Chapter 24: Offers are coming

Halftime arrived, and the tension in the away locker room was palpable. It was as if someone had turned off all the lights and replaced the usual noise with a thick, suffocating silence. Reading's coach, Steve Coppell, stood at the whiteboard, his pen poised like a sword ready for battle, as he meticulously drew out his tactical adjustments for the second half. The "swish, swish" sound of the pen scraping against the board was the only noise that dared to interrupt the quiet. It wasn't exactly the pre-game pep talk atmosphere you'd expect. More like a surgeon prepping for an operation... except this was more about tactics and less about saving lives. The Reading players sat in a semi-circle around the whiteboard, staring at the scribbles like they were deciphering ancient hieroglyphics. No one said a word. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. It was like they were all waiting for the other shoe to drop. And it did. "Bang!" Coppell slammed the pen down with such force that it ricocheted off the corner of the room and almost hit one of his players in the head. The veins in his temples were now bulging out, looking like they might burst at any second. His face was as red as a tomato and probably just as juicy with rage. Taking a deep breath, probably so deep it almost sounded like a growl, Coppell tried to regain some semblance of composure. His voice came out gruff but more controlled this time. "Alright, guys," he began, "most of the blame for that goal in the first half is on me. My tactical arrangement was off. I got it wrong. But we can still turn this around." The players, who had been holding their breath, finally let it out in unison. You could almost hear the collective sigh of relief. They had been expecting a full-on rant, but instead, Coppell took responsibility. They were in trouble, sure, but at least the coach wasn't about to explode like a shaken bottle of soda. Coppell looked at them, making eye contact with each player, and his voice took on a more serious tone. "Now, this second half is going to be tough. We've all seen it—their coach, that Arthur guy, he's done something with their fitness. They still have energy left in the tank. They've been playing high pressure the whole game, and it's working. They've got something we don't. But we can't let that scare us. No way. Think about what we said before the game—go out and fight. Equalize. Overtake. And fuck the Championship. We don't want to be stuck here next season. Get your heads in the game!" The players looked like they were about to storm out onto the pitch, ready to tear down a wall or maybe just tear up a few Leeds defenders. It was a nice motivational speech, and for a moment, it looked like they believed they could actually come back. The locker room buzzed with a little more energy as the players got ready to return to the field. They jogged out of the room, heads a little higher, fists pumped in the air. Coppell's pep talk seemed to have done the trick... at least, for the time being. Fast forward 15 minutes. The second half was underway, and Reading's players had barely had time to breathe before Adebayo, Leeds' towering striker, snatched any remaining optimism out of the air like a kid swiping candy from a counter. The first five minutes of the second half were brutal for Reading. Leeds had clearly come out with a vengeance, pressing high and leaving no room for Reading to breathe. The Reading players were basically suffocating under the weight of Leeds' relentless pressure. It was in the 49th minute when the inevitable happened. A pass was intercepted, and suddenly, Leeds was back on the attack. Tevez, who had been lurking like a predator, picked up the loose ball. With the kind of body control that made him look like he had magnets attached to his feet, Tevez used his body to shrug off a Reading defender. He then made a quick, slick pass—a beautiful inverted triangle pass that sliced through Reading's defense like a hot knife through butter. Adebayor was already in position, having read the play like an open book, and as the ball reached him, he wasted no time. A quick, powerful shot from just outside the small penalty area, and boom—2:0, Leeds United. At that point, you could practically hear the air leave the Reading locker room. The wind was taken out of their sails faster than a balloon punctured by a tack. Coppell, standing on the sidelines, knew the game was slipping away. He could feel it. And he wasn't going to go down without a fight. Within five minutes, he made all three of his substitutions, hoping to somehow spark a change. It didn't matter. The Reading players were already deflated, their spirits broken faster than a cheap plastic toy. Leeds, on the other hand, smelled blood. And when a team is as good as Leeds, when they sense weakness, they just keep pushing. Reading barely had time to adjust before Tevez added another goal, and then another. By the time the final whistle blew, the score was 4:0, and Reading was left to lick their wounds. Coppell stood there on the sidelines, arms crossed, watching his team get steamrolled. In just 40 minutes, his team had gone from having a shred of hope to being completely dismantled by Leeds' ruthlessness. From the moment Adebayo scored that second goal, it was clear the game was over. The rest of the match was like watching a well-executed demolition of a building—impressive, but also a little painful to witness. Leeds, on the other hand, were on fire. Their 8th consecutive win in the second half of the season, and it wasn't just any win. It was a perfect example of everything that was right with their approach: quick, ruthless, and utterly clinical. It was like a perfectly executed machine, running at full speed without any hesitation. In the post-match analysis, all anyone could talk about was how Leeds had shut down Reading with ease, showcasing their signature high-pressure defense and explosive counter-attacking play. Reading had been left in the dust, utterly helpless against the relentless pace and precision of Leeds' game. As for Coppell? Well, he wasn't smiling. He knew his team had given it their all, but it just wasn't enough. Not against a team like Leeds. Not today. ···· For Arthur and the Leeds United fans, the week had been absolutely perfect. Another win. Another step closer to glory. Arthur was practically walking on air, basking in the glory of his team's success, while the fans were chanting his name, dreaming of promotion, and envisioning life in the Premier League. Everything was clicking. The team was performing well, the atmosphere was electric, and all was right in the world of Leeds United. Meanwhile, across the country, Bates—sitting at West Bromwich Albion's training ground—was a picture of pure misery. It seemed like the universe was conspiring against him. West Brom had lost again, and his frustration was palpable. He gritted his teeth and stared at the match report in his hands. Previously, Bates and his assistant, Blackwell, had both reached their breaking point with Howard, the beleaguered goalkeeper. After a string of catastrophic blunders that had cost the team crucial points, they'd had no choice but to bench him. To everyone's surprise, after Howard was benched, West Brom went on a mini unbeaten streak, winning two games and drawing two in their next four matches. It was a tiny flicker of hope, just enough to get them out of the relegation zone and let Bates breathe a little easier. But, as they say, good things never last. Unfortunately, West Brom's starting goalkeeper suffered a training injury, and guess who was called back into action? That's right, Howard. And of course, true to form, Howard didn't disappoint. In his first match back, he was promptly shown a red card, handing Birmingham all three points with barely any effort at all. Bates, already at the end of his rope, could feel his blood pressure rising. "Not again!" he muttered under his breath, clutching his chest as though he could will the stress away. The worst part? Crystal Palace—only four points behind West Brom—also lost that day. But that small consolation did little to soothe Bates' seething anger. He was seriously contemplating how he could strangle Howard with a scarf. If only that wouldn't land him in jail. The public backlash was even worse than Bates could have imagined. Fans flooded the West Brom official website with angry rants, calling him and Howard every name in the book. "Irresponsible," "incompetent," and "leading us straight to relegation" were just a few of the charming comments flying his way. Bates was absolutely fuming. He wasn't some insane person trying to get relegated. He was doing everything he could to keep the team in the Premier League! Why, oh why, was this happening to him? But what really sent Bates over the edge was the fact that just the day before, Leeds United had once again emerged victorious. Another win. Another glorious result under Arthur. It was almost as if the universe was rubbing salt in Bates' wounds, showing him that while he was sinking, Arthur and Leeds were soaring. To make matters worse, Bates was now holding a stack of scout reports, which he could only describe as "torture in paper form." At the top of the pile was a report on Tevez, the young Argentine forward who had scored twice in Leeds' latest match. Bates had no interest in even reading it. He had been burned before by Arthur's magical ability to pull off unbelievable deals, and the idea of getting another player from Leeds made him want to tear the report to pieces. But, as stubborn as he was, Bates knew better than to dismiss it outright. His curiosity was piqued, so he begrudgingly picked up the report. After a few seconds, he began to read with the same energy you might expect from someone reading the fine print on a legal contract—slowly, with intense skepticism. Tevez. The 21-year-old forward. He had started the season as a substitute, playing sparingly under Blackwell. But since Arthur took over Leeds United, Tevez had exploded. In just eight games, he had scored six goals, including the two goals he'd bagged in the most recent match. The data was impressive. Too impressive. The more Bates read, the more he realized that Tevez was, in fact, a good player. He had it all: physical energy, strong physical presence, a solid shot, and excellent technical skills. The report went on to say that he had "exceptional potential" and that his growth under Arthur had been nothing short of spectacular. Bates rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his mind racing. Tevez was undoubtedly talented, but there was no way he was falling for it. No chance. The last time Leeds sold him a player, it had been Howard—who had somehow cost £15 million and had been a complete disaster. Now, this Tevez was looking like another one of Arthur's "magic tricks," and Bates was having none of it. No, Bates wasn't going to rush into this one. Not this time. He wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. He wasn't going to be the sucker buying another player from Leeds at a ridiculous price only for him to turn out to be a disaster. If he was going to buy Tevez—or anyone from Leeds for that matter—he was going to wait until the end of the transfer window, when all the other clubs had made their moves. That way, if the market was flooded with interest, Bates could step in and negotiate a better deal. Arthur had his tactics, and Bates had his, too. So, with all that in mind, Bates picked up the phone and dialed the West Bromwich Albion scout director. "The report you sent me—about the Argentine from Leeds—yes, Tevez," he began, his voice dripping with reluctance. "Can you try contacting him privately? See what his situation is. And make sure to check if any other clubs are interested in him. If you find out anything, let me know immediately." He hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair, letting out a long sigh. He wasn't sure if he was being smart or just terrified of getting burned again. But he had made up his mind. No more rushing in. No more falling for Arthur's tricks. Meanwhile, back in Leeds, Arthur was completely unaware of Bates' internal struggle. He was sitting in his office, feet up on the desk, grinning like a cat who just found a stash of catnip. Allen, his ever-faithful assistant, was standing by, handing over the latest batch of transfer offers. "Boss," Allen said, "we've received five offers today. Two for Adebayor, two for Tevez, and one for Sneijder." Arthur's grin widened. Ah, the joys of being wanted. He could practically hear Bates' blood pressure spiking all the way from here. The thought of Bates getting desperate over Tevez made Arthur chuckle. He was always three steps ahead. "Reject them," Arthur said, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Tell them these players aren't for sale at Leeds United. Not a chance. Let them stew." And just like that, the cycle continued. Arthur remained one step ahead, and Bates? Well, Bates was left scrambling, wondering if he'd ever make the right call again.