Chapter 227: High Spirits

With the draw against AC Milan tucked neatly in their pockets like a lucky charm, the Leeds United squad flew back to England. Spirits were high, but the atmosphere was also heavy with that strange tension footballers get when they know another battle is just around the corner. The Champions League was looming large, but first, there was the little matter of Bolton Wanderers on Sunday. By Friday, training wrapped up under a grey Yorkshire sky, and Arthur retreated to his office with the team sheet freshly written on his clipboard. He'd carefully arranged his strongest eleven, neat names scribbled in his firm handwriting, when the door creaked open and in strolled Diego Simeone. The Argentine assistant didn't even bother with pleasantries. He leaned over the desk, eyes narrowing at the lineup as though Arthur had just tried to sneak ketchup into a Michelin-starred dish. "Boss," Simeone said, lifting an eyebrow, "it's Bolton. Just Bolton. Do we really need to wheel out the cavalry for this one? We've got a war in midweek." Arthur slammed his pen on the desk and leaned back in his chair, groaning. "Bloody hell, Diego, what do you expect me to do? The fixture list is stitched together by lunatics. Three games in seven days—what are they, sadists? We're lucky they didn't throw Manchester United at us this weekend. I'd have written to Parliament." Simeone chuckled, but his tone carried that mischievous persistence he was famous for. "Honestly, boss, I don't blame the FA for this. Maybe they just didn't expect us to still be in the Champions League. Probably thought we'd be back home with a pint weeks ago. But still, rotation is important. These lads aren't robots, no matter how much Zlatan insists he's built different. Three matches in a week—something's going to snap." Arthur scratched his chin, staring at the paper like it had personally insulted him. "So, what are you saying then, Diego? You've clearly come here to tear apart my hard work. Spit it out." Simeone slapped a folded league schedule on the desk like a lawyer presenting Exhibit A. His voice had that rhythm of a man warming up for a lecture. "Look, Champions League is the bigger prize here. We've already got two away goals in our pocket, which is a massive advantage. Semi-finals are in sight. As for the league—yes, we're two points behind United, but there are seven rounds left. United still have Chelsea coming up, and they've got Europe to worry about too. They'll drop points, you can bet on it." Arthur sat forward, resting his chin in his hands. Simeone was on a roll now. "And, boss," Diego continued, pacing like a politician building to a grand point, "I know you've been fretting about Kaka. Don't think I didn't notice you watching his highlight reels like a man watching a horror film through his fingers. I've studied him too. He's... ridiculous. Honestly, if he keeps playing like this, we can't stop him completely. But here's the thing—we don't need to. Because they can't stop all of ours either." Arthur tapped the desk with his knuckle, his mind churning. Simeone's words made perfect sense, damn him. He'd been standing on the San Siro touchline a few nights ago, watching helplessly as Kaka danced through defenders like they were traffic cones. Equalizing in stoppage time had saved Leeds' skin, but Arthur hadn't felt the relief he should have. Deep down, one thought gnawed at him: What if we simply can't stop that man? He rubbed his face now, exhaling. "Diego, you've got a point. I've been stuck in a dead end. I kept thinking about how to contain Kaka, but maybe that's the wrong question. Maybe we don't try to cage the beast at all." Simeone leaned in, smirking. "Exactly. Forget the leash, boss. Just let our lads off theirs. You've got Ribery, Ibrahimović, Torres, Silva... if Milan want to play 'my superstar versus your superstar,' we can go toe-to-toe. It's chess, not hide-and-seek." Arthur gave a weary laugh. "Chess, eh? More like bare-knuckle boxing dressed up with fancy uniforms. But you're right. If we can't stop Kaka, we'll just hit back harder. Make Ancelotti sweat a bit for once." For a moment, the room was quiet, just the scratching of Arthur's pen as he tweaked the lineup, Simeone watching with folded arms. The problem was, Arthur still felt that knot in his gut. Leeds fans, pundits, even neutrals were already whispering that his team were destined for the Champions League semi-finals. But Arthur couldn't shake the unease. The truth was simple: Kaka terrified him. Not in the way an opponent usually did—not like Drogba bulldozing defenders or Rooney snarling like a rabid bulldog. No, Kaka scared him because the man moved with an elegance that made defenders look like amateurs. Watching him was like seeing a gazelle outrun lions, except the gazelle then stopped to nutmeg you just for fun. Still, Simeone's reminder jolted Arthur back to reality. Leeds United weren't passengers in this tournament; they were drivers with their foot on the accelerator. If Kaka was unstoppable, fine—then Leeds would become equally uncontainable. He leaned back in his chair, a wry grin tugging at his lips. "Alright, Diego. You win. Against Bolton, we'll juggle the squad. Give the key lads some rest before Milan. But come midweek, we won't bother with half measures. Let Kaka run all he likes—we'll just run further, faster, and hit harder." Simeone grinned, satisfied. "That's the spirit, boss. Besides, isn't that the beauty of football? You never know who's winning until the final whistle. United might be ahead now, but there are twists waiting for them. And us." Arthur nodded, eyes flicking back to the calendar pinned on the wall. Seven league matches left, two points behind Manchester United, and the Champions League quarters balanced on a knife's edge. Anything could happen. And in football, it usually did. ***** Sunday afternoon arrived with all the usual tension of a Premier League weekend. The stands at Elland Road were packed to the brim, fans waving their white scarves and banners as if they were going into battle. Leeds United were hosting Bolton Wanderers, a side that had been punching well above their weight all season. Bolton weren't the kind of team people thought of when discussing flair or beauty. No, they were stubborn, bruising, annoyingly difficult to break down, and had the sort of forward line that gave defenders sleepless nights. They were sitting fifth in the table with 50 points, which was frankly outrageous for a team that usually hovered around mid-table like a pigeon looking for crumbs. In fact, they were ahead of Liverpool at this point, which alone was enough to earn Sam Allardyce a permanent spot on Bolton's Christmas card list. Europa League football was almost guaranteed for them, and their fans were dreaming of trips to Spain or Italy, or at least somewhere warmer than Bolton in December. The big reason for Bolton's success was their "black wind duo" upfront: Nicolas Anelka and El-Hadji Diouf. Together, they were a nightmare combination. Anelka had that cool, almost arrogant swagger that made him look like he was bored until he suddenly put the ball in the net. Diouf, on the other hand, was the kind of player who could infuriate entire stadiums in minutes, and he seemed to love every second of it. Dirty tricks, endless chatter, and unpredictable bursts of skill—he was as slippery as an eel dipped in oil. Arthur, however, wasn't having any of it. He had circled this game on his calendar and decided these two troublemakers weren't going to ruin his Sunday. The solution? Unleash his young defensive pairing: David Silva—no, not that Silva, the Spanish magician was further upfield—but a sturdy academy defender filling in, alongside Mats Hummels, the tall German lad who looked like he'd been born to head away crosses and glare at strikers. From the opening whistle, Arthur's plan worked beautifully. Silva stuck to Diouf like glue, not giving him a moment's peace. Every time Diouf tried one of his flashy flicks or his irritating little wind-up antics, Silva was there, poking the ball away and giving him a shove for good measure. Hummels, meanwhile, locked horns with Anelka. If Anelka drifted left, Hummels was there. If he cut inside, Hummels blocked him. The Frenchman found himself shooting from hopeless angles, while Arthur on the touchline crossed his arms and smirked like a man watching a plan come together. The match itself wasn't a carnival of goals, but Leeds didn't need fireworks. What they needed was control, and they got it. Midway through the first half, Luka Modrić decided he'd had enough of Bolton's deep defending. Picking up the ball outside the penalty area, he shifted it onto his right foot and let fly. The ball whistled through the air like it was laser-guided and smacked into the back of the net before Jussi Jääskeläinen could even twitch. Elland Road exploded. The fans roared, Modrić was buried under a pile of teammates, and Arthur clenched his fist so hard on the sideline you'd think he was trying to break invisible handcuffs. "That's how you do it, lads!" he shouted, his voice half drowned by the roar of the crowd. From that point on, Leeds played with intelligence. They didn't push recklessly forward; they sat on their lead, managed the tempo, and refused to give Bolton's strikers the space they craved. Time and again, Bolton tried to pump the ball into the box, but Hummels' forehead was basically a brick wall. Silva slid into tackles like he was auditioning for a stunt show, and even the midfielders tracked back with discipline. By the time the final whistle blew, the scoreboard read 1–0 to Leeds United. It wasn't glamorous, but it was effective, and three points were safely in the bag. The players walked off to chants of "Marching on Together," while Arthur allowed himself a small grin. He knew it hadn't been perfect, but a win was a win. ···· After the press conference, Arthur finally escaped the reporters' barrage of questions about the title race, Kaka, and whether he ever smiled (to which he had simply raised an eyebrow). He opened the door to the dressing room, still loosening his tie, only to be ambushed by Simeone, who came charging over like a kid with a winning lottery ticket. "Boss! Boss!" Simeone was practically hopping up and down, his phone in hand and his face lit up with excitement. "Great news! Manchester United have overturned!!!" Arthur froze, mid-step, one shoe untied. "Eh? What are you on about?" His eyes widened. "Wait, don't tell me United actually lost? Oh my God—have we leapfrogged them again? Bloody hell, Ferguson must be losing his marbles. Don't tell me Portsmouth of all teams beat them?" Simeone nodded, then shook his head dramatically, like he was performing a comedy routine. "Well... not exactly, boss. They didn't lose. They were just held to a draw by Portsmouth." Arthur blinked, then slapped his forehead with exaggerated despair. "So you mean to tell me, after all that excitement, they didn't lose at all? For a moment I thought the universe was finally giving us a favour. And you, Diego—you made it sound like a full-blown disaster for them!" "Hey, a draw still counts, doesn't it?" Simeone grinned, waving his phone. "We've overtaken them on goal difference. Top of the table again, boss! Hahahaha!" Arthur paused, then burst out laughing himself. "Well, I'll take it. But for a second there, I thought Ferguson had really bottled it. Honestly, Manchester United, tripping up against Portsmouth... oh wait—my phone's going off." The ringtone cut through their laughter. Arthur fished the phone out of his pocket, glanced at the screen, and saw it was Alan calling. He raised an eyebrow and answered. "Boss," Alan's voice came briskly from the other end. "Raiola's in Leeds. He wants to know if you're free tomorrow. If you are, he'll come by to see you." Arthur's expression shifted from amusement to mild suspicion. "Raiola? That walking meatball? What's he up to now? He doesn't just drop by for a cup of tea." Alan lowered his voice, conspiratorial. "You remember you asked me to keep an eye on Thierry Henry's situation? I mentioned it to him. He says there might be some progress." Arthur sat up straighter, now fully alert. "Ohhh, now that's different. Fine. Tell him to come by the club tomorrow morning. I'll be waiting in the office." ···· The next morning, Arthur welcomed Mino Raiola into his office. The super-agent waddled in, his shirt buttons threatening mutiny against the sheer pressure of his belly. Arthur greeted him with a grin, unable to resist a jab. "Mino, good grief—you've been feasting like a king! How many buffets have you wiped out lately?!" Raiola chuckled sheepishly, patting his stomach as though it had a personality of its own. "Mr. Arthur, please, don't blame me. It's not the food, it's the body type! I swear, even drinking cold water makes me gain weight. Believe me, it's a curse." Arthur leaned back in his chair, laughing heartily. "Alright, alright, I'll stop. I'm only winding you up. Now—enough about your diet. Alan said you've got news for me?" "Yes, Mr. Morgan," Raiola said, his tone suddenly serious as he adjusted himself on the sofa. "If nothing unexpected happens... Henry's move to Barcelona is basically settled."