Chapter 196: Trolling Ferguson

"Hey, Alex, let's make a deal. You take the FA Cup, I'll take the league title. We each go for the Champions League on our own terms—and we leave Wenger and Mourinho to fight over who's got the best parking spot outside the trophy room. Sound fair?" Arthur had no shame today. He sauntered across the touchline at Old Trafford like he owned the place, grinning as if he were in his own backyard. While his assistant Simeone was busy leading the Leeds lads through their warm-up routine, Arthur had already wandered into enemy territory. And by enemy, of course, that meant the unmistakably red-coated Sir Alex Ferguson, who stood on the opposite sideline with the expression of a man trying to solve a Rubik's cube blindfolded. "Get lost, don't bother me!" Sir Alex snapped, throwing Arthur a glare so sharp it could've shaved a full-grown sheep. Arthur clutched his chest theatrically. "Come on now, that hurts. You used to be more romantic, Alex." Ferguson's eyes narrowed. "You're just here to mock me about Sunday, aren't you?" He was, in fact, absolutely right. Arsenal had just pulled off a dramatic 2-1 comeback over Manchester United, and Arthur had watched it from his sofa with popcorn in one hand and Shakira on his lap. The moment Henry slotted in the winner, Arthur had nearly launched himself through the ceiling. And now? Now he was here, strutting around Ferguson like a peacock in a wind tunnel. "Mock you?" Arthur blinked innocently. "I would never. I just thought we could divide up the silverware like civilized gentlemen. No need to involve Mourinho and his, uh, tactical genius." That last part made Ferguson visibly twitch. He waved Arthur away like he was a pigeon on a hot dog cart. "Piss off. Say one more word and I'm telling Cristiano to aim every free kick at your technical area." Arthur grinned wider. "That's the spirit! But please, try not to rupture a vein. You're not twenty anymore." With a mock bow, Arthur turned and strolled back toward the Leeds United half, hands in his coat pockets like a man who'd just bought stocks in something nobody else understood yet. The crowd had caught on to the friendly (but spicy) back-and-forth between the two managers. Fans were chuckling, reporters were whispering, and in the press box, one particular reporter named Charles was furiously typing up what he imagined to be an exclusive headline: "Tensions Explode Between Arthur Morgan and Sir Alex Before Kickoff!" Of course, there hadn't been an explosion—just two footballing minds trading barbs—but Charles had a grudge to feed and page clicks to earn. The game itself, however, didn't wait around for tabloid drama. By the 43rd minute, the scoreboard at Old Trafford screamed 3-1 in favor of Manchester United, and there was no question who the star of the show was. "GOOOOOOOOOL!" roared the commentator from the speakers above the stadium. "Cristiano! The son of Old Trafford! A first-half hat trick for the Portuguese wizard, and United are running riot against Leeds!" Cristiano Ronaldo sprinted to the bench, arms wide, soaked in the applause of 76,000 roaring fans. He hugged Ferguson first—who gave him a light pat on the back like a proud father hiding just how proud he really was—then made the rounds with teammates who looked like they'd just won the entire competition. And yet, Sir Alex's eyes weren't on Ronaldo anymore. Not really. He glanced sideways, past the touchline, toward the Leeds United bench. His expression changed subtly—from jubilation to confusion, with a dash of suspicion. There sat Arthur Morgan. Calm as a Buddhist monk on a Sunday morning. His arms were folded, one leg casually draped over the other, not a bead of sweat on his forehead. If you squinted hard enough, you might have caught the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. A very wretched, concerning smile. Sir Alex furrowed his brow. Three goals down. In the first half. And the man wasn't even shouting? Not throwing water bottles? Not pacing the sideline like a lion who just lost his dinner? Nope. Arthur just sat there like he was enjoying the halftime entertainment at a jazz club. Ferguson whispered to himself, "What the hell is he playing at?" Because here's the thing—Ferguson had already clocked the starting eleven from Leeds and knew immediately that Arthur wasn't going all-in. The lineup screamed "B Team." Only Kasper Schmeichel and Fernando Torres could be considered starters. The rest? A collection of academy kids, role players, and names that made the United fans squint at their programs. The formation? A 5-4-1 bunker of a setup that told Ferguson, "Go on, score your goals. I'm saving my lads for something bigger." And yet... now that United had scored three, Ferguson expected Arthur to show some sign of life. Throw on a starter. Yell at a referee. At least kick a water bottle. Instead, Arthur sat there like a bloke waiting for a table at a steakhouse. Ferguson suddenly felt a chill. Was this man possessed? Had he completely lost his mind? Or—worse—was he playing the long game again? Meanwhile, the Leeds bench was as quiet as a funeral, except for Simeone, who was yelling something unintelligible in Spanish while pacing furiously. Torres, the lone forward, looked like a soldier dropped behind enemy lines without a radio. Back on the pitch, Manchester United were dominating possession. Berbatov was floating between the lines, Rooney was bullying defenders with brute force, and Giggs and Scholes were rolling back the years like it was 1999. Leeds' defenders looked exhausted already, and there was still half a game left to play. But Arthur? Arthur leaned back in his chair, casually picked up a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap with one hand, and took a slow, deliberate sip. To any normal coach, the scoreboard would read: "You're getting your arse handed to you." But in Arthur's eyes, it probably read something like: "Plan A is working perfectly. Time for Plan B soon." And that, more than the scoreline or Cristiano's hat trick, was what really bothered Sir Alex Ferguson. He'd been in the game long enough to know when something wasn't right. And Arthur Morgan, sitting smugly with that irritating little grin, was definitely up to something. **** Arthur was, of course, not as indifferent as Ferguson thought. Sitting there with a faint smirk on his face while his team trailed 3–1 might've made him look like a lunatic — or worse, a manager who had completely lost the plot — but behind that expression was a man quietly processing heartbreak... and joy. Yes, joy. Because while the scoreboard at Old Trafford screamed doom, Arthur had just received a divine message. It came right after Schmeichel made a brave diving save, stretching full-length to deny Cristiano Ronaldo's fourth. Arthur was still rubbing his temple in despair when it happened. Ding! That unmistakable synthetic chime echoed in his brain like an angelic choir in a sci-fi film. [System Notification: Congratulations to the host for completing the objective: "Talent Fulfillment!"] [Rewards are being calculated...] Arthur's eyes widened. The ache in his chest from conceding three goals suddenly felt like a paper cut. The system was alive. Something was coming. He instinctively opened the translucent blue interface hovering in his mind's eye, like some footballing version of Iron Man checking his HUD. First stop: Player List. Sure enough, there it was — Kasper Schmeichel, his young Danish goalkeeper, had leveled up. His overall rating had reached a glowing A+, and the trust gauge next to his name was now proudly showing 100%. Arthur grinned. "Not bad, kid." Sure, Ronaldo had already smashed three past him, but they weren't exactly his fault — the defense had been about as solid as a biscuit in hot tea. And now that Schmeichel had hit full potential, Arthur knew he had a wall between the sticks for the rest of the season... or at least until Father Time started tapping on the lad's shoulder. Then he flipped open the System Storage like a giddy child unwrapping presents. There it was. The ever-useful Injury Immunity Card (always a life-saver during crunch time). But next to it, something new glimmered like a rare Pokémon. [Peak Beckham Template Experience Card – 1 Month – Usable on any player] Arthur actually let out a soft, delighted "Oh-ho!" like he'd just discovered free beer. On the card was a dashing photo of Beckham in his prime — golden locks flowing, jawline chiseled like a Greek statue, and that annoyingly smug look that only someone who could bend physics with a football was allowed to wear. Arthur admired the card like an art connoisseur staring at a Van Gogh. "Peak Beckham, eh..." he murmured, eyes twinkling. He immediately imagined one of his struggling midfielders — maybe a young lad lacking confidence, or even someone like Aaron Lennon — suddenly dropping pinpoint 40-yard crosses like it was 1999. The possibilities were endless. And the best part? That free-kick arc. If there ever came a day when Leeds were 1–0 down in stoppage time, and the ball was placed just outside the box... Arthur already knew what card he'd be playing. But that could wait. For now, he glanced back out onto the pitch, where Ferguson's Manchester United were still running riot. Arthur's defenders — or what was left of them — were chasing shadows while Ronaldo, Rooney, and Giggs danced across the final third like it was a dress rehearsal for a Broadway show. Still, Arthur wasn't panicking. Why? Because deep down, this was always part of the plan. He'd known exactly what kind of squad he was fielding today. With the fixture congestion piling up like Sunday laundry and three matches in eight days coming next week, Arthur had made a tough call: sacrifice the FA Cup. Only two players in his starting eleven could be called regulars — Schmeichel and Torres. The rest were mostly backups, youngsters, and one or two blokes who looked like they hadn't kicked a ball in months. He had essentially trotted out a B-team in a 5-4-1 formation that screamed, "Please don't hurt us." "God help me," Ferguson muttered to himself. "He's enjoying this. The lad's actually enjoying this." The truth? Arthur was enjoying it. Not the goals conceded — no manager likes that — but the fact that his long-term vision was quietly unfolding beneath the surface. And as the second half kicked off, it was time to give Sir Alex a taste of it. Arthur got up and waved toward the bench. Three substitutions. Not just any subs — his cavalry. David Silva, Fabio Cannavaro, and Vincent Kompany. "Go on, lads. Let's not get battered." It was bold, if not downright theatrical — bringing on three first-team central defenders all at once like he was patching up a leaky dam with steel. Ferguson stared in disbelief. "Three center-backs? At the same time?!" Arthur gave him a thumbs-up across the technical areas. "Hey Alex!" he called out with mock cheer. "Just replaced three starters to beat you!" Ferguson blinked, then burst out laughing. "You cheeky bastard! You call that beating me?" "Well, you never know. Might finish 3–3 yet," Arthur shouted back. Back on the pitch, Leeds tightened up with their reinforced defense, and United's dominance was finally slowed. No miraculous comeback occurred, but Arthur had achieved his real goal: damage limitation. Protect his stars, avoid injuries, and let this FA Cup tie pass quietly into the history books. Leeds had officially bowed out of the tournament. But what they lost in silverware, they gained in clarity. With the fixture pile-up looming, Arthur now had two fronts to focus on: the league — where Chelsea had just stumbled — and the Champions League, where he believed his team still had a puncher's chance. As Ferguson strolled over after the final whistle, he patted Arthur on the shoulder. "You're shameless, you know that?" Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?" "You threw this game. Don't pretend you didn't." Arthur spread his hands in mock offense. "Alex! That's slander. I used my resources responsibly. I even made three changes to beat you." Ferguson snorted. "Three center-backs!" "Well, you looked like you were enjoying yourself. Thought I'd give you a challenge in the last twenty minutes." Despite everything — the smirks, the mind games, the 3–1 loss — Arthur was smiling as he walked back down the tunnel. Because now, with the FA Cup out of the way, Leeds United could go all-in for the big ones. The league and the Champions League. That was where history was waiting.