Chapter 48: A New Leeds United

*** Join my Patreon for Advance Chapters ( about 30 or so) and my other 2 stories for only 7$ Link is Below. Remove space after http. https:// www.patreon.com/c/Virtuosso777?redirect=true Leave some comments, stones and review if you like it so far *** Allen was still crouched on the floor with a cloth and a slightly bruised ego, mopping up the water he'd choked on earlier. He didn't say much—probably too busy rethinking every career decision that led him to that moment. Meanwhile, across the table, Brian Lind still looked like he'd seen a UFO land on the Elland Road pitch. On the camera's screen, Arthur sat with the confidence of a man who had just declared war on the laws of football logic. Calm smile, neatly buttoned jacket, leaning slightly forward like everything he just said was common sense. Leeds United beating Chelsea? At home? On the first day back in the Premier League? Lind blinked a few times and finally pulled himself together. He glanced down at his notes like they might explain what just happened, then looked back up at Arthur. "Right," he began, voice still a little shaky. "Well, Mr. Arthur, as a Leeds United fan myself, I have to say—it's great to see that level of confidence. I mean, really. Inspiring stuff." Arthur nodded politely. "Glad to hear it." "But," Lind continued, holding up a hand like he was about to deliver bad news to a friend, "you do realize you're talking about Chelsea. Defending champions. They just beat Arsenal this afternoon to win the Community Shield. They're strong—really strong. Mourinho's got a full season in the Premier League under his belt now. Tactically sharp. His squad's deep. Experienced. And with all due respect, this Leeds team... well, I counted. Only three players from last year's title-winning side are still in the first team. I guess what I'm trying to ask is—what exactly makes you so confident?" Arthur leaned back a little, folded his arms, and grinned. It wasn't smug—just quietly amused, like someone who knew something everyone else didn't. "I get it," he said. "You're not wrong. Chelsea are the champions. Mourinho's experienced. They've got a strong squad, and they're coming in hot. I'm not denying any of that." Lind raised an eyebrow. "Okay..." "But," Arthur went on, "I've been on that training ground every single day for the past month. I know this team. These boys? They're good. Not just good—they're ready. They've trained like lunatics. Some of them can't even stand up straight after sessions. I've pushed them hard, and they've responded." Allen, still wiping the floor, looked up with a faint grunt, probably remembering the time he had to carry a midfielder off the pitch after a brutal double session. "And Elland Road?" Arthur added. "More than 20,000 screaming fans? That's a wall of noise. That's an atmosphere. That's pressure on Chelsea, not us. These lads want it. Bad." Lind looked skeptical but kept listening. "As for Mourinho being a tactical genius..." Arthur trailed off for a second, smirked, then added, "Well, if all it takes to be called a genius is sitting back and waiting to counter, then our old mate Blackwell should be knighted by now." Allen coughed again, this time not from water, but from trying not to laugh too loudly. Lind's jaw dropped. Again. This interview had turned into something far more entertaining than he expected. When he first sat down, he was ready for the usual boring stuff—"we respect the opponent," "we'll take it one game at a time," "we're focused on our own performance," and so on. Instead, he'd stumbled into an Arthur-shaped wrecking ball. He had interviewed Arthur before—press conferences, group settings. Back then, Arthur was all calm professionalism. A firm tone, a polite smile, and always walking the diplomatic tightrope. Even when asked something irritating, he'd just chuckle and deflect. But here? In a private one-on-one? This was a different Arthur entirely. Confident. Sharp. A little cheeky. And, frankly, bolder than Mourinho himself. Lind was loving it. Of course, he still had a job to do. After finally recovering from his shock, he spent the next forty minutes running through the rest of his questions—most of them the usual stuff. Transfers. Injuries. Pre-season form. Training structure. Fan expectations. How it felt to lead Leeds back to the Premier League after just one season. Arthur answered everything clearly. Occasionally blunt. Always confident. No fluff. No waffling. Allen eventually finished drying the floor, then stood silently by the wall like a bouncer in a tracksuit. He gave Arthur the occasional nod, but mostly just kept quiet. Arthur didn't need help answering questions—he was handling this solo, with ease. Finally, over an hour after the interview had started, Lind closed his notepad and stood up. "Well," he said, smiling wide now, "that was definitely the most entertaining interview I've done this year. Maybe ever." Arthur stood too, smoothing down his suit jacket. "Glad to be of service." "I've got to run," Lind added, glancing at his watch. "Need to get this written up and ready for print by morning. I'm guessing some Chelsea fans might want to read this." Arthur just grinned again. "Let them." They shook hands, and Lind left with the photographers, muttering something about how "this one's going to explode." Once the room was empty, Arthur turned to Allen. "You alright?" Allen just gave him a look. "I think you just declared war on Mourinho." Arthur shrugged. "Good." By the next morning, the interview had already made waves. And for fans of both Chelsea and Leeds United, it was shaping up to be a very tense, very entertaining week. *** By the time morning newspapers hit the stands, Mourinho's smug post-match comments were plastered across every front page in England. The tabloids didn't bother with subtlety either. Just bold, arrogant headlines, stacked like punches: "Mourinho: Sorry, Arthur who?" "Mourinho: Why should I study a team promoted from the Championship?" "Mourinho: Leeds United are still too young. They need to learn." "Mighty Chelsea to hand Leeds their first Premier League beating!" It was exactly the kind of nonsense that got Leeds fans foaming at the mouth. By 9 a.m., the Leeds half of the internet had turned into a war zone. Thousands of angry replies were hurled in Mourinho's direction like football-shaped bricks. Memes, insults, doctored photos—some fans had clearly skipped work to go all-in on social media warfare. Meanwhile, Chelsea fans—already used to their manager behaving like a Bond villain in post-match interviews—jumped in with full support. They called Arthur naive, overhyped, inexperienced, and—possibly the worst insult of all—"optimistic." But the real chaos hadn't even started yet. At noon, Leeds' local TV stations began airing Arthur's interview from the day before. And shortly after that, the Daily Mail rolled out their own version. Brian Lind, still visibly buzzing from the encounter, clearly had the time of his life writing the piece. You could practically hear him giggling through the headline: "Haha, Mourinho is a tactical master?" The title alone had Leeds fans howling with laughter and Chelsea fans foaming at the mouth. And then, just thirty minutes later, some hero on the internet uploaded the entire video of Arthur's interview. It spread like wildfire. There he was—Arthur—calm as a lake, grinning like a man who just bet his house on a coin toss and was absolutely sure it'd land his way. "Haha, is it a tactical master to only play defensive counterattacks?" He said it like he was commenting on the weather. Chelsea fans watched in horror. Leeds fans cheered like they'd won the league. Suddenly, Mourinho wasn't the craziest person in English football anymore. Arthur had snatched that crown with a casual sip of water and a shrug. The afternoon turned into pure internet carnage. Threads on Twitter, Reddit, forums—people were either calling Arthur a football messiah or the next manager to be sacked. There was no middle ground. And where was Arthur in the middle of all this? Sitting quietly in his office at Thorp Arch, surrounded by tactical notes, coffee, and silence. He'd just finished morning training and hadn't checked his phone in hours. All the chaos online? Completely missed it. Instead, he was leaning back in his chair, staring at a whiteboard, planning how to beat Chelsea. He knew Mourinho well enough. The man loved control. He loved suffocating games with cautious, calculated football. Park the bus, steal a goal, defend like demons. That was Mourinho's religion. It had worked at Porto. It was working at Chelsea. But it was also predictable. Arthur started wondering—what if Mourinho was so full of himself after that Arsenal win that he underestimated Leeds? What if he sent Chelsea forward, thinking this would be a walk in the park? Arthur smirked. That could be a mistake. He turned back to his notes and started reviewing his options. First, the Drogba experience card—one of his saved tactical boosts. He'd been holding onto it for a big match. Falcao was the obvious candidate. The Colombian was strong, quick, ruthless in front of goal. Add the Drogba upgrade, and he'd be a nightmare for Terry and Carvalho. Not to mention, he had that same low center of gravity and brute force. A mini-Drogba with extra bite. Then there was the injury immunity card—only one left. No debate there. It would be used on Deisler, who had looked explosive in training but always carried that risk of breaking down. Arthur needed him fully fit for this game. A fully functional A+ version of Deisler, swinging crosses into the box, was a serious weapon. He scribbled out a potential lineup on paper. Formation: 4-2-3-1. Falcao up top. Berbatov just behind, the creative brain. Bale on the left, Deisler on the right—both with pace and the ability to beat their man. In midfield, the base of the system: James Milner and Yaya Touré. Milner was a workhorse—interceptions, pressing, short passes, tactical fouls if needed. Basic but reliable. Touré? Now that was the interesting one. Arthur had been transforming him into a deeper role over the past few weeks. Touré had always been powerful and had a great engine, but he also had underrated vision. If anyone could stand toe-to-toe with Chelsea's physical midfielders and still hit a killer pass through the lines, it was him. Arthur wrote next to his name: "Body vs Drogba. Ball vs Mikel." Then the defense: Lahm on the left—small but smart. Wouldn't be caught out of position. Kompany and Chiellini in the center—two tanks with brains. Maicon on the right—still quick, still mean, still able to overlap if needed. And in goal: Kasper Schmeichel. Solid. Vocal. Ready. Arthur looked at the lineup and nodded slowly. If Mourinho parked the bus? Fine. Leeds had the weapons to break through. If Chelsea attacked? Even better. Leeds would rip them open on the counter. The more he looked at it, the more Arthur felt ready. Let them laugh. Let the headlines scream. Let Mourinho sleepwalk into Elland Road thinking it would be easy. Arthur had a plan. And if it worked, Mourinho might just learn that Leeds United weren't here to "learn." They were here to compete. And they weren't afraid of anybody.