Chapter 226: San Siro Clash

"Boss, this bastard is attacking us again." The sharp bark of Simeone's voice cut through the spring air of the training ground. Arthur stood in the center circle, arms folded, watching his players go through warm-ups. Cones were laid out neatly, bibs already sweat-stained after just twenty minutes, and the steady rhythm of boots smacking against footballs filled the air. But Simeone, stomping toward him with the gait of a furious general who'd just been handed the wrong battle plan, wasn't paying attention to any of that. He was fuming, waving a laptop as if it were a sword. Arthur didn't need to guess who "the bastard" was. The name leapt into his mind instantly, like a reflex born of irritation: Charles bloody Walters. Arthur sighed and took the computer from Simeone. He didn't even need to scroll—there it was, staring him in the face. The Manchester Evening News sports section had splashed a headline across the top in bold, smug letters: "Leeds United, a weak successor, an illusory declaration of winning the championship." And just underneath, in smaller type as if the writer were ashamed of his own existence: Charles Walters. Arthur snorted. Of course it was him. Ever since Arthur had torn into Walters during a press conference weeks ago, the journalist had disappeared from sight. Not a peep, not a word. Arthur had half-hoped the man had finally been fired, exiled to writing about pigeon racing or darts. But no, apparently the rat had scuttled back out of his hole. He skimmed the article quickly. Same recycled drivel: Leeds aren't good enough, Leeds don't have the squad depth, Leeds declaring themselves contenders is laughable. Arthur's eyes rolled so hard he thought they might lodge in the back of his skull. He slapped the laptop shut and shoved it back into Simeone's chest. "Nothing new," Arthur said flatly. "He's been saying the same crap for months. Leeds want to win the title? Ha ha, ridiculous. Honestly, he should just copy-paste his last piece and save the editor some ink." Simeone looked like he was about to chew through the computer casing. "Boss, I'm going to find Lind and ask him to help us write a counterattack! We can hit back in the press. Call him out properly. We can't let this stand." Arthur shook his head, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. "Don't waste your energy. He's just a clown. You don't fight clowns with words—you just let them trip over their own oversized shoes. Results are all that matter in this sport. The uncrowned king is always uncrowned. Do you understand what I mean?" "But boss!" Simeone protested, throwing his arms wide. "Every time we slip up—just once—this kid jumps out barking like a stray dog outside a butcher's!" Arthur chuckled, unable to help himself. "Exactly. So wouldn't it feel better to slap him in the face with the trophy at the end? Let him bark all season, and when we're lifting the title, he'll choke on his typewriter." Simeone's glare softened slightly, though he still muttered darkly under his breath. Arthur clapped him on the shoulder and turned his attention back to the players. "Come on, enough of this sideshow. The next game can't end in a draw. Back to training." Saturday came quickly. The Leeds team rolled up to The Valley, Charlton's stadium, brimming with determination. The mood on the bus was businesslike. They weren't here for sightseeing or for a slow jog—they were here for three points. Arthur had made his plan clear: rotate, rotate, rotate. Charlton weren't exactly giants of the Premier League, and in just a few days Leeds would be jetting off to Italy for a far sterner test: the first leg of the Champions League quarterfinals against AC Milan. That, Arthur had told his staff, was where the heavy artillery was needed. Charlton? They could be handled with the reserves. So Arthur rang the changes. He even dropped Sun Jihai into the starting lineup, giving the veteran a chance to stretch his legs. The players understood the assignment: keep it professional, don't take silly risks, get the job done, and get out. And get out they did. Charlton, even against what was essentially Leeds' "Plan B" eleven, barely laid a glove on them. They huffed and puffed but never looked like blowing the house down. Arthur watched from the touchline, calm as a man sipping tea in his garden. The breakthrough came courtesy of Lukas Podolski, thundering forward and meeting a cross with a header that nearly dented the net. Leeds 1–0. Job done. When the whistle blew, Arthur barely celebrated. For him, this had always been a "pick up three points and leave" type of match. They had, and that was that. And then it was time for the big one. The Champions League quarterfinals. AC Milan. San Siro. Unlike the tie against Barcelona, where everyone had been skeptical of Leeds, the mood outside was very different now. The English press were practically giddy. Leeds had beaten Barcelona—the defending champions—home and away. Surely AC Milan, who had stumbled and scraped their way past Celtic, would be easier? Arthur read the headlines on the flight over: "Leeds to make light work of Milan?" "Kaka can't carry them forever!" "Leeds United clear favorites in Italy." He almost laughed. If only they knew. He remembered vividly watching this season's Champions League final in his previous life. That night had changed the way he saw football. Sometimes, a single world-class player could haul an entire team onto his shoulders. And AC Milan had one of those rare players: Kaka. The Brazilian was in the form of his life, capable of destroying any opponent, anywhere. Arthur knew the danger. He wasn't fooled by Milan's stumbles in Serie A. This was no easy tie. April 4, 2007. San Siro Stadium. The cathedral of Italian football buzzed with anticipation. Floodlights bathed the pitch in white. Fans waved red and black banners, their chants booming off the concrete like rolling thunder. Leeds and Milan lined up in the tunnel, two very different worlds colliding—youthful underdogs against storied giants. Arthur stood calmly, hands in his pockets, exuding confidence he only half felt. On the opposite bench, there he was: Carlo Ancelotti. The man looked like everyone's favorite uncle—round cheeks, gentle smile, radiating harmlessness. But Arthur knew better. This was a wily old fox. Ancelotti finished briefing his staff, then waddled over cheerfully, hand outstretched. "Arthur, good evening," he said warmly. "You have to tell your Leeds boys to go easy on us later!" Arthur grinned back, taking the handshake. For all their rivalry, he couldn't help but like Carlo. "Good evening, Carlo. Alright then, deal—tell your players to kick the ball into their own net near the end, and I'll make sure my lads don't press too hard. Hehehe." Ancelotti wagged his head, chuckling. "That won't work. I need the Champions League this year just to earn some bonuses. You've got to leave me a way out!" Arthur was ready to volley back another joke when, out of nowhere, Simeone barged between them. "Alright, alright, you two comedians," Simeone barked. "You've finished guessing sides, now how about you take your positions? The cameras are pointed right at you, long lenses and microphones everywhere. You don't want this unbelievably dodgy conversation overheard by the press, do you?" Both Arthur and Ancelotti turned in unison. "Get lost!" they snapped together. And then, laughing like old friends, they broke apart and headed back to their benches, ready for the referee's opening whistle. ***** The San Siro was buzzing, a boiling pot of red and black as the Champions League quarterfinal reached its first leg. Leeds United, the upstart Premier League leaders, were daring to go toe-to-toe with AC Milan in their own backyard. The Italians strutted with their usual elegance—Maldini, Gattuso, Seedorf, Kaka, Pirlo—names that carried weight like heavy stone tablets carved into football history. On the sideline, Arthur tugged at his jacket, pacing like a man who had lost his car keys but remembered they were definitely in the house somewhere. He had drilled his lads all week about one thing: don't let Pirlo and Kaka run the show. If Milan were an orchestra, those two were the conductors, and Arthur had sent out Yaya Touré and Javier Mascherano as the footballing equivalent of very large, very angry bouncers to keep them quiet. And for forty minutes, it worked. Lineker's voice rang through English living rooms everywhere: "Leeds United are doing brilliantly here! Away from home against Milan and they've held strong. They've even had a few half-chances of their own—impressive stuff." Jon, his partner in crime on commentary, agreed. "Schmeichel especially—what a first half he's had! He's pulled off at least three saves that had goals written all over them. The lad's keeping Leeds alive here." Arthur, watching from the sideline, was rubbing his chin smugly, muttering to himself: "See? Told you this midfield shield would work. Pirlo can't breathe with Yaya breathing down his neck. Kaka can't even sneeze without Mascherano asking for the tissue." But football, as Arthur knew too well, has a cruel sense of humor. In the 40th minute, Milan won a corner. Clarence Seedorf, strolling to the flag with all the swagger of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, whipped in a short ball to Kaka near the byline. Arthur immediately shouted, "Don't fall for it! Stay compact!" waving his arms like a man trying to land a plane. Kaka, smooth as silk, took two touches into the box before cutting back. He then shaped up and squared a neat little triangle ball right to the top of the Leeds penalty area—straight to Pirlo. "Ahhh, here we go," Lineker groaned, leaning forward. Pirlo shaped to shoot. Yaya Touré, bless him, came charging out like a tank, arms spread wide, ready to block. But Pirlo, sly devil that he was, didn't shoot. Instead, he nudged it calmly backward to Massimo Oddo, who was lurking behind him. Leeds' defense, thinking the danger was over, stepped out as one. And that's when Pirlo turned assassin. Oddo clipped a curling ball right back into the box. Out of nowhere, Pirlo, who everyone assumed was chilling by the edge of the area, made a diagonal sprint past three defenders like a man slipping through closing train doors. The offside trap was broken. The timing was devilish. He rose, elegant as a dancer, and flicked a looping header over Kasper Schmeichel. The young keeper stretched, scrambled, even backpedaled with the desperation of a man chasing after his runaway grocery cart—but it was too late. The ball dropped into the net. San Siro exploded. Red and black flags waved, flares hissed, and Pirlo, usually the calmest man in football, actually smiled as Kaka leapt onto him in celebration. "The ball went in! Pirlo's header! Leeds United's defense has finally cracked!" Lineker cried, half in awe, half in despair. "For forty minutes Leeds had Milan under wraps, but the maestro—of all people—becomes the killer! Who would've expected that?" Jon chimed in instantly: "And what a clever goal it was! We always think of Pirlo as the man pulling the strings in midfield, setting up Inzaghi or Kaka. But here, he flips the script! He's the one making the run, and the finish was exquisite!" On the sideline, Arthur froze, face like thunder. He muttered through gritted teeth: "Bloody hell. I put two bulldogs on him, and the one time he sneaks loose, he scores with his head! His head! Pirlo, of all people! That's like seeing a penguin win a high jump." He kicked the air in frustration, then stood arms crossed, glaring at his defense as if he could melt them on the spot. Yaya shook his head, Mascherano cursed in Spanish, and Schmeichel slapped the post angrily. 1–0 Milan. Leeds had been punched right in the gut. ···· Half-time came, mercifully. Arthur marched into the dressing room, the air heavy with frustration. He didn't throw teacups or hairdryers; instead, he fixed his players with the kind of sarcastic smirk that was worse than shouting. "Oh, well done, lads," he said, voice dripping with mock cheer. "We've just made Pirlo look like Inzaghi. A header! I mean, did anyone even know Pirlo had a neck that worked for jumping?" The players laughed nervously. It broke the tension just enough. Arthur leaned in seriously. "Listen, we're still in this. One away goal and we're golden. Keep the shape, but when the chance comes, we need numbers in the box. Got it?" They all nodded. When the second half began, Arthur acted quickly. He rolled the dice. Off came Xabi Alonso, on came Fernando Torres. The formation shifted from 4-2-3-1 to a bold 4-4-2. Two strikers. Two men in the box at all times. Arthur clapped his hands furiously on the sideline: "Let's go hunt!" Milan, smug with their lead, slowed the tempo. They stroked the ball around, content to keep Leeds chasing shadows. But Leeds grew into the half. Ribéry and Ronaldo buzzed wide, Torres gave Zlatan company up top, and the midfield snapped into tackles with even more bite. Time ticked by, tension mounting. 60 minutes. 70 minutes. Milan still led. Arthur prowled his technical area, barking instructions like a street vendor who refused to be ignored. Then came the 78th minute. Leeds worked it right, Ribéry with the ball at his feet. He looked up, swung in a cross from that magical 45-degree angle—just between the defense and goalkeeper. Ibrahimović rose at the back post, wrestling Oddo like two giants in a pub brawl. Zlatan's head met the ball, but instead of a clean strike, it ricocheted awkwardly backward. The rebound dropped into the six-yard box, chaos everywhere. And there was Torres. Fresh legs, hungry eyes. He darted onto it, swung his left foot, and lashed the ball home before anyone could blink. The net bulged. Leeds had equalized. "GOAL! Torres! Leeds United are level!" Lineker's voice almost cracked with relief. "Arthur's gamble pays off! The substitution, the formation change—it's worked! Leeds have that precious away goal!" Jon was just as animated: "What a huge moment! Ribéry's delivery, Zlatan's nuisance at the back post, and Torres finishing it off—it's exactly what Arthur was hoping for when he made that brave switch!" Arthur, on the touchline, punched the air, face alight with manic joy. He turned to his bench, shouting: "Told you! Genius move, wasn't it? I should write a bloody book!" The away fans in their small corner of San Siro roared like lions, drowning out even some of the Milan ultras. Leeds had clawed their way back into the tie. And with that, the game poised delicately once more, the drama was set for its final act... ***** Arthur had been pacing the technical area like a nervous father watching his child take their first driving lesson in a Ferrari. His fists, however, were clenched tightly the moment Torres smashed the ball into the net. The equaliser had come, the away goal was in the bag, and there were barely a dozen minutes left on the clock. For Arthur, that was as close to "job done" as you could get against AC Milan in the San Siro. Stable! he thought, his jaw tight but his chest swelling with cautious pride. Just hold on. Just keep things tidy. Just get these minutes over with and take the 1–1 back to Elland Road. But of course, football had a nasty habit of laughing at people who used the words "just hold on." Because five minutes later, everything went to hell. It began innocently enough—Pirlo, the eternal maestro, slipped a pass out wide to Kaka on the left. The Brazilian, smooth as a cat walking across silk sheets, stopped the ball dead under his boot. Dani Alves sprinted across to meet him, full of energy and righteous aggression. "Go on, Dani, eat him alive!" Arthur shouted from the touchline, fists waving as though Alves could hear him over the roar of the San Siro. But Kaka was no ordinary dinner. He threw in a cheeky feint, sold Alves the story of his life, and slid past him as though the Brazilian full-back was little more than a traffic cone with fancy boots. Arthur's heart sank as he watched his right-back's desperate lunge miss by a yard. And then Cannavaro stepped up. The Italian legend, calm as ever, moved across to cover, setting himself low and waiting for the right moment. "Come on, Fabio, this is what you live for!" Arthur muttered under his breath, eyes glued to the duel. But Kaka didn't give him a chance. With a burst of speed that looked almost unfair, he powered forward, leaving Cannavaro scrambling to keep up. It was like watching a man chasing after a runaway train—brave, but ultimately hopeless. Cannavaro had one card left to play: the tackle. Sliding in, studs angled perfectly, Cannavaro went for the ball the way he'd done a thousand times before. Nine times out of ten, he'd win it cleanly. But this wasn't the tenth time. This was the cursed one. His boot missed leather entirely. Instead, Kaka's legs tangled with him, and down the Brazilian went, skidding across the grass like he'd been struck by a sniper. The San Siro erupted. The referee, barely five yards away, didn't hesitate. He sprinted towards the scene, arm raised, and pointed straight at the spot. Arthur's stomach flipped. "No. Oh, no, no, no... you've got to be joking!" The whistle shrilled, and then—bang. Out came the dreaded red card. "WHAT?! You've lost your bloody mind!" Arthur bellowed at the fourth official, who very wisely chose to stare at the ground as if the grass patterns were suddenly fascinating. Cannavaro stood frozen, arms raised in protest, his face twisted in disbelief. The rest of the Leeds players crowded the referee, their voices cracking with anger. But the man in black was unmoved. Penalty. Red card. No debate. Arthur wanted to march onto the pitch and demand a retrial, maybe even call in VAR from the future, but alas—2007 had no such luxuries. Kaka picked himself up, dusted off, and placed the ball on the spot. Schmeichel danced on his line like a man trying to ward off evil spirits, arms waving, knees bouncing. He muttered something under his breath—likely some Danish curse words that even the referee wouldn't understand. The whistle blew. Kaka stuttered his run, leaned left, and then calmly rolled the ball into the bottom right corner. Schmeichel dived the wrong way. Goal. 2–1 to Milan. Arthur's fists unclenched. His arms dropped to his sides, and he gave a little bitter laugh, the kind of laugh a man makes when he knows the universe is mocking him. He tilted his head back and stared at the heavens as though hoping for a lightning bolt to strike someone—anyone—but himself. "Bloody hell," he muttered. Up in the commentary box, Lineker groaned audibly, holding his head like a man who'd just realised he'd left his car keys in the oven. "Oh dear, Leeds United are in danger now!" Lineker's voice was sharp with tension. "Arthur looked so relieved just minutes ago, but Kaka has torn it all apart. Both of Milan's goals tonight bear his fingerprints! The first he orchestrated, the second was all him—a moment of brilliance!" Jon chimed in, voice laced with admiration: "I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like that sprint. Did you notice? With the ball at his feet, he's somehow faster than when he's running without it! That's ridiculous. And Cannavaro—how many times do you see him commit like that, go to ground, and not touch the ball? Rarely. Almost never." Lineker sighed. "But still—Leeds have their away goal. Cannavaro's suspension will hurt, but Silva and Kompany can step in. Arthur will have to adjust, but I think he'll learn from this. Next time, he'll put extra guards on Kaka and Pirlo. That's the only way." Arthur, pacing the sideline, couldn't hear the commentary but felt the same grim conclusion. He knew they were likely going to lose tonight. But if it ended 2–1, that was a wound he could live with. Back at Elland Road, with the fans behind them, Leeds could overturn this. And then... football decided to have one last laugh. The clock ticked into injury time, the San Siro already buzzing with whistles from impatient Milan fans begging for the final blow. Leeds, clinging desperately to hope, won a set-piece near the centre circle in the 93rd minute. Ribery stood over the ball, glancing upfield. There was no time for anything clever. No short passes, no rehearsed routines. Just get it in there and pray. Arthur screamed from the sidelines: "Launch it, Franck! Put it in the mixer!" And Ribery obeyed. With no hesitation, he launched the ball high and deep into the Milan penalty area. Bodies clashed. Shirts were tugged. Boots flew. The ball bounced once, then twice, evading the desperate heads at the near post. It squirmed through the chaos, bobbling toward the back. And there—waiting like a hunter—was Ibrahimović. The Swede cushioned it with his chest, his hair flicking back as if the gods themselves were spotlighting him. In one smooth motion, he swung his left foot. BOOM. The shot tore through the air like a missile, arrowing for the bottom right corner. Dida, Milan's keeper, reacted fast. He spread his massive frame, fingertips stretching desperately. But it wasn't enough. The ball grazed his hand, kissed the inside of the post, and slammed into the net. GOAL. 2–2. For a split second, the San Siro was silent, stunned by the audacity of it. Then the away section of Leeds fans exploded, a thunderous roar of disbelief and joy. Arthur leapt in the air, fists punching the sky, screaming incoherently. His coaching staff swarmed him, arms around shoulders, all of them laughing like madmen. Leeds had equalised. At the death. The final whistle blew. Leeds United had survived Milan. 2–2. And Arthur stood there on the touchline, chest heaving, hair a mess, his grin stretched wide. Somehow, by some miracle, they were still alive in this tie.