Chapter 61: First month of Premier League

*** 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 *** Tevez's mother might have been the kindest woman on earth, but even her soft words couldn't snap him out of his funk. Arthur imagined the call going something like this: "Mi hijo, just focus on your game, everything will be fine." "Yeah, sure, mamá...but the ball keeps running away from me," Tevez probably replied, staring blankly at his boots like they'd personally betrayed him. Despite the pep talk, the next two days of training were a comedy of errors. If there was a ball within ten feet of Tevez, it was going to end up somewhere it wasn't supposed to be. During one drill, Scholes sent a perfect pass his way, and Tevez, in a moment of pure inspiration, managed to nutmeg himself. Arthur didn't even know that was physically possible, but apparently, Tevez was exploring new boundaries of failure. Ferguson, of course, was watching the whole thing with a face that looked like he'd just bitten into a lemon...a really bitter one. By the end of the second day, the old man had seen enough. If steam could come out of ears like in cartoons, Ferguson would have looked like a broken teapot. When matchday rolled around, Ferguson made his decision. Tevez was going to the bench. No more experiments, no more second chances. "Bench him," Arthur imagined Ferguson growling to his assistant. "I'm not watching that circus again." Instead, Ferguson turned to his old reliable: Ole Gunnar Solskjaer. The baby-faced assassin. The teacher's pet. The guy who probably did his homework, ironed his shirt, and scored goals before breakfast. If there was one thing Solskjaer knew how to do, it was pop up out of nowhere and poke the ball into the net like it was his life's mission. Tevez sat on the bench, hood up, arms crossed, looking like someone had stolen his lunch money. Meanwhile, Solskjaer jogged onto the pitch with that annoyingly cheerful smile of his. It was like the guy didn't understand pressure or nerves—just happy to be there, like he'd stumbled onto the pitch by accident. Twenty minutes after coming on, Solskjaer made his move. Giggs whipped in a cross, the kind that would have bounced off Tevez's shins two days ago, but Solskjaer met it with a clinical flick into the corner of the net. Easy as you like. Old Trafford erupted, fans roaring with joy, and Solskjaer celebrated like he'd just won the lottery. Arthur could almost picture Tevez's reaction—slumped back on the bench, staring at his boots again, probably wondering if they'd been cursed. Solskjaer was mobbed by his teammates, a sea of red shirts swarming him as if he'd just saved a bus full of puppies. Tevez didn't even clap. He just stared, hollow-eyed, like he was watching someone else live out his dream. When the final whistle blew, United had secured a 1-0 victory over Aston Villa, and Ferguson shook Solskjaer's hand with a nod of approval. Tevez? He trudged back to the locker room, barely lifting his head. He didn't even bother to glance at Ferguson. He knew what was coming next—a one-way trip to the bench until further notice. *** Elland Road was buzzing. Leeds United were hosting Sunderland, and Arthur had one thing in mind—send them packing with zero points. Arthur leaned back in his office chair, feet propped up on the desk, flicking through his notes on Sunderland. "Boring, predictable, and always playing catch-up," he muttered. He knew his boys had the energy to take them down, but the timing was tricky. The international break was just around the corner—a time when every club manager turned into a nervous wreck. Most managers dreaded this period. It wasn't just the matches themselves, but the nagging fear that their players might come back with a sprained ankle, a pulled hamstring, or worse, a broken spirit after getting thrashed by some underdog national team. Arthur couldn't help but smirk. For once, he didn't have to worry too much. Leeds United wasn't exactly swarming with internationals. Out of the entire squad, only Berbatov and Deisler were serious contenders for their respective national teams. Everyone else? Either benchwarmers or not even getting the call-up. Arthur almost felt bad for them—but not really. This meant less risk of injuries and, more importantly, a well-rested squad. In the pre-match briefing, Arthur kept it short and simple. "Alright, lads. It's Sunderland. You know what to do—make them regret stepping onto our pitch. Berba, Deisler—you're getting 45 minutes. I want goals. After that, you're hitting the showers and thinking about international duty. The rest of you—no mercy. Let's keep this streak alive." The game kicked off, and Sunderland looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. Right from the start, Leeds were all over them. Ribery, still riding that hot streak, was making the Sunderland defense look like they were stuck in quicksand. Ten minutes in, he danced past two defenders like they were mannequins, fired a shot from just outside the box, and—bang—goal. Elland Road erupted. Arthur couldn't help but grin. "That's my boy," he whispered. For the rest of the first half, Sunderland's attempts at attacking were laughable. Their best effort was a cross that floated out for a goal kick. Arthur spent most of the time discussing dinner plans with his assistant coach. "Maybe Italian tonight. The lads deserve a treat after this." At halftime, Arthur stuck to the plan. Berbatov and Deisler off, keeping them fresh for international duty. The second half was more of the same—Leeds in control, Sunderland praying for the final whistle. By the end, it was 1-0, but the scoreline didn't do justice to Leeds' dominance. Sunderland didn't even manage a single shot on target. As the final whistle blew, Arthur took a deep breath. Another win in the bag. The first month of their Premier League campaign had wrapped up, and it wasn't looking bad at all. Arthur could already hear the pundits eating their words. A few weeks earlier, they'd called him crazy. They mocked his confidence, saying Leeds would crumble in the top flight. But four games in, things looked different. Leeds were sitting pretty in fourth place with two wins and two draws, totaling eight points. Not bad for a newly promoted side. At the top, predictably, was Manchester United—three wins, one draw, ten points. Charlton was second with the same record, while Chelsea, having shaken off their opening loss to Leeds, had clawed their way back to third with nine points. Liverpool and Arsenal? Not so impressive. Liverpool were struggling down in eighth with seven points, and Arsenal, with their usual flair for inconsistency, were ninth with just six points. Arthur couldn't help but chuckle at the thought. Maybe Wenger was too busy arguing with his coat zipper again. Arthur headed down to the tunnel, where the team was celebrating. Ribery was still hyped from his goal, while Berbatov looked as casual as ever, like he'd just strolled through the match with a cigar and a glass of wine. "Nice work, lads," Arthur said, clapping Ribery on the back. "Try not to break any ankles on international duty, yeah?" Back in his office, Arthur pulled up the league table on his laptop, staring at the top four. Seeing Leeds up there felt good. Really good. Maybe the critics would start shutting up now. Or maybe not. Either way, Arthur wasn't losing sleep over it. He had a team that was young, hungry, and proving people wrong week after week. He couldn't help but grin as he leaned back again. "They're going to have to get used to seeing Leeds up here," he muttered. As the stadium started to empty out, Arthur knew one thing for sure—the doubters would keep talking, but Leeds United were making a statement, one game at a time. Arthur sat back in his chair, propping his feet up on his desk as he scrolled through the match calendar. It was early September, and Leeds United's start to the Premier League season had gone surprisingly well. But he knew better than to get too comfortable. The League Cup was coming up in mid-September, and in January, the FA Cup would start demanding their attention too. It was like the universe just kept throwing competitions at him, daring him to juggle it all without dropping something important. He scratched his head and sighed. "Well, at least the international break's here," he muttered to himself. As much as club managers hated seeing their players jet off for national duty, Arthur found a silver lining: he didn't have that many to lose. "Let's see," he mumbled, counting off on his fingers. "Berbatov, Deisler... and that's it." He chuckled, realizing that most of his squad wasn't exactly on any national coach's speed dial. For once, having a team full of underrated talent had its perks. No long flights to South America, no last-minute injuries in meaningless friendlies—just some good old-fashioned rest. With that in mind, Arthur gave the remaining squad a simple schedule: light training, keep the legs moving, don't eat too many meat pies, and absolutely no foolishness. By the weekend, he was feeling generous and gave them three days off. "Come back Tuesday," he told them. "And don't show up with beer guts or mysterious injuries, yeah?" The players grinned and headed off, some probably to see family, others likely to find the nearest pub. Arthur didn't care—he had bigger things to think about. As the training ground emptied out, Arthur strolled back to his office, feeling unusually optimistic. The season was just beginning, but things were moving in the right direction. He opened his laptop, glanced at the latest club reports, and then, almost instinctively, pulled up the system interface. [Host]: Arthur [Club Owned]: Leeds United [Economic Status]: Normal Operation [Team Status]: Positive and Upward [Available Funds]: 6.9 Million Euros [Fixed Skills]: Super Scout (You can freely view the detailed attributes of any player), Master Coach. Arthur grinned. Nearly 7 million euros in the club's account. Not bad for a few months of work. His mind drifted back to the chaos he'd inherited—the debt, the crumbling facilities, the squad that looked more fit for a Sunday pub league than the Premier League. But now? Leeds was climbing the table, the fans were starting to believe, and the bank account wasn't flashing red anymore. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Where did all this money even come from?" he mused. He knew it wasn't from the Premier League broadcast money; that check hadn't cleared yet. That big payday would land in the club's account soon enough, and when it did, it would be like Christmas came early. "Must be the season tickets... and the merch," Arthur nodded, imagining kids in Leeds jerseys, parents grumbling as they handed over cash for overpriced scarves. It was beautiful, really. And Leeds United was finally part of the Premier League's money machine. He knew the financial side of English football was a whole different beast compared to the other European leagues. The Premier League didn't just sell football—it sold drama, spectacle, and chaos, all bundled up in a multi-billion-euro package. Even the clubs that finished near the bottom of the table got fat paychecks, simply for existing. Leeds, with its history and loyal fanbase, was perfectly positioned to cash in. Arthur scrolled through a few more reports, smirking as he read about the TV deals. The Premier League had set itself up brilliantly, he realized. Unlike the squabbling messes of other leagues, where money trickled down unevenly and big clubs sucked up all the cash, the Premier League had a more balanced distribution. Smaller clubs got a bigger slice of the pie, which meant they could actually afford decent players and put up a fight. It made the league more competitive and, more importantly, more marketable. He couldn't help but admire the business model. It wasn't just football—it was an empire, and Leeds United was now a part of it. Arthur was even a member of the Premier League Committee, though he hadn't really figured out what that meant yet. Probably just more meetings and dull conversations about VAR and ticket prices. Arthur leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. "If we crack top four this season," he whispered to himself, "that's tens of millions from the Champions League. Tens of millions." His eyes lit up at the thought. That kind of money would give him the freedom to run his very own "buy low, sell high" operation—just like he had planned from the start. He leaned back, chuckling to himself. "Imagine that. Leeds United, selling high and buying low... and not out of desperation, but because we actually can." He knew the road ahead was long and full of landmines. Injuries, bad calls, unexpected upsets—anything could derail their momentum. But right now, things were good. Leeds United was on the rise, the bank account wasn't empty, and Arthur finally had the freedom to make moves. As he closed the laptop, he leaned back in his chair with a grin. "Not bad for a start," he muttered. "Not bad at all."