Chapter 58: The aftermath

The moment the ball crashed into the back of Manchester United's net, Old Trafford fell into a stunned silence. It was like someone had pressed the mute button on 70,000 fans all at once. For a second, you could hear a pin drop... or, more accurately, Arthur's wild fist-pumping on the touchline as he shouted like a man who'd just won the lottery. Then, it happened. A wave of furious shouting erupted from the stands. English profanity, creative insults, and phrases that probably shouldn't be repeated in polite company poured out like a tidal wave. The Manchester United faithful were not pleased. Losing? They could handle it. A draw? Frustrating, but fine. But Tevez—one of their own—gifting the ball to Milner like it was an early Christmas present? That was unforgivable. "Oi! Is this Argentinian playing for Leeds now?!" one fan shouted, practically foaming at the mouth. "He's gotta be undercover! No way that's real!" another chimed in, his face as red as the United scarf around his neck. "Twenty million euros! TWENTY! And he's setting up goals for the other side?! Is he the secret striker for Leeds?!" screamed a man holding two pints of beer that were now mostly on the ground. "I'm tellin' ya, Fergie better investigate this! I bet he's on Leeds' payroll! Might as well be wearing white!" someone yelled from the upper tier, to roaring agreement from everyone around him. Meanwhile, Arthur was still throwing punches in the air like he was auditioning for a Rocky movie. His grin stretched so wide it looked like it might split his face in two. On the pitch, the Leeds United players were in a state of absolute delirium, mobbing Falcao as if he'd just won the Champions League. Even Falcao looked slightly stunned, as if he couldn't quite believe Tevez had genuinely handed him a golden opportunity. Up in the commentary box, Ere Gedi had his head in his hands, still processing what he'd just witnessed. "I... I'm speechless," he stammered, before quickly regaining his composure. "That is the most... generous assist I think I've ever seen. Leeds United has been suffocated by Manchester United for most of this half, unable to get their trademark counterattacks going... And then out of nowhere, Carlos Tevez just... gives them the ball. I mean, friends, let's all give a standing ovation to the great Argentinian striker Carlos Tevez! He really must have Leeds United in his heart! I could cry! Absolutely unbelievable!" The laughter in the commentary box was barely disguised. Even the camera panned over to Sir Alex Ferguson, whose face looked like he had just bitten into a lemon—one that was also on fire. He shook his head slowly, muttering something under his breath that probably wouldn't make it to the post-match interview. On the field, the referee finally managed to break up the celebratory mob that had formed around Falcao. Leeds players jogged back to their own half, still chuckling and patting Milner on the back for his world-class acting skills. Manchester United prepared for kickoff again, but the clock was merciless. Barely a minute remained, and desperation crept into every pass. The ball found its way to Rooney, who wound up from 25 yards out and unleashed a shot with everything he had left. It flew majestically... high, wide, and not particularly handsome. A few seconds later, the referee raised the whistle to his lips, took one last look at his watch, and blew for full-time. The sound of it was like music to Arthur's ears. He practically skipped onto the pitch, high-fiving his staff with the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning. The Manchester United fans, meanwhile, were still shouting about Tevez. Some had already started chanting for investigations, while others just stared blankly at the pitch, wondering how in the world that had just happened. Arthur couldn't have looked happier. He gave one last wave to the travelling Leeds fans, who were singing loud enough to drown out the grumbling of Old Trafford. As the players trudged off, Arthur caught a glimpse of Tevez walking off slowly, his head down, hands on his hips. Arthur shook his head and chuckled to himself. "Well, I guess he still loves us," he muttered, turning back towards the tunnel with a grin that didn't look like it was leaving anytime soon. *** The final whistle blew, and Arthur clenched his fists in celebration before relaxing his hands and putting on a smile as he made his way toward Sir Alex Ferguson. The Scotsman stood there with his arms folded, looking like he had just swallowed a lemon whole. Arthur extended his hand, and Ferguson took it, giving him a firm shake. For a moment, neither said anything. Ferguson's expression softened slightly as he looked at the young man standing confidently in front of him. Finally, he let out a long sigh and muttered, "Arthur, did you give your players some kind of... I don't know... mysterious magic at halftime? Especially that right winger of yours. I was sure you were going to hook him off at the break." Arthur raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Magic? Alex, come on now. Let's be real. If there's any magic happening out there, it's called 'giving them confidence.' Sometimes that's all these young lads need. You should know that better than anyone." Ferguson gave a half-smile, nodding. "Aye, maybe you're right," he replied before giving Arthur a quick pat on the back. They hugged briefly, the kind of stiff, reluctant hug that only managers share after a game like this. Ferguson turned away to comfort his players, while Arthur walked off with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. Meanwhile, Milner had caught up with Tevez just outside the center circle. He wrapped an arm around him in a quick, friendly hug. "Hey, mate, sorry about that." Milner said, trying not to laugh. "Rough one, huh? Don't worry about it too much. Everyone makes mistakes... Just, you know, maybe don't fall for it next time," he added with a chuckle. Tevez managed a weak smile, nodding. "I still don't even know what happened... You yelled, and I just... I just did it," Tevez replied, rubbing the back of his head. Milner gave him a slap on the back. "Well, I appreciate the assist, mate. You'll always have a special place in our hearts back at Leeds now, and dinners on me next time." he added, giving Tevez a wink before jogging back toward the tunnel. Tevez, on the other hand, wasn't going anywhere quickly. Before he could even take three steps toward the locker room, a horde of reporters descended on him like vultures spotting fresh meat. "Carlos! Carlos! What was going through your head when you made that back pass?" "Were you trying to help Leeds United get back into the game deliberately?" "Do you often consider yourself more of a playmaker for the other team?" Tevez looked around, mouth slightly open, absolutely stunned by the barrage of questions. He tried to form words, but nothing came out. It was like his brain had completely short-circuited. How was he supposed to explain it? Milner had called his name, and he... just did it. He even considered the possibility that Milner had cast some sort of spell on him—dark magic, maybe? Witchcraft? At this point, it made more sense than anything else. The cameras continued to flash in his face until Ferguson finally emerged, his expression thunderous. "That's enough," he barked at the reporters, who parted like the Red Sea. Tevez ducked his head and followed Ferguson like a schoolboy caught misbehaving in class. The visual of Tevez trudging behind Ferguson, head down, was caught by every camera in the stadium. Watching from the tunnel entrance, Arthur chuckled to himself. "Out of the frying pan and into the fire, huh? Poor lad. Hope he survives Ferguson's office... if he even makes it that far," he muttered with a grin before heading back inside. The next morning, the British tabloids were relentless. Every front page, every sports column, every single headline screamed about the incident. Naturally, The Sun, never one to miss a good drama, took things to an entirely new level. The headline blared in massive letters: TRAITOR AT OLD TRAFFORD? and just below it, Leeds United shamefully stole a point from Old Trafford, and Manchester United's own player helped them do it! The article was brutal, dripping with sarcasm and rage. "Carlos Tevez," it read, "remember this name. Last night, he effectively gifted Leeds United a point, sending a perfect pass to their captain like he was still wearing white. For 90 minutes, Manchester United dominated. But all it took was one traitorous pass to undo it. Questions must be asked. Is this really a mistake? Or does this Argentinian have divided loyalties? We hope Manchester United conducts a thorough investigation into whether there are... extracurricular activities at play." Arthur nearly spit out his coffee when he read it. He handed the paper to Milner, who read the headline and burst out laughing. "Investigate him? What, for crimes against passing?" Milner chuckled. Arthur joined him, shaking his head. "They're really going for it, huh? Poor guy's gonna have to wear sunglasses and a wig to training for the next week." Milner chuckled. "If he even gets there. You think Ferguson's gonna let him live this down?" Arthur leaned back in his chair with a grin. "Not a chance," he replied. "But hey, if Tevez ever wants to come back to Leeds, I'll make sure we send him a proper invitation." *** The headlines came crashing in like a tidal wave the morning after the match. Arthur barely had time to sip his coffee before the stack of newspapers in front of him started screaming his name. "A Magical Reversal! Leeds United Escapes from Old Trafford Unscathed!" "1 Win, 2 Draws—Has the Premier League's Power Dynamic Changed?" "Ferguson Can't Beat Arthur! The Championship's Gold Standard Continues to Rise!" "Facing the Premier League Big 4: Leeds United Has 1 Win and 1 Draw—The Spoiler is Showing Its Fangs!" "Who Said Replacing a Striker with a Defender Means Surrender?!" Arthur couldn't help but chuckle as he flipped through the pages. He'd seen the match replayed a thousand times in his head since leaving Old Trafford, and it still made him laugh. The whole Tevez thing was going to be remembered for ages. He imagined Milner calling for the ball in his sleep from now on. Meanwhile, online forums were practically on fire. Fans from around the world debated, speculated, and occasionally hurled insults at each other over Leeds United's "magical" comeback. Some were convinced Arthur had performed some kind of ritual at halftime. One particularly dramatic commenter wrote: "I swear, Ribery must have been possessed at halftime. The man came out like he'd just remembered he was Ribery. What did Arthur say to him? Did he hypnotize him? Did he slip him a Red Bull IV drip?!" Another fan replied, "Nah, mate. Arthur just reminded him who he was playing against. Sometimes all you need is a reason to hate Manchester United." Meanwhile, across the continent in sunny Barcelona, Shakira was watching the end of the game with a raised eyebrow and a laugh. "That's not something you see every day," she remarked, shaking her head. Her friend nodded, still staring at the screen in disbelief. "Told you he'd turn it around. You didn't believe me." Shakira chuckled. "I guess we both lost that bet. Alright, let's grab lunch. I'm starving," she said, picking up her purse. As they stepped out, Shakira paused at the doorway, glancing back at the TV screen where Arthur was greeting his players after the match, his grin stretching from ear to ear. "This guy is...pretty interesting," she murmured. Her friend smirked. "You're not wrong," she replied, pulling her out the door. Monday morning came, and Arthur did something he hadn't done in weeks: he slept in. Not just a little—he really went for it. By the time he finally opened his eyes and checked the clock, it was past 4 in the afternoon. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the realization sink in. "Four o'clock...Well, that's one way to get a good rest," he muttered to himself. He hadn't realized just how drained he was. Weeks of back-to-back matches, relentless media questions, and endless tactical planning had finally caught up to him. He stretched out on his bed like a starfish, feeling every muscle groan in protest. His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He picked it up and saw a message from Milner. Milner: "You alive, boss? Thought Fergie might've kidnapped you for revenge." Arthur: "Barely. Slept like a log. Just woke up." Milner: "4 PM?! That's not sleep—that's hibernation, mate!" Arthur chuckled and tossed the phone aside. He stretched again and rolled out of bed, feeling slightly less like a zombie. As he shuffled to the kitchen, he remembered something. He had a chef coming over tonight. Finally, something other than takeaway boxes and microwaved disasters. He went to his calendar and double-checked. Yep, tonight was the night. He had specifically called up the chef he'd hired before—no frills, just good, hearty food. He wanted a proper meal for once. No fusion experiments, no confusing garnishes—just solid, honest cooking. Arthur cracked open his fridge, eyeing the contents like he was searching for signs of life. "I really need to start eating better," he sighed, closing the door. Then again, if everything went well tonight, he wouldn't have to worry about that. His thoughts drifted to the next match. Sunderland. Old rivals, always a scrap, but this time, he felt confident. Two points from Old Trafford and Stamford Bridge weren't just points—they were statements. And Arthur was ready to make another one. He glanced at the clock. Still a couple of hours before the chef arrived. He grabbed his phone and fired off a quick message. Arthur: "Make sure the kitchen's ready for tonight. I want it spotless." Assistant: "On it, boss. By the way, amazing game yesterday. Everyone's still talking about it!" Arthur: "I know. Let's make sure they don't stop." With that, Arthur leaned back in his chair, grinning to himself. He finally had momentum, and he wasn't about to let it slip. Sunderland was next, and for the first time in a long while, Arthur felt like the one holding all the cards.