Chapter 50: Mourinho is Pissed

*** 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 *** Arthur wasn't just winging it this week. In between regular training drills and yelling at Falcao for wearing his socks too low, he had cooked up something special. He figured they might actually score first against Chelsea — wild thought, he knew — so he prepped a backup plan: the five-defender formation. Not only that, but he drilled the players relentlessly on a concept he dubbed "13-second counterattack." Basically, if they saw an opening, they had to turn into caffeine-fueled robots: touch, pass, go — all within seconds. The ball had to be at the feet of the attacking trio before Chelsea could even shout "Offside!" Now, more than 20 minutes into the second half, the plan was working like a charm. Chelsea had all the possession but about as much attacking threat as a kitten pawing a beach ball. They'd move the ball around the outside like it was a delicate piece of art, only to run smack into a wall every time they tried to go central. Yaya Touré, Milner, and Modrić had turned into a midfield Bermuda Triangle. Every time a ball went near the top of the box, it mysteriously disappeared. Arthur stood on the touchline like a proud parent watching his kids refuse to share their toys. "Beautiful," he muttered. "Absolutely no fun allowed." Mourinho, on the other hand, was losing his patience by the second. He finally got up and made exaggerated hand signals toward his players, like he was swatting flies. "Out wide! OUT. WIDE." Chelsea got the message. Their plan now was obvious: get it to the wings, cross it into the box, and let Drogba turn into a bulldozer. Simple. Brutal. Classic Mourinho. Unfortunately for him, Arthur had already seen that plot twist coming. Leeds United had trained for this exact situation. As soon as Duff or Robben got the ball near the sideline, it was like a tactical SWAT team dropped in. Maicon and Bale would close down immediately, while Silva and Chiellini flanked the flanks. They didn't dive in or try to snatch the ball — they just stood there like big grumpy bouncers outside a nightclub. Go ahead, take it to the line. Cross it if you dare. But squeezing past Silva or Chiellini? Forget it. Robben and Duff were getting boxed out like they were trying to push a fridge through a bathroom door. Every time they tried to get cute near the touchline, they got escorted straight to the corner flag. Arthur folded his arms and leaned toward Allen. "They look like they're trying to post a letter and forgot the stamp." Allen chuckled. "Drogba hasn't had a decent ball all half." "Good," Arthur said. "Let him stew. Maybe he'll punch the ball again." Back on the pitch, Chelsea tried another hopeful ball into the box. Drogba rose to meet it, but Chiellini beat him to the header and cleared it halfway to Manchester. Drogba threw his hands up, like, "What do you want me to do?!" Mourinho stomped his foot and turned around. "This is ridiculous! It's like they're playing with twelve defenders!" Arthur didn't say anything. He just smiled and kept watching, arms still folded, as his five-defender masterplan frustrated Chelsea into football paralysis. Chelsea even tried to play the speed card — you know, the old "let's outrun them down the flanks" trick. But let's be honest, trying to outrun Maicon and Bale was like trying to beat a cheetah with a bicycle. Not happening. Maicon was built like a tank with rocket boosters, and Bale ran like someone had left the oven on at home. Neither of them had any interest in letting Robben or Duff do anything useful. Every time Chelsea's wingers tried to launch down the sideline, they got shut down like a dodgy kebab van at a food inspection. And if, by some miracle, a cross actually made it into the box, it was met by two very large, very bald men: Yaya Touré and Vincent Kompany. Between them, they were like human forklifts. Drogba would jump for a header, only to be sandwiched between two chrome domes. Ball gone. Attack over. Repeat. By now, Mourinho looked like he was chewing invisible nails on the touchline. His grand plan of "let's spam crosses until Drogba scores" was failing. Arthur, arms crossed, just kept nodding smugly. The five-defender setup had turned Stamford Bridge's golden boys into a confused mess. Then came the 74th minute. Lampard tried to thread a pass into Joe Cole — it wasn't a bad idea, but Modrić had been sniffing around like a terrier all game. He read it perfectly, nipped in, stole the ball, and immediately launched a long pass forward like he was playing darts with a bowling ball. Up front, Falcao was already lurking between Terry and Carvalho. As the ball dropped, he muscled his way in — the man was shorter than both defenders, but somehow looked like he'd eaten a protein bar made of concrete. He brought the ball down, shrugged off Terry, and rolled it behind him to Deisler, who was sprinting into the box. Cech charged out, trying to narrow the angle. Deisler stayed calm. One touch, then a low shot aimed precisely for the bottom corner. Cech managed to get a fingertip on it — just enough to make it look dramatic — but the ball still clipped the inside of the post and went in. 2–0. Leeds United. The away fans went berserk. Arthur didn't even react that much — he just leaned over to his assistant Allen and said, "That'll do." A few moments later, Deisler came off to a standing ovation and was replaced by Ribéry. Leeds shifted shape again — midfield now a flat wall: Modrić and Yaya in the middle, Milner on the left, Ribéry on the right. Total lockdown mode. Arthur had basically thrown the bus, the garage, and the locksmith at Chelsea. Chelsea kept pushing, though. In stoppage time, Drogba finally got something. He bulldozed into the box like a man who'd had enough. Chiellini bumped into him, Drogba went down like he'd been tasered, and the ref pointed to the spot. Drogba dusted himself off, took the penalty, and smashed it in. 2–1. A consolation prize, but at least Mourinho wouldn't have to break furniture in the dressing room. When the final whistle blew, the stadium roared. Leeds had done it — they'd taken down the reigning champions. Arthur buttoned up his jacket and walked toward the touchline, extending his hand out of pure politeness. But Mourinho was already halfway down the tunnel, steam coming out of his ears. Arthur blinked. "Charming," he muttered, turning back with a smirk. "Maybe next time I'll send a postcard." After the match, Arthur returned to the locker room with a smirk on his face and mud on his trousers. The players were buzzing — sweaty, loud, tossing their shirts around, and trying to outshout the music blasting from someone's speaker. Arthur had barely sat down when a staff member peeked through the door and said, "Press conference, boss. You and Deisler." Arthur let out a long sigh and got up like someone who'd just been told to go clean the bathroom. He gave Deisler a look. "Come on, man of the match. Time to explain why your shot wasn't an accident." Deisler, still toweling off his hair, muttered, "Great. Nothing I love more than awkward questions and bad microphones." They walked into the media room a few minutes later and took their seats at the table. Dozens of reporters were already waiting, most with laptops open, fingers poised, looking hungry for headlines. They didn't have to wait long. The very first question came the moment Arthur adjusted the mic. "Mr. Arthur, congratulations on the win. But in his post-match comments, Mr. Mourinho criticized your tactics today. He called them conservative and said Leeds United's win was mostly down to luck. What's your response?" Arthur blinked once, then slowly turned to face the reporter as if trying to figure out whether the guy was serious or just trying to wind him up. Mourinho had been in the room earlier, and apparently, he hadn't held back. Losing didn't exactly bring out his gentle side. He'd accused Leeds of "parking a double-decker bus," "getting lucky with scrappy goals," and "ruining football for spectators." The usual. Arthur didn't even bother hiding his irritation. He leaned forward, looked straight into the camera, and said with a straight face, "If scoring two goals in open play is luck, then what was Chelsea's penalty? Divine intervention? A birthday present from the ref?" The room erupted in laughter. Even the cameramen were grinning. Arthur leaned back and gave a shrug like, "You said it, not me." Deisler, to his credit, kept a straight face, though his shoulders twitched a bit. Once the laughter settled, another familiar voice stood up. It was Lind — a journalist who'd been around since Arthur's Championship days. He gave Arthur a polite nod. "Arthur, congrats on the win. I've got a question I didn't get to ask last time. What's your real goal for Leeds United this season?" Arthur raised an eyebrow and gave Lind a curious look. "You sure you want to know?" Lind nodded. "I think we're all curious now." Arthur scratched his chin and paused for a second, as if seriously debating how much trouble he wanted to cause. Then he leaned into the mic. "As a newly promoted team, we're just trying to stay grounded. So I set a small goal for us — just to qualify for the Champions League next season." You could've heard a pin drop. The laughter was gone. Silence. Total silence. A few reporters looked up from their laptops. One guy choked slightly on his water. Another slowly turned to his neighbor with a face that said, "Did he just say that?" Only Lind seemed somewhat prepared, though even he looked like he hadn't expected Arthur to say it out loud. Arthur sat there like he'd just mentioned the weather. Calm, casual, borderline smug. The other reporters were still frozen. A few started whispering. Because everyone in that room knew the math. The top three in the Premier League went straight to the Champions League group stage. Fourth place had to go through a qualifying round. Fifth and below? Europa League at best. So if Arthur's target was top four, then the obvious question was — which one of the Premier League big boys did he plan on pushing out? Manchester United? Arsenal? Chelsea? Liverpool? None of them looked especially kick-out-able. Finally, someone tried to raise a follow-up, but Arthur had already made up his mind. He stood up, clicked off the microphone, and gave a polite nod toward the media officer. "You can talk to Deisler now," he said simply. Deisler stared at him, clearly not thrilled about being left alone. Arthur gave him a friendly pat on the back and whispered, "Say something about teamwork. They love that stuff." Then, without another word, he strolled out of the press room, leaving behind a trail of confused reporters, a bewildered Deisler, and a growing number of headlines forming in real time. By the time he reached the tunnel, Arthur was already grinning to himself. Let them guess, let them speculate. He'd already won the match. Stirring the pot afterwards? Just a bonus.