pushed Chelsea back a few yards. Makelele was barking orders now too, waving his hands to reel Essien back. But it was too late. The second half was only beginning—and Leeds were preparing their strike. **** The match was grinding into its final stages, the clock ticking toward the 84th minute. Stamford Bridge buzzed with nervous energy. The scoreline remained on a knife's edge, and both managers knew the next few minutes could define their season. Chelsea had just finished a promising attacking move, ending with a shot from Kalou that, unfortunately for the home fans, went straight into the safe hands of Schmeichel. The Leeds keeper clutched the ball like it was a golden ticket to the Premier League title and wasted no time. No celebration, no dramatic pause, no theatrics—just pure, efficient football. Without even standing still, Schmeichel hopped to his feet and zipped a laser-guided throw down the left flank to Philipp Lahm, who was already sprinting down the touchline like he had dinner reservations and no time to waste. Mourinho's Chelsea was a machine built on discipline and structure, and even now, with only minutes left, they stayed true to their coach's blueprints. The moment Leeds began their counter, the Chelsea players snapped into their defensive routines. Everyone was scrambling to mark their man, track back, and close gaps. Lahm, meanwhile, took a look upfield and spotted Geremi—fresh-legged and full of energy—charging toward him like a freight train. Knowing better than to try and dribble past a man with that much gasoline left in the tank, Lahm coolly slowed down, adjusted his stance, and gently rolled the ball inward to Alonso, who was waving for it in midfield like a man hailing a cab in a snowstorm. Chelsea's defenders saw Lahm slowing down and assumed, wrongly, that the tempo was dropping. They eased off slightly, shifting their bodies to intercept Alonso in the middle. One of them, the ever-committed Michael Ballack, turned into a heat-seeking missile. He locked eyes on Alonso and barreled forward, determined to break up the play before Leeds could gather momentum. But Alonso, slick as motor oil on wet grass, had other plans. Just before the ball reached him, Alonso made the subtlest of touches—redirecting it behind him to Toure with such casual flair it could've been mistaken for a warmup drill. Then, with the kind of poise you'd expect from a man sipping tea on a Sunday afternoon, Alonso took the bump from Ballack full in the chest, stumbled dramatically like he'd been hit by a small truck, and dropped back to his feet. Ballack, who had lunged in expecting to knock both Alonso and the ball into next week, blinked in confusion. The ball wasn't there. It was gone. Lineker, watching from the commentary booth with a grin you could hear in his voice, chuckled. "Wuhu~! The German's just been sent on a wild goose chase! Alonso completely tricked him—he slipped the ball right behind to Toure!" And right then, Toure returned the pass—pinged it back to Alonso just as he slid past Ballack like a magician revealing the final card in his trick. Leeds had just executed a perfect two-man escape act, right through the middle of Chelsea's midfield. Alonso, now roaring forward past the halfway line, had left three Chelsea midfielders in his dust. Essien and Lampard were caught behind the play, puffing as they turned back, and now only one man stood in front of Alonso: Claude Makelele. "Claude! Stop him! I don't care if you get a yellow—STOP HIM!" Mourinho bellowed from the sideline, flapping his arms like an angry seabird. But Makelele had no chance. He was the last man in the midfield, pulled toward the left where Alonso was charging, and couldn't possibly cover the wide-open space behind him. Just like Arthur had predicted during his whispered conversation with Alonso and Toure earlier, Chelsea's overcommitment had opened up their right side like a peeled banana. Alonso looked up once, saw the chaos, and delivered a long diagonal pass so accurate it could've been programmed by GPS. The ball sailed over the pitch and dropped perfectly into Chelsea's vulnerable right rib. And who was charging into that space at full throttle? Zlatan Ibrahimović. The Swedish behemoth surged forward like a missile, timing his run perfectly. He arrived just as the ball bounced, stretched one impossibly long leg out, and nudged it past Carvalho with elegant brutality. Lineker was on his feet now, tripping over his words: "Here it is! A stunning ball from Alonso! Makelele's stretched to intercept—missed it completely! Ibrahimović takes it in stride—he's through on goal!" Despite being in the 84th minute, Zlatan looked fresher than half the players had been at kick-off. Months of being marked, bullied, and shut down by Chelsea's suffocating defense had left him with enough energy reserves to launch his own fireworks show. Lineker couldn't help but blurt it out: "It's incredible! You'd think he was just subbed on—look at the burst of speed! Chelsea spent the whole game keeping him quiet, and now it might come back to bite them!" As Ibrahimović charged toward goal, the Stamford Bridge faithful erupted into a deafening wave of boos, desperate to distract him. But if there was one thing Zlatan loved more than scoring goals, it was scoring goals while being hated for it. This was his symphony. The louder the crowd, the better the performance. Standing in his path was Chelsea's newly returned guardian: Petr Čech, helmet and all. The Czech goalkeeper had just come back from a brutal injury, and this was his first match back. But there was no fear in him now. As Ibrahimović bore down on the box, Čech raced out to meet him, arms wide, heart thumping, fully committed to blocking the shot or taking the hit. But Zlatan wasn't in the mood for drama. No tricks, no flicks, no sudden stops. Just one move. He poked the ball slightly left, skipped around Čech like he was side-stepping a cone in training, and rolled the ball gently into the empty net. It was ice-cold. Effortless. Brutal. GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL! "Ibrahimović!!! He's done it! Against Chelsea! AGAIN!" Lineker shouted, nearly standing on his chair. "Ron! Ron, did you see that? It's Zlatan again! Leeds United—two wins against Chelsea this season! They're still hot on Manchester United's heels!" Ron didn't answer. He just rubbed his temples and muttered something about needing a drink. He knew what everyone else did: with only a few minutes and stoppage time left, Chelsea were staring down the barrel of another loss to Arthur's Leeds United. After scoring the goal, Ibrahimovic seemed very excited. He didn't care about the boos in the stadium at all. He even ran behind the billboard on the sidelines despite the abuse from more than 40,000 home fans. He put one hand to his ear to pretend to listen, and waved the other hand upwards, indicating that the Chelsea fans could boo louder! Of course, he was responded to with more intimate greetings and various mineral water bottles thrown at him. Kompany was so scared that he rushed over and sent away Ibrahimovic, who wanted to continue provoking, back to the bench, and hugged Arthur, who was standing on the sidelines, to celebrate wildly. Chelsea's players seemed very disappointed, and they all stood on the field with their heads down in silence. But this is understandable. No one can accept the feeling of occupying the advantage for more than 80 minutes, but the result was that the opponent scored first. But as the backbone of the team, the always arrogant Mourinho kept clapping on the sidelines, loudly reminding his disciples that the game was not over yet, and we still had a chance to equalize! But the reality is cruel. After the celebration, Arthur replaced Ibrahimovic who scored the goal and Alonso who made a wonderful pass with Mascherano and Silva after the restart. Leeds United, who retreated across the board, did not give Chelsea a chance to equalize the score. After 4 minutes of stoppage time, the referee blew the whistle to end the game. While Leeds United continued to catch up with Manchester United, they also completed a double kill against Chelsea this season with two 1-0 scores!