Chapter 60: I wanna go home !

*** 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 sat back in his chair, eyes locked on the screen as Tevez's player panel loaded up. He didn't expect much—just the usual stats and a couple of minor fluctuations. But then he saw it, clear as day, and he burst out laughing. There it was, right at the bottom of the screen: [Temporary Event: A major mistake occurred in a recent game, causing the team to lose a key goal. After the game, he was criticized by the media and fans. His current state is extremely poor, and his self-confidence is seriously frustrated. Duration: 14 days] Arthur leaned back, grinning like a kid who just found out Christmas came early. "Well, well, well... looks like poor Carlos is having a bit of a rough week," he chuckled. He could almost picture it—Tevez, head down, trudging off the pitch while Ferguson probably barked at him like he'd just committed treason. The media circus wasn't any kinder; headlines practically begged for his head. Strictly speaking, Arthur had never been Tevez's biggest fan. Sure, the guy was talented—there was no question about that. But his professional ethics? That was a whole other story. The truth was, Arthur hadn't signed Tevez out of admiration. He signed him for two simple reasons: he was cheap and he could be sold for a massive profit. That was it. A pure business transaction dressed up as a football transfer. Talent-wise, Tevez had it all. His skill on the ball, his tenacity, his knack for finding the net—textbook stuff. But his commitment? About as solid as wet tissue paper. Arthur knew his history like the back of his hand. At Manchester United, Ferguson managed to keep him in line—barely. But when Tevez moved to Manchester City, the wheels came off spectacularly. Arthur still remembered that infamous Champions League incident. City was down, and Mancini told Tevez to warm up. Tevez's response? A flat-out no. Just refused to go on. Mancini practically blew a gasket, publicly declaring that Tevez was finished at the club. City threatened heavy fines, suspension, the whole works. Tevez's reaction? He didn't care. He just jetted off back to Argentina with his family, missing five months of games and training. The only reason he even came back was to salvage his career with a half-hearted apology that everyone knew he didn't mean. And even when he returned to Europe, Tevez couldn't help himself. Every chance he got, he'd publicly talk about wanting to go back to Argentina, like he was homesick for steak and sunshine. It got so frequent that fans nicknamed him Tevez's Homesickness. Arthur couldn't help but laugh at the memory. At least he was consistent. Then came the Juventus stint. First season? Brilliant. Second season? More whining about Argentina. And, surprise, surprise, he finally got his wish and went back to Boca Juniors. That should have been the end of it, but no—Tevez decided to take one last lap around the gravy train and joined a Chinese Super League club. Arthur remembered watching that disaster unfold from his living room, laughing his head off. Tevez showed up unfit, played like he was sleepwalking, and spent most of his time sulking. After one miserable season, the club couldn't throw him back to Argentina fast enough. Arthur leaned back in his chair, wiping the grin off his face just long enough to catch his breath. He had to admit, Tevez's panel was comedy gold. That Temporary Event basically confirmed what everyone knew already: the man was an emotional rollercoaster. One mistake, and he crumbled like a house of cards. And right now, judging by that 14-day time frame, he wasn't going to be in any condition to perform miracles anytime soon. The thought made Arthur chuckle. "I wonder if Ferguson's giving him the hairdryer treatment right now," he muttered to himself, picturing the scene in vivid detail. Tevez standing there like a schoolboy, Ferguson's face practically purple with rage, spitting out words so sharp you could butter toast with them. But really, it wasn't even that bad—United had only drawn, not lost. Surely Ferguson would cut the kid some slack, right? Arthur squinted at the screen again. "Maybe... but probably not," he mused, shaking his head. "Ferguson isn't exactly known for his gentle touch." But truth be told, it didn't really matter to Arthur. Tevez was just a backup for Van Nistelrooy at United anyway. If he spent the next two weeks sulking on the bench, it wasn't like United's title hopes would collapse. Plus, with the Champions League not even started yet and the fixture list looking relatively light, it wasn't like Ferguson was desperate to throw him back on the pitch. If anything, it was probably a blessing in disguise for the old Scotsman. Arthur clicked off Tevez's panel and leaned back, still chuckling to himself. "Guess I don't need to worry about him bouncing back anytime soon," he muttered. "At least I won't have to see him attempting back passes anytime soon. The fans might just storm the pitch." He shut his laptop, still grinning from ear to ear. If this was how Temporary Events worked, he couldn't wait to see what happened to the next poor soul who crossed his path. After logging out of the system, Arthur surfed the Internet for a while, and then climbed into bed early to prepare for sleep. He still has to train tomorrow! *** ChatGPT said:Ferguson didn't bother with any psychological pep talks for Tevez after the disaster against Leeds. The old Scotsman wasn't exactly the "let's talk about your feelings" type. If you wanted a cuddle and a motivational quote, you went to Arsène Wenger. Ferguson? He was more of a "shut up and do better" kind of guy. To be fair, Ferguson didn't even chew Tevez out for the mistake that cost United two points. In his mind, not yelling at the Argentine was practically a warm hug. "I didn't tear him apart—that's comfort enough," he reasoned. Besides, Ferguson had bigger problems. He wasn't the one who booted away three points; Tevez was. If anyone deserved a shoulder to cry on, it was Sir Alex, not the moody Argentine. And anyway, Tevez wasn't some fragile academy kid. He was in his second season in England, and he'd played well for Leeds the year before. Ferguson figured if the kid had enough grit to make it this far, he could work through a bad game without a therapy session. If not? There was always the bench. That was the beautiful simplicity of Ferguson's logic: Play well or sit down. So, when training rolled around on Tuesday, Ferguson didn't even glance in Tevez's direction. No arm around the shoulder, no "you'll get 'em next time, lad." Just the usual drills and barking orders. Tevez didn't seem too bad during the morning session—nothing spectacular, but no red flags either. It was in the afternoon when things went off the rails. The team split into groups for the afternoon scrimmage, and Tevez got slotted with the reserves. Arthur imagined Ferguson's face at that moment—probably looked like he just bit into a lemon. Right from the start, it was a circus. Passes went astray, first touches bounced off his foot like it was a trampoline, and then came the moment. Park Ji-sung, dribbling down the sideline, spotted Tevez wide open and rolled him a simple ground pass. It was routine—an absolute bread-and-butter ball. Tevez stepped up, reached out with his foot...and promptly booted it straight out of bounds. It wasn't even close. The ball just took off like it was allergic to the pitch. On the sideline, Ferguson folded his arms and glared. That was the final nail in the coffin. "He's not touching the pitch," Ferguson probably muttered under his breath. But fate had other ideas. Wednesday came around, and it was like the football gods were out for a laugh. In the morning, Van Nistelrooy pulled a muscle during strength training. Ferguson brushed it off—one striker down, no big deal. But then, in the afternoon session, Roy Keane went in for a tackle that looked more like he was trying to take Rooney's soul. Rooney hit the ground, clutching his leg, and the team doctor's face said it all: two weeks minimum. Ferguson looked up to the sky like he was waiting for lightning to strike him right there. With both of his main strikers out, he had no choice. Tevez had to play. Arthur couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of Ferguson's expression: pure, unfiltered rage disguised as calm acceptance. So, there it was. On Thursday, away at Newcastle, Tevez found himself starting up front. Arthur almost wished he could have watched it unfold live. Calling it a disaster was putting it mildly. Tevez looked like he'd just wandered onto the pitch by accident. He was jogging around aimlessly, bouncing off defenders like he was made of rubber, and providing absolutely zero presence up front. Ronaldo and Giggs tried—oh, how they tried. They whipped in crosses, delivered balls to his feet, and set him up for hold-up play. It was like watching someone try to teach a cat to fetch. After about four failed attempts, they gave up entirely. Ronaldo just started cutting inside and firing shots himself, and Giggs did the same. "Can't trust him with the ball," was probably the unspoken agreement. The moment that really sealed it came just before the hour mark. Scholes, in typical Scholes fashion, threaded an inch-perfect through ball, practically gift-wrapped with a bow on top. Tevez ran onto it, and...well, nobody's quite sure what he did. The ball ended up somewhere in row Z, and Ferguson's expression went from "mildly furious" to "I need a punching bag." That was it. Ferguson had seen enough. He waved his hand, and Tevez was yanked off the pitch. Ronaldo moved to center forward, and, miraculously, United started looking like a football team again. Scholes saved the day with a gorgeous free-kick just before the final whistle, sparing Ferguson from what would've been a truly miserable post-match interview. But the fans weren't feeling so generous. By the time the final whistle blew, United's official website was practically under siege. Forums lit up with angry rants, memes, and photoshopped images of Tevez wearing clown shoes. The media piled on too, questioning his form, his commitment, and probably his sanity. Arthur could just imagine Tevez scrolling through the comments with the same face someone makes when reading restaurant reviews that mention food poisoning. The chaos didn't stop there. On Friday, the team returned to Carrington for light recovery training, and Tevez still looked like he'd just rolled out of bed. Ferguson finally snapped. He pulled Tevez aside, dragged him into his office, and shut the door. What happened next was a mystery, but Arthur was willing to bet it was less "team bonding" and more "volcanic eruption." Tevez slumped back to his car after training, looking like someone had just run over his dog. He climbed into the driver's seat, sighed deeply, and stared blankly out the window. Then his phone buzzed. It was his mom. "Hola, Carlos!" her voice chimed through the speaker. Tevez paused, his voice cracking just a little. "Mama...I miss home..."