Chapter 222: Aftermath

Words : 2250 Updated : Oct 5th, 2025

The press room was buzzing like a hive after the match, cameras clicking, reporters shuffling papers, and the faint smell of overbrewed coffee lingering in the air. Everyone already knew the headline before the first question was asked. Today's man of the hour was none other than Rivaldo — the player who had just stolen the spotlight with a killer assist and a perfectly placed goal. He had been named Man of the Match, and for good reason. Arthur could see the story practically writing itself in the reporters' heads. A football fairy tale, complete with revenge, redemption, and a healthy dose of drama. Years ago, Rivaldo had been at the peak of his career, playing for some of the biggest clubs in Europe. Then came the off-field problems — not all of them his fault — and the abrupt departure from the limelight. He drifted from team to team, sliding further from the top. Eventually, he even disappeared from the mainstream leagues altogether. For a while, people thought his story had ended. But then came his unlikely return. Not to just any team, but to a club that itself had been on the brink of collapse. Leeds United had been dangling over the financial abyss, written off by pundits and mocked by rivals, until one day Arthur — out of nowhere — arrived and dragged them back from the edge. And with him came Rivaldo. It was almost poetic: the veteran Brazilian, carrying a grudge against Barcelona — maybe even a little bit of hatred — now walking back into their stadium under Arthur's leadership and dismantling them on their own turf. Blood, sweat, and pride had been spilled here in his Barcelona days, but now he was back to deliver the final blow. He didn't just play well; he played like a man possessed, and now he had the award to prove it. The media could not have scripted it better if they'd tried. This was the kind of storyline that normally lived in the cheesy climax of a football drama series — the sort where an emotional song plays while slow-motion replays roll. Everyone in the room was ready to pounce on it. Before the press conference even began, the tone was already set. The consensus among the reporters was crystal clear: Rivaldo's two flashes of genius had decided the match. And the question everyone wanted to throw at Barcelona's head coach Frank Rijkaard was the same — "So, what do you think of your former player now?" The problem was... Rijkaard had absolutely no idea how to answer that without looking bad. He'd been first to face the press, and the second the Rivaldo questions started flying, his expression had tightened. What could he possibly say? That he was impressed? That he regretted it? That Arthur had outsmarted him tactically? None of those answers helped his cause. And besides, this wasn't even his mess to begin with. Rivaldo had left Barcelona before Rijkaard had even taken the job. All the bad blood and behind-the-scenes drama had been with Van Gaal, not him. But try explaining that to a room full of reporters who smelled a good story. For Rijkaard, it was already bad enough losing the match. Now they were poking him with Rivaldo-sized sticks, rubbing salt into wounds he didn't even technically own. After a few failed attempts to dodge the questions gracefully, he eventually gave up and decided to stonewall. No comment. Not a single word about Rivaldo. The microphones stayed unanswered. Arthur, on the other hand, strolled in later with Rivaldo by his side, looking as if the room belonged to him. The mood was night and day. Where Rijkaard had been tense and cagey, Arthur was grinning like someone who'd just gotten away with the perfect prank. Rivaldo, holding his Man of the Match trophy, looked calm, almost shy, but you could see the quiet satisfaction in his eyes. The inevitable question came: "Arthur, what's your opinion on Rivaldo's performance today?" Arthur didn't pretend to be modest or diplomatic. Oh no — he decided to have a little fun with it. "Great!" he began, leaning into the microphone with a sparkle in his eyes. "Can you imagine? This is the competitive level of a player who's about to turn thirty-five! When Ferreira scored in the second half, I couldn't help but wonder how bad Rivaldo must have been, in Mr. Van Gaal's mind, to be sent off to Italy so resolutely. And Frank here didn't even think Motta should stick to him tightly. That's also a bit of a mystery to me, hehehe." The room collectively inhaled. Hissssssss... This wasn't just praise — Arthur had just lobbed a couple of verbal grenades in the direction of Van Gaal and Rijkaard. Van Gaal wasn't even in the same country anymore, having gone back to the Netherlands, but the man was famous for his long memory and quick temper. If Leeds and Van Gaal's current team ever crossed paths in the Champions League, those comments were going to be dragged back into the spotlight faster than you could say "pre-match mind games." The reporters' eyes lit up. Fingers flew over laptop keyboards as they tried to get every word down. This was gold — not just the story of Rivaldo's return, but a managerial jab that would make tomorrow's headlines twice as juicy. Beside him, Rivaldo didn't match Arthur's flair for stirring trouble. When it was his turn to speak, he gave his usual straightforward answers. "I admit," he said plainly, "that I had some resentment towards Barcelona for letting me go. But that's in the past. Life is about looking forward. At the end of my career, I've been lucky to work with a head coach like Arthur. On and off the pitch, he gives his players the greatest emotional value. I think that's one of the keys to Leeds United's victory today." It was said with such sincerity that even a few cynical reporters nodded along. Then came the next question, the one everyone had been waiting for: "Rivaldo, would you consider retiring at Leeds United?" The Brazilian didn't hesitate. "Absolutely. As long as Arthur doesn't give up on me, I'll dedicate the rest of my career to Leeds United. Thank you." And with that, the press room erupted in a wave of typing, muttering, and satisfied grins. The story had everything — a fallen hero's redemption, a victory over an old club, a coach who couldn't resist stirring the pot, and a veteran's public declaration of loyalty. Arthur leaned back, smiling like a man who knew he'd just won twice in one day — once on the pitch, and once in the headlines. ***** The first leg of the Champions League Round of 16 was officially in the books, and football across Europe was buzzing like a pub after free beer. Over in Portugal, José Mourinho had returned to his homeland with Chelsea, probably expecting a heroic homecoming—something like a Hollywood sports movie ending. Instead, he found himself in a tactical stalemate. Chelsea could only scrape a 1–1 draw against Porto, and Mourinho's smug post-match smirk was a touch tighter than usual. Manchester United, meanwhile, handled business as expected, swatting aside Lille in a match that offered about as many surprises as a boiled potato. But among the remaining three Premier League teams, there was one result that made the football world spit out its tea. Leeds United—not Arsenal, not Liverpool—were the only English side to grab a win. And not just any win. Arthur, the man who'd been called many things—madman, miracle worker, tactical troll—had marched into the Nou Camp and somehow left with a 2–1 victory over Frank Rijkaard's defending champions. Two away goals. Against Barcelona. At their fortress. The kind of scoreline you'd expect to see in a video game where someone had accidentally left "Beginner Mode" on. Before the match, pundits had laughed at the idea. "A draw would be a miracle," they said. "If Leeds score an away goal, it'll be like Christmas in February," they added. Well, Arthur had apparently decided to be Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, and tooth fairy all at once—bringing not just a goal, but a full win, gift-wrapped in tactical stubbornness. By the next morning, every sports paper in Europe had plastered the story across their front pages. Some went for poetic headlines, others for sharp sarcasm. But the Yorkshire Post absolutely nailed it. The main spread featured two photos, side-by-side, that told the entire story without a single word. On the left: Arthur on the pitch, laughing and hugging Rivaldo like they'd just won the lottery. On the right: Rijkaard with one hand on Samuel Eto'o's shoulder, the striker slumped on the grass, while the Barcelona boss muttered something that could only be described as "resigned disappointment." Underneath the photos, the Post gleefully reminded everyone of Arthur's post-match jab during the press conference: "Well, Rijkaard didn't send Motta to specifically guard Rivaldo... so, you know, thanks for that." The shade was strong enough to block out the Spanish sun. And it wasn't just the local press eating this up. Across Europe, the foreign media poured praise on Leeds United's performance: "The biggest upset of the Champions League matchday! Defending champions Barcelona stunned at home by Leeds United, 1–2." "Old soldiers never die! Rivaldo proves he can still rule the big stage!" "Arthur: A collector of fresh young stars? Nonsense! Under my orders, veterans can still burn bright!" "Rijkaard: It's a pity we didn't win at home, but it's too early to talk about elimination. Football's a funny game—we'll see what happens in the second leg." "With one foot already in the quarterfinals, Leeds United are marching forward on all fronts. Could the title be more than just a dream?" For Leeds, the win was more than just three points—it was a war medal. To walk into Camp Nou, steal a victory, and grab two away goals was the kind of achievement that managers frame in their living rooms. Arthur wasn't about to let that pass without a reward. Despite a league fixture looming on Sunday, he shocked everyone by giving the squad a full day off. The players, in turn, rewarded him in the best possible way—by not using that free day to get hammered in some pub and show up half-asleep for training. Instead, they arrived on Sunday looking fresher than a bakery loaf. That Sunday's Premier League clash saw Leeds United hosting Newcastle United at Elland Road. Now, in the grand scheme of things, this was supposed to be a "keep it tidy, don't get injured" kind of match. With the all-important second leg against Barcelona coming up in just a few days, Arthur made it clear he was prioritizing fresh legs. So, out came the rotation policy in full force. A good chunk of the starting eleven were given the day off, and the benchwarmers—many of whom had spent the past few weeks shivering under tracksuits—were told to get out there and prove they were more than just professional seat-warmers. Arthur figured the game would be tight. Maybe they'd grab a scrappy 1–0 win or grind out a draw. What he didn't expect was for his "B Team" to suddenly transform into prime Real Madrid. From the first whistle, they played like men possessed. It took less than ten minutes for the first goal to arrive. A slick passing move down the right, a whipped-in cross, and a clinical header into the bottom corner. The crowd roared, and Arthur actually chuckled to himself on the touchline, muttering, "Alright lads, don't get carried away..." They ignored him. By the half-hour mark, it was 2–0. This time, a sharp interception in midfield turned into a lightning counterattack, the kind that left Newcastle's defence spinning like a malfunctioning turnstile. One through-ball, one cool finish, and Elland Road was bouncing again. Then came the third—less than forty minutes on the clock. A well-worked corner routine, a thumping shot from just outside the box, and the home fans were in dreamland. It wasn't even halftime, and Leeds had effectively slammed the door shut on Newcastle's hopes. Arthur stood there in his coat, arms folded, pretending to be calm, but inside his head he was thinking: "Where has this been all season? And why couldn't you lot do this when I needed a cup result?" The second half was almost academic. Leeds didn't need to overextend themselves; they simply managed the game, kept the ball, and let the minutes tick away like an obedient metronome. When the final whistle blew, the scoreboard still read 3–0. It wasn't just a win—it was a statement. Even with heavy rotation, Leeds United were still top of the Premier League table, holding their lead thanks to goal difference. And with Barcelona looming on the horizon, Arthur knew he had both momentum and morale firmly on his side. The Nou Camp miracle had been no fluke—and if Leeds kept this up, the season's script might just be rewritten in their favour.

Chapter 222: Aftermath

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