Chapter 79: Aftermath

*** Join my Patreon for Advance Chapters ( about 30 or so) and my other 3 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 *** After five exhausting minutes of stoppage time, the referee finally put the whistle to his lips and blew, loud and long. The moment the sound echoed through Elland Road, it was as if someone had unplugged every player on the pitch. Bodies dropped. Not in celebration, not in sorrow—just complete, unapologetic exhaustion. Players from both Leeds United and Arsenal flopped to the turf like they were auditioning for a mattress commercial. Even those still standing looked like they'd run a marathon in hiking boots. Between the relentless attacks, sudden counterattacks, red cards, and that breathless equalizer in the final moments, the ninety-plus minutes had drained every drop of energy from their legs. Cramps were popping up all over the place like weeds in a neglected garden. Arthur, who'd been pacing his technical area like a caffeinated lion the entire second half, took a deep breath. The whistle wasn't just the end of the game—it was permission to finally relax. He tucked his notes into his coat pocket and calmly walked across the pitch, heading straight for Arsène Wenger, who stood waiting near the halfway line. Wenger offered his hand first, the faintest smile on his face—somewhere between admiration and pure disbelief. He shook Arthur's hand firmly and said with a wry chuckle, "Congratulations, Arthur. Your decisions today were spot on. And your players... they've got a stubbornness I haven't seen in a while. I'm looking forward to our next clash at Wembley." Arthur's tired face lit up. Hearing that from Wenger was like getting a gold star from a strict teacher. "Thank you, Arsène," he replied, his voice warm. "That means a lot. Your team was brilliant too. Tough to break down, even with one more man." The two shared a few more polite words, footballing diplomacy at its finest, then Arthur turned toward his players—most of whom were still collapsed on the grass in various states of cramp, joy, or sheer mental collapse. He started clapping and calling out names, making sure they all knew he was proud of them, even if none of them had the energy to lift their arms in response. As Arthur walked back, Wenger's eyes followed him, and something stirred in the veteran manager's heart. Before today, when Leeds had stunned Chelsea and held United to a draw at Old Trafford, Wenger had privately chuckled about it with Mourinho and Ferguson. He teased them over coffee, saying things like, "You couldn't handle a coach barely out of his first year? What's next—losing to a schoolboy?" But now? Now he got it. Arthur wasn't some lucky upstart riding a wave of beginner's luck. Wenger had felt it firsthand. The unpredictability, the fearlessness, the refusal to retreat even when down to ten men. It reminded him of his own younger days—back when he had just earned his coaching license, before the trophies and the press conferences dulled the edge. He had been bold once, too. And as Wenger stood there watching Arthur move through his squad, offering smiles and handshakes, one thought crept quietly into his mind: If it hadn't been for that red card forcing him into early changes... this result might've gone the other way. **** Arthur had just finished leading his players around Elland Road, applauding all four corners of the stadium. It wasn't just a victory lap—it was a thank-you march. The fans had stayed until the final whistle, roared their lungs out for ninety minutes, and sung every chorus like it was their last day on Earth. Now, they were rewarded with a match that would be replayed in pubs and living rooms for weeks. But just as Arthur turned to head toward the tunnel and get a well-earned seat—or perhaps collapse into one—he was ambushed. A swarm of reporters surged toward him like piranhas smelling steak. He barely had time to blink before seven or eight microphones were thrust directly into his face, some poking his chin, one nearly jabbing his left nostril. The poor lad barely got his jacket zipped before someone fired the first question like a penalty shot. "Mr. Arthur," said a serious-looking reporter from The Times, balancing his mic and notebook like a circus act. "Most fans expected you to park the bus after Maicon was sent off. But instead, you went all in and made attacking substitutions. Weren't you afraid it would backfire?" Arthur didn't flinch. He gave a little shrug, as if he'd been asked why he added hot sauce to his eggs. "In my eyes," he said plainly, "there's no real difference between losing 1–0 and losing 10–0. When you're already down a man and a goal, sitting back just makes you a sitting duck. But when you take the fight to them—when you go for it—you've at least got a chance to pull off something memorable. And thanks to the boys, we did. They gave the fans one hell of a surprise, didn't they?" The press corps chuckled. It was the kind of answer that sounded like bravado—until you remembered it had worked. Then a familiar voice spoke up. It was Lind from the Yorkshire Post, Arthur's old sparring partner at pressers. But this time, he wasn't aiming to trap him with a trick question. He looked genuinely moved, and even a little misty-eyed. "Arthur," he said, clearing his throat, "I've got to say something not as a journalist, but as a Leeds United fan. After we went a goal down and lost Maicon, I thought we were done. But the lads—they didn't give up. They kept running, kept pressing, and kept believing. For the first time in years, I saw the old Leeds spirit out there. Thank you—for bringing that back." Arthur blinked. For a second, the noise faded. The questions, the flashes, the bustle—it all went quiet. Because in that moment, he didn't see a journalist. He saw himself, a few years back, sitting in the Elland Road stands with a scarf around his neck, shouting himself hoarse even when the club was in the Championship wilderness. He remembered what it felt like to believe in a club when there was nothing left to believe in. He smiled. Then, without dodging the emotion, he answered. "Mr. Lind, and everyone here," Arthur said, voice steady but firm, "you all know the story. My dad came over from the States and bought Leeds United not because it was easy, but because he fell in love with the spirit of this club. I grew up watching matches by his side. I saw what this club means to its people. And ever since I stepped into this job, I've been trying to carry that spirit forward." He glanced around, meeting the eyes of the reporters now listening with full attention. "My father used to tell me stories about people who never gave up. Every bedtime story ended the same way—'persevere, no matter what.' So when I became head coach, that's what I tried to teach the players. That no matter the odds, if you've still got time on the clock, you fight. "And like Mr. Lind just said—our fans tonight, they never stopped singing. Not even when we were down to ten. So if the fans don't give up, what right do we have to?" He didn't raise his voice, didn't thump his chest. But in that quiet, resolute tone, Arthur made it crystal clear: Leeds United was back. And they weren't going to stop fighting anytime soon. The next morning, the English newspapers looked like someone had spilled a bucket of adrenaline over every back page. Headlines screamed in all caps. Photos of exhausted, mud-smeared players decorated the sports sections like war heroes returning from the trenches. And right in the center of it all was Arthur—still fresh-faced, still young, and now even more of a local legend than before. Leeds United's thrilling 3–3 draw against Arsenal had set the football world buzzing. Arthur's daring substitutions—especially going all-out attack with ten men—were being hailed as "reverse genius" by pundits who had spent the night flipping their tactical whiteboards upside down to try and make sense of it. Everyone from The Guardian to The Sun had something to say. But while the national papers were foaming at the mouth about tactics, substitutions, and VAR that never came, the Yorkshire Post decided to go straight for the heart. Lind—Arthur's old acquaintance and occasional verbal sparring partner—had dropped the match report and instead penned an emotional, introspective piece about the transformation of Leeds United since Arthur took over. It was less a sports article and more a love letter to a club reborn. And at the top of the column, in bold letters, was Arthur's quote from the night before: "The fans have not given up—so what qualifications do we have to give up the game?" That sentence hit Leeds like a cold pint on a hot day. Radio shows quoted it. Twitter went into meltdown. Someone even printed it on a t-shirt and wore it outside Elland Road. Within hours, Arthur's words had become a slogan—not just for the club, but for every underdog in football. In Leeds, Arthur wasn't just a manager anymore. He was an idea. But, as always in football, glory has the shelf life of a ripe banana. Because just two days later, chaos broke loose—courtesy of Old Trafford. Manchester United, who had the good fortune of being handed what many called the easiest Champions League group, somehow failed to beat Villarreal. At home. In front of their own fans. With Ronaldo's face on every billboard and Ferguson probably chewing gum with the fury of a lawnmower, they still couldn't find the net. The result was pure disaster: Villarreal were now through. That left United, Lille, and Benfica fighting for one spot in the final round—and to make things worse, United had to beat Benfica away and hope Lille didn't win. The football media flipped out. "Crisis at the Theater of Dreams?" "Fergie's Nightmare: United One Game from Collapse!" "BIG4? More like Big Mess." Even Arthur, who had no stake in it, raised his eyebrows when he saw the table. He'd looked at United's group when the Champions League draw first happened and, like most people, assumed they'd cruise through. Villarreal, Lille, and Benfica? That's practically a European picnic. But now, with one match left, they were hanging by a thread—and clinging to it with slippery fingers. Meanwhile, Arsenal and Liverpool were having the opposite problem. Their European campaigns were going well, but back in the Premier League, they were dropping points like toddlers with ice cream cones. Only Chelsea looked like they had their house in order, cruising in both competitions with that smug Mourinho strut. Arthur wasn't sure if the Premier League had gone mad or if this was just business as usual. Still, he didn't have time to babysit Ferguson's Champions League problems. Leeds had their own storm to prepare for. Tottenham were coming to Elland Road. Another league fixture. Another test. Another chance for Arthur's boys to defy the odds, stretch their legs, and hopefully avoid another heart attack of a match. But just when he thought the squad was ready, another problem popped up—and this time, it wasn't tactical. It was Deisler. Arthur noticed it during training. The little things. Showing up late. Looking distracted. Shooting when he should've passed. Mumbling under his breath when he got subbed off early last game. In short, Deisler was acting up again.