Chapter 53: Time to play (2in 1)

***Had to edit and cut some parts. You know why -_- Join my Patreon for Advance Chapters ( about 30 or so) and my other 2 stories 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 was pacing around the training pitch like a man who had just discovered caffeine and tactical anxiety at the same time. The players were jogging through a drill, but his voice could be heard across the entire Thorp Arch complex. "James! What is that? Are your legs broken? I said transition! From attack to defense! That means run, not stroll like you're shopping for jam!" James, to his credit, did attempt to jog faster—he now looked like a man who'd lost his dog in the park but wasn't sure it was worth the effort to find it. "Luka! Make up! You're supposed to be covering the rib space—not admiring it like it's a painting! When they've got the ball near our box, I want you breathing down their necks like bad breath!" Arthur wasn't done. "Thiago!" he barked. "Ronaldo's not a decoration, he's not there for show! If he gets into the box, you need to close him down and shove him out wide! He's fast, yes, but you've got brains. Use them. Channel your inner traffic cone if you have to, just block his lane!" Thiago gave a nervous thumbs-up. Having locked in the 3-5-2 game plan, Arthur was now hammering it into his players' heads until they either understood it or lost the will to argue. He'd spent most of the week drilling it nonstop. Everyone was on edge. The ballboys were hiding. Arthur had made one thing clear—this was not going to be a slow, elegant, pretty game. This was going to be a hit-and-run kind of match. He ditched Berbatov for the day, not because he didn't like him, but because watching Dimitar sprint was like watching someone play football in molasses. Instead, he went with Vardy and Falcao. Two lunatics with springs in their legs. Vardy looked like he'd run through a brick wall for a Red Bull, and Falcao—well, Falcao still had that Drogba Experience Card active for two more games. Might as well use it before it expired. Behind them, Deisler would operate as the attacking midfielder. He didn't need to run as much—he just needed to not give the ball away like it was a hot potato. Milner and Ribery were assigned as the tireless central midfielders. Arthur's instructions to them were simple: run everywhere, all the time, like their pants were on fire. Milner nodded as if this was his default setting. Ribery looked mildly offended, but he didn't argue. "Remember," Arthur said as he pointed at the whiteboard, "you two are like the annoying pigeons at a picnic—constantly hovering, never letting anyone eat in peace. Got it?" Ribery raised a hand. "So... do we actually get the ball?" "No," Arthur replied. "You annoy the guy with the ball. Let the others clean it up." Bale was rested. The poor guy had played more minutes recently than Arthur had slept. If Leeds needed chaos in the second half, Bale could be let loose like an unhinged substitute teacher. At the base of midfield were Modric and Mascherano, the glue of the operation. Arthur liked them because they actually understood instructions and didn't need to be yelled at every five minutes. They had range, vision, and weren't afraid to stick a leg in when needed. Mascherano was basically a brick wall with legs. Modric, meanwhile, looked like a librarian but tackled like a nightclub bouncer. At the back, the holy trinity of defenders: Chiellini, Kompany, and Silva. Arthur trusted them. They were smart, strong, and knew when to boot the ball into the stands instead of trying to dribble out of danger. The basic idea was this: defend like their lives depended on it, and counter like they were being chased by wolves. If they kept it tight and frustrated Manchester United enough, there might be a chance. And if United tired in the second half, Arthur had a backup plan—switch to 4-2-3-1 or 4-3-3 depending on how suicidal he felt. "Alright!" Arthur clapped loudly, grabbing everyone's attention. "We've got the shape. We've got the legs. You've all run around like caffeinated goats for three days straight. Just remember the plan. Wingers fall back. Midfielders compress. Defenders stay on their bloody feet. If Ronaldo wants to dance, make sure he's doing it in the parking lot, not our penalty area!" The team groaned but nodded. At this point, they'd memorized the tactical map better than their own home addresses. "Any questions?" Arthur asked. Vardy raised his hand. "Yeah—do we get a bonus if we kick Ronaldo into the stands?" Arthur smiled. "Only if the ball's nearby." As training wrapped up, Arthur was actually feeling something close to optimism. Not confidence, exactly—but a belief that this might, just might, not be a total disaster. And hey, that was progress. **** Thursday, 7:25 p.m. — Old Trafford Arthur stood in the tunnel, arms crossed, jaw clenched, silently watching his players bounce on their toes and pretend not to be nervous. They were about to walk out into the belly of the beast—Old Trafford, a stadium packed with over 60,000 very loud people who did not want Leeds United to have a good time. Up and down the tunnel, Manchester United's players looked calm and loose. Van Nistelrooy was smirking like he'd already scored twice. Cristiano Ronaldo kept checking his reflection in the shiny tunnel wall. Roy Keane was staring at Arthur like he was planning a murder. Nothing out of the ordinary. Leeds, on the other hand, looked like they were preparing for a hostage situation. Vardy was hyping himself up by bouncing like a caffeinated rabbit. Mascherano was mumbling something to himself in Spanish—probably a prayer or a hit list. Even Kompany, usually the calmest of the bunch, looked like he wanted to sprint back into the dressing room. Arthur took a deep breath. "Alright," he muttered to himself, "just 90 minutes of suffering. Maybe less if we go down 3-0 early." They emerged from the tunnel, met by an explosion of noise that practically shook the turf. Old Trafford wasn't just loud—it was angry. A sea of red scarves, flags, banners, and very smug faces. It was like being dropped into the middle of a very organized cult. The Manchester United fans had already sung their team song about four times before kickoff. Now they were warming up with personal attacks. From directly behind the Leeds bench, Arthur could hear it all. "Oi! Arthur! You bring your schoolboys out for a field trip?" "Hope you brought tissues! It's gonna be a long night!" "Ready to get schooled by Sir Alex? Bring a notebook!" Arthur didn't turn around. He stared at the pitch like it was going to offer him a tactical revelation, though in reality, he was mentally listing the ways this game could go horribly wrong. Then Allen handed him the final team sheet from United. Arthur scanned it, squinting to make sure he was reading it right. "Van Nistelrooy, Rooney, Ronaldo... yeah, that's about right... Scholes, Giggs, Keane... bloody hell." He'd half expected Ferguson to throw a curveball and start Tevez instead of Rooney, especially since Tevez had just come from Leeds and knew all his defenders' habits. But no—Sir Alex stuck to the same lineup he'd used against Everton last week. No surprises. Just overwhelming quality. Arthur tucked the sheet away and sat down on the bench. That was another thing about Old Trafford—the dugout wasn't dug out. It was practically in the front row of the crowd, like someone had accidentally put the coach's chair in a season ticket holder's spot. Which meant Arthur was now within whispering distance of every Manchester United fan with a working set of lungs and a creative insult. "Oi, Arthur! Love the tactical genius—let's see how that 3-5-2 works after twenty minutes of Ronaldo!" "Didn't know the Championship sent teams here on holiday!" Arthur leaned forward, elbows on knees, completely ignoring the noise behind him. He didn't need to listen. He already knew what they thought. Leeds weren't supposed to win here. They weren't even supposed to compete. The stadium announcer's voice boomed across the pitch. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Old Trafford! Let's hear it for your Manchester United!" The crowd roared as if The Beatles had just come back to life and were playing centre-mid. Then: "And please welcome the visitors tonight... Leeds United!" A polite spattering of applause came from the tiny away section, immediately drowned out by jeers, sarcastic clapping, and someone in Row F who mimicked the sound of a toilet flushing. Arthur stood, clapped his hands once, and turned to his team. "Alright. Eyes up. Ears closed. This is noise, not football. Let them shout. We're here to play. Stick to the plan, frustrate them, counter when they overcommit. Don't try to be heroes. Just be annoying." Vardy gave a little snort of laughter. Mascherano nodded like he was already picturing himself two-footing Scholes. Ribery winked at the United fans. The team was tense, but they were ready. As the players marched onto the pitch, Arthur handed his clipboard to Allen without looking. "Hold this. Don't lose it. It has actual tactics on it." Allen gave him a thumbs-up like he'd just been handed the keys to the nuclear launch codes. Arthur stepped down from the dugout and headed toward the other technical area. It was time for the traditional pre-match handshake with Sir Alex Ferguson. Might as well keep things civil before ninety minutes of mutual suffering. "Oi, Alex!" Arthur called out cheerfully. Ferguson, mid-conversation with his assistant, glanced up, immediately put his clipboard down, and came strolling over with a grin. Despite the fact that they were about to go head-to-head, Arthur and Ferguson had a weird little bond. A couple of months earlier, they'd worked together—unofficially and in secret—to help oust Ken Bates from Leeds. It was the football equivalent of two foxes teaming up to rob the chicken coop, and it worked beautifully. "Arthur," Ferguson said with a chuckle, pulling him in for a hug. "Still got that chip on your shoulder?" Arthur grinned. "Only when I'm losing." They exchanged a few polite jabs about squad injuries and fixture congestion, then Arthur gave a casual wave to Tevez, who was warming the bench just a few feet away. Tevez smirked and nodded back, clearly enjoying the awkwardness of greeting his former boss while wearing red. Arthur recognized him instantly and gave him a brief nod back, as if to say, Yep, I see you too. Still weird seeing you in a United shirt. With the social niceties done, Arthur headed back to his dugout. The clipboard was still in Allen's hands, somehow not lost or covered in coffee. Small victories. Time to start the match. **** Over in Spain, despite it being a Premier League game in England, a surprisingly large group of football fans had parked themselves in front of their TVs and laptops, snacks in hand, ready to watch the chaos unfold live. "Good evening, football fans! Welcome to this week's Premier League main event, where Manchester United hosts Leeds United!" The voice came from Spanish sports network HCTV, where the commentator, Victor Ruiz, sounded like he'd had three espressos and a Red Bull. "I'm Victor Ruiz, and with me is my always calm, usually grumpy co-commentator, Joaquin Morales." "Calm and grumpy is a strategy," Joaquin replied without missing a beat. "Let's get to the lineups before you start singing again." As the broadcast panned over the packed Old Trafford, the live chat beside the stream lit up with all sorts of takes: "Wait—was that Arthur shaking hands with Ferguson? Are they friends??" "Tevez just smiled at him. What's going on here?" "How do they know each other? This is so weird." "I want to go to Old Trafford someday. I'll sell my kidney if I have to." "Did anyone watch Arthur's post-match interview last week? He really said Leeds will finish top four." "Yeah, and then they drew 0–0 with Charlton. He's either a genius or out of his mind." "Let's be honest, Leeds probably won't survive this game. United's gonna crush them." "I don't know... Leeds has a weird energy this season. They might steal a point." Victor laughed as he scrolled through the comments. "Well, the internet's already divided. Joaquin, what do you think—can Leeds walk away from Old Trafford in one piece?" Joaquin cleared his throat like a man about to deliver a weather forecast that involved a tornado. "Well, I'll be honest. Two weeks ago, I had no idea who Arthur was. I thought he was just some guy who got lucky with a job in England. But I've watched some footage, read a few interviews... he's got a system, and it's not bad." Victor raised an eyebrow. "So you're saying he's not just winging it?" "No, no, he definitely is winging it," Joaquin corrected. "But with purpose. His pressing game in the Championship was excellent. Very aggressive. But today he's up against Ferguson. And this isn't the Championship anymore. This is the Premier League. It's like going from playing chess at the park to playing chess while someone throws bricks at you." Victor nodded seriously. "Beautiful metaphor." "And this United team? They've got Giggs and Ronaldo on the wings. That's like trying to defend a hurricane and a Ferrari at the same time. If Arthur survives this, he's earned the right to trash-talk for a month." Before Victor could fire off another quip, the referee's whistle rang out from the stadium speakers. "And we're underway!" Victor said, suddenly in full commentator mode. "Manchester United versus Leeds United! Time to see if Arthur can back up all that top-four talk... or if this becomes a very painful lesson at the Theatre of Dreams." The broadcast cut to the opening minutes, with Manchester United pushing forward aggressively, while Leeds scrambled into their defensive 3-5-2 shape. Arthur, arms folded on the sideline, looked less like a nervous rookie and more like someone watching a microwave heat up leftover pizza—nervous but hopeful. Back in the chat, someone posted: "He doesn't blink. That's the face of a man who forgot what sleep is." Victor grinned as the game picked up pace. "Well, here we go. Strap in. Arthur's Leeds are either about to shock the world... or get a very polite footballing slap from Sir Alex." **** Meanwhile, somewhere in Barcelona, Shakira was lounging on a couch in her friend's apartment, sipping something cold and fizzy. She wasn't exactly a hardcore football fan, but the sound of the TV had been on all evening, blasting crowd noise and dramatic commentary. "What's with all the noise?" she asked, eyebrows raised as she glanced at the screen. "Is it the Champions League or something?" Her friend looked at her like she'd just asked if pizza had cheese. "No, girl, it's Leeds United vs. Manchester United. Premier League. Big game." Shakira blinked. "Leeds United? Aren't they that team that nearly got bankrupt or whatever?" "Exactly!" Her friend sat up, suddenly fired up like she'd just remembered her favorite drama plotline. "That's why it's so crazy. Their coach, Arthur? He took over when they were basically dead. Won the Championship. Got them promoted. Beat Chelsea in their first Premier League game. And now he's going up against Ferguson like it's no big deal." Shakira looked at the screen again. The camera had just zoomed in on Arthur, who was standing on the sideline, arms crossed, squinting like he was either deep in thought or trying to see the scoreboard without his glasses. "How old is he?" she asked, narrowing her eyes a little. "Same as us, I think? Maybe a year older. He's not one of those grumpy sixty-year-old managers with a thousand cups. But he doesn't look out of place at all, does he?" Shakira nodded slowly. "Hmm. Not bad. He actually looks kinda cute." Her friend turned to her immediately, eyes wide. "Wait. Did you just say cute? Are we crushing on a football manager now?" Shakira shrugged, smirking. "Who knows?" Back on the TV, Arthur was barking instructions at Milner and gesturing wildly at the back three like a man trying to organize traffic with no license. Shakira watched, mildly amused. There was something oddly charming about how serious he looked—like a guy who spent half the match coaching and the other half calculating whether his midfielders needed snacks. The game continued, United pressing hard while Leeds held their ground, and in Barcelona, two women who'd only planned to hang out and chill were now fully invested in whether some sarcastic young manager in England could survive 90 minutes at Old Trafford. Shakira leaned forward slightly, narrowing her eyes again at the screen. "Okay, he's definitely kind of adorable when he yells like that." Her friend snorted. "I swear if you end up flying to England to meet him, I'm charging you for emotional damage." "I'll buy you a Leeds scarf," Shakira replied, deadpan. And just like that, Arthur had picked up an unexpected fan. He didn't know it yet—he was too busy screaming at Kompany to push higher—but somewhere across the continent, pop royalty had just decided he was worth watching.