Chapter 195: Happy Day

*** Join my Patreon for Advance Chapters ( about 30 or so) and my other 3 stories Link is Below. Remove space after http. https:// www.patreon.com/c/Virtuosso777?redirect=true Leave some comments, stones and review if you like it so far. *** "What did you say?!" Arthur had just stepped toward the touchline, waving to the roaring Elland Road fans, when he saw Simeone jogging up with his phone held high like a trophy. The noise from the crowd celebrating the 2–0 win over Everton was deafening—chanting, stomping, singing the Zlatan song for the seventh time that night—and Arthur couldn't hear a single word Diego was saying. "I said!" Simeone barked again, now practically ramming his phone into Arthur's face. He jabbed his finger at the screen, leaned in, and shouted directly into Arthur's ear, "CHELSEA LOST! They just got smashed by Liverpool—two goals away from home!!" Arthur blinked. His expression didn't twist into glee or triumph. No, it twisted into pure disbelief. "Wait... what!?" He turned to face Simeone like he'd just been told dogs had started flying planes. Mourinho? Lost? To Benitez?? Arthur's brain immediately went into overdrive. José Mourinho—his longtime rival, part-time irritant, and full-time source of passive-aggressive press conference quotes—had just lost again? To Rafa? He snatched the phone out of Diego's hand with all the grace of a man grabbing the last slice of pizza. Sure enough, the message on the screen was from one of Leeds' club staff: Liverpool 2–0 Chelsea. Final score. Milner scored twice. Arthur just stared at the message, his eyes scanning it once, twice, a third time. Every time he read it, it felt more surreal. Then, in his mind, a certain rectangular face slowly came into focus: James Milner, smiling his polite, unassuming little smile. Touched. Truly touched. Even now after leaving Leeds, Milner still found a way to help Leeds. That lad never stopped working. On the pitch, off the pitch, and apparently, even for Leeds' benefit while wearing a Liverpool shirt. Arthur couldn't help but break into a slow grin. He handed the phone back to Simeone, eyes still twinkling. "God bless that man," Arthur said, almost solemnly. "He's not just a midfielder. He's a guardian angel with a Yorkshire accent." The implications sank in. Chelsea had now lost two in a row. Meanwhile, Leeds United, who had played one game fewer—had moved five points ahead of Mourinho's squad. Arthur leaned back on his heels and folded his arms. "Well, José," he muttered to himself. "Guess you're not special every week." In his mind, the title race picture was rapidly shifting. Manchester United were still leading, but Chelsea? Chelsea had stumbled, and Arthur had no intention of waiting around. He was closing in—and Mourinho, at least for now, was falling behind. With a demanding stretch of three matches in eight days just around the corner, Arthur decided it was the perfect time to recharge the troops. Three-day holiday. No tactics. No video sessions. Just rest. He waved the players off with a grin and a warning not to come back with hangovers or sunburns. They left laughing, bags slung over shoulders, with the swagger of a team that had just bagged another important win. Arthur, too, was in high spirits—and happy to finally catch a breather. The next morning, after finishing a mountain of paperwork, a dozen contract emails, and one long phone call with the groundskeeper about pigeons invading the away dugout again, Arthur headed straight to the airport. There was someone important flying in. Shakira, radiant as ever, had caught the first flight out of Madrid the moment she heard Leeds had a break. Arthur picked her up at arrivals, ignoring the stares and occasional fan selfies, and whisked her back to his villa. The rest of the afternoon? Let's just say they discussed existential concepts—vigorously. They explored the meaning of life, its rhythms, its highs and lows, and all the delightful physical poetry in between. By the time they emerged from the bedroom, they were both pleasantly exhausted and positively glowing with contentment. A long shower together followed—filled with suds, laughter, and stolen kisses—and afterward, they collapsed into the living room like a pair of sleepy cats in love. The dinner was light. A couple of grilled seabass fillets, a bottle of white wine, and some strawberries Shakira had insisted on dipping in chocolate herself. Then came the couch. Shakira curled up on one end, Arthur on the other, until she dragged his head gently into her lap. He let her feed him grapes while they flipped through channels on the TV. Eventually, the screen settled on Arsenal vs. Manchester United, which was just about to kick off at the Emirates. As the pre-match interviews rolled on, Shakira tilted her head and said softly, "Darling... didn't you get in a bit of trouble for saying Leeds would win the title this year?" Arthur blinked. "Hmm?" he replied, chewing thoughtfully. "This grape's amazing. Sweet. Give me another one." Shakira smiled, placed one between his lips, and tried again. "I said—weren't you criticized for saying Leeds United would win the Premier League?" "Oh, that." Arthur chuckled, waving a hand lazily. "Some reporter from the Manchester Evening News asked me a bunch of leading questions after a match. After ten minutes of nonsense, I figured if I threw him a juicy quote, he'd go away." He looked up at her and smirked. "And I meant it, by the way. That's our goal this season. A title. Why not? Leeds have done it before." "Ohhh," she murmured, brushing his hair gently with her fingers, "you mean the Championship?" Arthur narrowed his eyes and sat up slightly. "Are you mocking the English Championship?" "Not really," she said with a teasing smile. "But look at Sir Alex on the screen—he just said this year's Premier League title belongs to Manchester United." Arthur stared at Ferguson's face on the TV, the legendary Scot giving his usual mix of humility and menace in his pre-match comments. Shakira popped another grape into his mouth as he chewed slowly. Then he muttered, "We'll see about that." She shook her head, " Alright, enough football. Where are you taking me out tomorrow?" Arthur looked at her and smiled , " Wherever you want to go, love. I'll follow your lead." She smiled and kissed him, " Always the smooth talker. " **** On TV, Sir Alex Ferguson was standing at the touchline, calmly giving a pre-match interview before the massive showdown between Arsenal and Manchester United. The first few questions came in predictably—Wenger this, Wenger that—and true to form, Ferguson dismissed them all with a polite but firm shake of the head. No way he was going to get dragged into that feud right now. So one of the reporters changed tact and asked, "Sir Alex, did you catch the two matches from last night?" Ferguson, looking unbothered and in good spirits, actually nodded. "I did, yes," he said thoughtfully, hands in his coat pockets, the stadium lights gleaming off his silver hair. He took a moment, then added, "I have to admit, Leeds United are flying at the moment. That performance against Everton—efficient, composed... they didn't give Moyes' side a sniff." He chuckled lightly before continuing. "I actually feel a bit sorry for David. Before Arthur came into the league, I used to think Moyes was one of the best examples of what a young manager could be in the Premier League. But Arthur's arrival changed that. I watched the match closely last night, start to finish. Both halves. And tactically speaking, Arthur Morgan completely outplayed David." Arthur, who was still curled up on the sofa with his head resting in Shakira's lap, nearly dropped the grape in his mouth. "Wait, what?" He stared at the screen, eyes wide. Ferguson? Complimenting him? Publicly? Another reporter jumped in right away, holding a mic out toward the Manchester United legend: "So Sir Alex, does that mean you see Leeds United as Manchester United's biggest challenger for the title?" Ferguson didn't hesitate. He smiled and gave a little shake of the head. "Can't quite call them an obstacle. After all, we're still on top. And let's not forget, this year's Manchester United side is... well, let's say, difficult to beat. Arthur's a talented lad. No question. But he's still young. His time will come." Arthur sat up straighter, frowning at the television. "Tsk. This old man," he muttered. "Where does he get this much confidence? Did someone spike his tea?" Shakira giggled, then reached out and playfully patted his cheek. "Ease up, darling. You look ridiculous when you're flustered." Arthur smirked. "Hey, you said I always look charming." Back on TV, another journalist asked, "And what about Chelsea? Do you still consider them a threat, even after back-to-back defeats? Last night Mourinho insisted Chelsea are still in the title race and haven't fallen behind." Ferguson didn't miss a beat. "Heh-heh-heh," he chuckled darkly. "Well then, by that logic, they'd have to be 20 points behind before José admits he's out of the race. And let's be honest—a team that relies on parking the bus to win titles... I've never believed that's the blueprint to beat Manchester United." "Hahahaha!" Arthur burst out laughing. "This old goat! You love him, you hate him, but damn if he doesn't roast people better than most comedians." Ferguson, for all his faults—his temper, his stubbornness, his obsession with chewing gum like it owed him money—had that aura. The players he'd clashed with? Rarely said a bad word about him after leaving. That meant something. The interview ended, and kickoff loomed. The long-anticipated clash between Arsenal and Manchester United was finally underway. Arthur leaned back into the cushions and stretched out, wine glass in one hand, Shakira still playing with his hair. Sir Alex rolled out his favorite formation this season: the 4-3-3. Up front, it was Rooney, Cristiano Ronaldo, and Berbatov—a frightening trio on paper and even scarier in motion. Behind them, the ever-reliable Giggs and Scholes were tasked with supplying the ammo. It was a classic United setup: patient, precise, but always ready to explode. Wenger, meanwhile, had no intentions of playing safe at home. He'd lined up all his heavy artillery: Van Persie and Thierry Henry leading the line, with Fabregas pulling the strings behind them. Arsenal's midfield had just regained its rhythm, and Wenger was counting on them to make a statement—especially against Ferguson. These two could never meet without sparks flying. It didn't matter if one of them was out of the title race or missing key players—they'd still play like it was a cup final. From the opening whistle, the game was electric. The pace? Blistering. The tackles? Ferocious. The chances? Plenty. Arthur sat on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward as the first half played out like a chess match being played at 200 miles per hour. Back and forth, end to end—yet after 45 minutes, neither side had broken through. Nil-nil at the break. "I've seen cagey," Arthur muttered, "but this is like two old wizards throwing spells at each other and waiting for one of them to blink." When the second half began, it was clear Ferguson had given his players something potent in the dressing room—probably words, but Arthur wouldn't rule out a potion. In the 53rd minute, it all changed. Ronaldo burst down the right, shrugged off his marker, and swung in a vicious low cross. The ball zoomed past three defenders untouched and landed perfectly at the feet of Rooney, who smashed it into the net with clinical precision. 1–0. United took the lead. Ferguson didn't waste time. He immediately pulled the trigger on a defensive switch, sending in Park Ji-sung to tighten the midfield. United pulled back into their shell, happy to protect the lead. But Arthur wasn't convinced. "That's risky," he muttered. "You don't sit back like that against Arsenal. Not with their firepower." Sure enough, Arsenal turned up the pressure. Possession, crosses, short passes—it was a red-and-white storm battering the United box. And then, in the 83rd minute, it finally happened. Van Persie found a pocket of space outside the penalty area. No hesitation. He fired a thunderous shot that curled just out of Van der Sar's reach and slammed into the back of the net. 1–1. Game on. Arthur applauded the screen. "That's how you hit a ball, lad!" But the best was yet to come. Ninetieth minute. United, desperate to find a winner, pushed too far forward. But Fabregas intercepted a loose pass, turned, and threaded a perfect through ball to Henry, who had timed his run perfectly and stayed just onside. Henry took a touch, rounded Van der Sar with casual elegance, and rolled the ball into an empty net. 2–1. Arsenal completed the comeback. Arthur sprang off the couch like a madman and shouted, "YESSSSS!!!" He turned, swept a laughing Shakira into his arms, and bolted up the stairs like a victorious Roman general returning from battle. His mind was already doing the math. Even if Manchester United won all their remaining fixtures—and Leeds did too—the moment Leeds beat Watford in their postponed match, the two would be level on points. And Leeds, with their superior goal difference, would sit top of the Premier League. Arthur grinned wide. The title race just got a lot more interesting. He gave a wolfish grin to Shakira who raised an eyebrow, " What?" Arthur got up and picked her up as she yelped cutely. He gave her a kiss and whispered," I'm in a very good mood. You know what it means? " Shakira rolled her eyes but couldn't help but smile, " You're not gonna let me sleep tonight, are you?" Arthur grinned as he carried her to their bedroom." Nope."