Chapter 189: UEFA Draw

**** Bonus for 200 stones.**** Mourinho had been outfoxed, outplayed, and frankly, outmaneuvered. Twice. By the same man. And not just any man, but Arthur—the Leeds United manager who had somehow made tactical brilliance look like an after-dinner party trick. Stamford Bridge, once Mourinho's fortress, had just witnessed another tactical masterclass that left the Portuguese manager brooding in the locker room like a thundercloud trapped in a designer coat. The match was over. Leeds United had stolen it late with a beautiful goal, and Chelsea's hopes of defending their Premier League title were beginning to resemble a well-loved sweater—once majestic, now fraying at the edges. Mourinho, seated in silence on the bench inside the home dressing room, looked like he might bite through the rim of his coffee cup. He hadn't said a word in nearly thirty minutes. His assistants exchanged nervous glances. Morais, his loyal right-hand man, was fiddling with his tie like it had personally offended him. "Boss," Morais finally ventured, "the press conference..." "No." Mourinho's voice was flat. "Not today." "But—" "You're going. I'm not answering a single question from those football-obsessed hyenas." Morais sighed, already dreading the ambush. He knew what was coming. The British press weren't just journalists—they were tacticians themselves. And when they smelled blood, they swarmed like tactical geniuses with microphones. So off Morais went to take the bullets, while Mourinho sulked in the shadows like a villain between monologues. But even hiding in the shadows couldn't save him for long. Nearly an hour later, thinking the coast was finally clear, Mourinho cautiously emerged from the tunnel exit at Stamford Bridge. He was hoping to sneak out quietly, perhaps slip into his black SUV and disappear into the London mist. No such luck. As soon as he stepped outside, it was like he'd walked into the middle of a warzone of lenses and microphones. Flash! Boom! Click-click-click! "Jose! Mr. Mourinho! A few questions—just one more, sir!" "You've lost to Arthur twice in less than a month. What are your thoughts?" "Jose, with Leeds United overtaking you in the table and still having a game in hand, do you think Chelsea's title defense is over?" "Do you still think it was bad luck, or has Arthur just figured you out?" Mourinho froze. For a brief second, you could see the tiniest twitch in his jaw—somewhere between rage and incredulity. His eyes narrowed. "Are you lot vampires? Do you not sleep? Do you not... have homes?!" One brave reporter grinned. "We live for moments like these, gaffer!" Mourinho gave a cold, tight-lipped smirk that suggested he'd rather juggle flaming chainsaws than answer another question. But then, he paused. Took a breath. Composed himself. "Well, it seems everyone here is very... dedicated." His sarcasm was so thick you could spread it on toast. "Still camped outside the Bridge after midnight. Truly impressive." He folded his arms, then finally gave his answer, short and sharp: "Chelsea's players played well tonight. But they didn't sustain it. Leeds did. That's football. The side that finishes stronger wins. Simple." "What about the title race?" someone shouted. "The season's long," Mourinho snapped, brushing some invisible lint from his sleeve. "No one wins in January. Let's talk again in May. Meanwhile, our focus will also turn to the Champions League. The round of 16 draw is tomorrow. Maybe ask me about that instead of the apocalypse." And with that, he spun around and marched off, his coat billowing behind him like a disappointed wizard. The reporters, half-amused and half-stunned, were left scribbling furiously. ——— The next morning, the Leeds United players were sprawled across hotel couches, some still half-asleep, others busy replaying clips of the previous night's victory with obnoxiously loud volume. Arthur had granted the whole squad a rare day off—well-earned after their gritty win—but he himself had no such luxury. Instead of returning to Leeds with the players, Arthur grabbed a quick lunch with Simeone in London, and by mid-afternoon, the two were en route to Zurich, Switzerland. Destination: UEFA Headquarters. Event: The draw for the Champions League Round of 16. Arthur leaned back in his seat on the plane, eyes still a little bleary from the chaos at Stamford Bridge the night before. Simeone, sitting beside him in a dark blazer that made him look like a hitman on holiday, was scrolling through the match replays on his phone. "Still can't believe we pulled that off," he muttered, grinning. "That second-half trap? Pure evil." Arthur smirked, rubbing the back of his neck. "Essien pushing too high up was our cue. Alonso and Toure handled it better than I hoped." "And Ibra?" Simeone laughed. "That man was born to ruin someone's week." Arthur nodded, though he looked tired. "Still... this draw. If we land Real Madrid or Barcelona, it's gonna be like walking into a bear cage with a ham sandwich." Simeone raised an eyebrow. "What if we draw Milan?" Arthur blinked. "Then I'm putting you in charge of all pre-match interviews." As they chuckled, the PA system pinged overhead, announcing their descent into Zurich. Arthur's thoughts turned toward the teams they might face. Bayern. Lyon. Inter. Real Madrid. All possible opponents, and all scary in their own ways. But Leeds had earned their place at the table. Back home, the fans were celebrating wildly. Pubs in Leeds were still packed despite the early hour, and local radio had already replayed Ibrahimovic's goal five times before breakfast. More importantly, across the Premier League table, things had shifted. Leeds now sat above Chelsea. One game in hand. Momentum on their side. And in the Champions League, they were marching on. Arthur didn't say it out loud—but inside, he knew. This was just the beginning. **** When Arthur and Simeone stepped into the grand hall in Zurich, it was already buzzing with the low murmur of football royalty. Men in crisp suits and impeccable ties gathered in small knots like old schoolboys at a reunion—some laughing, some scheming, and all of them pretending not to be nervous about the names soon to be pulled from bowls like a high-stakes bingo night. Arthur adjusted his jacket and scanned the crowd. It was like walking into a footballing version of Mount Olympus. Legendary managers, club presidents, agents, UEFA executives—it was a room full of egos and nervous smiles. And standing in the back, right where you'd expect the cool kids to hang out, were two very familiar figures: Sir Alex Ferguson, the ever-smirking Scottish grandmaster, and Florentino Pérez, the sharp-eyed godfather of Real Madrid. As soon as Ferguson spotted Arthur, he raised a hand with a grin that suggested he'd been waiting all day to take the mick out of him. Arthur smiled broadly and made his way over with Simeone trailing behind him, looking like a man ready to bodycheck anyone who got in his boss's way. "Arthur, my boy!" Ferguson greeted him, his Scottish accent wrapped in mischief. "Still walking on water, are you?" "Barely keeping my head above it," Arthur replied with a grin before turning to Pérez. "Mr. Pérez, how's retirement treating you? Enjoying the golf courses, or still finding time to sabotage your successor?" Florentino Pérez chuckled, folding his arms. "You sly fox. You come here just to remind me I'm no longer in power, don't you?" Arthur leaned in with a mock-whisper. "Only slightly. I figured you must be loving the peaceful life—no board meetings, no transfer drama..." Pérez nodded dramatically toward Ramón Calderón, who was chatting stiffly with UEFA president Michel Platini at the front of the room. "Peaceful? Thanks to you and that overpriced Maicon deal, Calderón's been sleeping with one eye open. I've never felt more relaxed." Arthur followed Pérez's gaze and smirked. "Guess Calderón didn't enjoy paying full price for a shiny new right-back. Especially one you tried to get at a discount first." "Let's just say," Pérez muttered, "if Real Madrid doesn't win something big this season, he's going to be chased out of Madrid by his own board." Simeone, standing just behind Arthur, stifled a laugh. Arthur turned back to Ferguson, who had been watching with that knowing smile of his—the one that said, I've played this game longer than you've been alive. "As for you, Alex," Arthur said, jabbing a playful finger toward the Scot, "don't think I've forgotten your role in this either. If it weren't for you jacking up transfer prices, Chelsea wouldn't even have sniffed Maicon. Beating them yesterday was just my way of paying you back." Ferguson let out a dry chuckle. "That's rich, coming from you. Beating Chelsea's fine, but if you really want to pay me back, how about losing your next three league games? Help an old man out." Arthur laughed and held up both hands. "Nice try, but I've still got ambitions of my own." The four of them continued chatting, trading stories and insults like old friends reunited at a school reunion. For ten full minutes, it was as if the Champions League didn't exist—just four football men talking shop, roasting each other, and secretly hoping the draw wouldn't destroy their season. But then, a voice echoed through the speakers above: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Zurich. Please take your seats—the Champions League Round of 16 draw is about to begin." And just like that, the banter stopped. Time to get serious. Arthur and Simeone made their way to the section marked for Leeds United, found their assigned seats, and sat down. The mood in the hall shifted from casual to clinical in seconds. Conversations died down. Cameras zoomed in. Everyone waited for the chaos to begin. Arthur leaned toward Simeone and muttered, "Remind me again why we have to sit through this instead of just getting an email?" "Because UEFA loves pageantry," Simeone replied dryly. "And because watching everyone else squirm is entertaining." Arthur smirked, though his eyes were already scanning the list of possible opponents. As group winners, Leeds United would be drawn against a second-place team from another group. That ruled out Arsenal and PSV Eindhoven—both had been in the same group as Leeds. But there were still six teams in the pot, and among them lurked danger. Celtic and Lille were the two "soft" options. Celtic had struggled to keep clean sheets, and Lille had just scraped through their group. Those were Arthur's dream draws. The rest? Well... Let's just say they weren't dream draws—they were fever dreams. Real Madrid, Inter Milan, Roma. Clubs with pedigree, firepower, and an alarming appetite for crushing upstarts like Leeds. The ceremony began. The host—charming, bland, and likely paid too much—stepped up and introduced the rules. First ball drawn: FC Porto. "Not bad," Arthur muttered. "Let them get Chelsea." A few dramatic swirls of the bowl later—boom. FC Porto vs Chelsea. Simeone let out a short laugh. "Guess Mourinho gets to face his ex. That'll be dramatic." Arthur raised an eyebrow. "He'll probably give a monologue about betrayal and destiny." Second draw: AC Milan. The name everyone wanted to avoid. Arthur held his breath. The host reached in again. AC Milan... vs Celtic. "Of course!" Arthur hissed. "Galliani gets to walk into the quarterfinals wearing sunglasses and a smirk." Simeone groaned. "There goes our easiest ticket." "Bloody typical," Arthur muttered, glaring at the back of Galliani's bald head. "Bet he brought his lucky socks." The next few draws were equally generous—to everyone else. Arsenal got PSV Eindhoven. "Wenger probably sacrificed a goat," Arthur whispered. Manchester United dodged both Roma and Real Madrid. And then... only three teams remained. One of them was Leeds United. Arthur stared at the names on the screen. Only one of the "easy" teams was left: Lille. "Please," he muttered under his breath. "Just this once..." The ball was drawn. Manchester United. The opponent: Lille. Arthur slumped back in his chair, face frozen in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me." Simeone leaned forward. "That leaves us with..." Arthur groaned. "Well, that's just perfect. The one side with a midfield as annoying as ours." He looked around the room. Chelsea got Porto. Arsenal got PSV. United got Lille. And Leeds?