Chapter 94: Arthur The Madman

After dropping Simeone off at the club-rented apartment the night before, Arthur had barely taken a breath before the next piece of the puzzle slotted in. Allen had called to confirm: Xabi Alonso would report for training in the morning. It was like assembling IKEA furniture, but the pieces were world-class midfielders and the instructions were in Latin. So, while the outside world was still sharpening pitchforks and screaming about Simeone, Arthur was already running a full training session at Thorp Arch. Public opinion? Whatever. Leeds United had bigger things to focus on—like actually winning football matches. That morning, three new faces showed up at the training ground, each with varying levels of confusion, excitement, and hair product. First, there was Simeone, now officially Assistant Coach and looking like he'd aged a decade overnight. Then came Alonso, calm as ever, carrying the aura of someone who drinks tea while reading tactical blueprints for fun. And finally, there was a wiry red-haired kid who looked like he'd accidentally wandered in on the way to a math competition. That kid? Kevin De Bruyne. Fifteen years old. Promoted by Arthur straight into the first team. Now, technically, Kevin couldn't even play in the Premier League until his birthday in June, thanks to the FA's age rules. But Arthur wasn't planning to chuck him into the deep end just yet. He'd spotted De Bruyne's rating in the system—D level already—and with Rivaldo joining soon, Arthur figured there was no better time for the kid to start soaking up knowledge like a ginger sponge. By the time afternoon training rolled around, things got serious. With Deisler now at Liverpool and Rivaldo not yet arrived, Arthur decided to ditch the usual 4-5-1. That setup was dead, at least for now. He ran the squad through two alternative formations: the classic 4-4-2 and the more aggressive 4-3-3. Time to see who could adapt. The real experiment, though, came when Arthur threw Alonso straight into the main lineup alongside Modric in a double pivot. Now, most managers would ease in a new signing—light training, a friendly chat, maybe a jog around the pitch. Not Arthur. He chucked Alonso right into the fire. Modric-Alonso: the double midfield engine. He fully expected them to fumble through it, like two strangers learning to dance. What happened instead was... ridiculous. Within an hour, Arthur was standing on the sideline with his arms crossed and mouth half-open like a stunned pelican. Alonso wasn't just decent. He was phenomenal. Defensively, he had the positioning instincts of Mascherano—always in the right place, cutting out danger before it became dangerous. But where Mascherano might dive into a tackle like a bulldozer, Alonso simply read the play, intercepted cleanly, and moved on like it was no big deal. Elegant. Clinical. Annoyingly perfect. Offensively? Even better. Alonso's passing was like watching a surgeon with a laser pointer. Long balls, short chips, through balls—every pass was exactly where it needed to be. It was like he'd been playing next to Modric for years. Better yet, he didn't hog the spotlight. His calm control took a massive weight off Modric's shoulders, letting the Croatian dictate play without being hounded by three defenders every five seconds. In the past, when Modric got locked down, Leeds had two options: boot it to the wings and pray, or wait for Deisler to drop into midfield and rescue the build-up. Neither option was ideal. But now? Arthur had a dual-core system in midfield. If you shut down Modric, Alonso just took over. Shut down Alonso? Good luck chasing Modric for 90 minutes. Arthur was grinning like a man who'd just found twenty quid in an old jacket. This wasn't just a good signing. This was a cheat code. And to think—half the internet still thought he was ruining the club. Arthur had tried the whole "dual-core midfield" experiment before. In theory, it was supposed to be a beautiful balance—one midfielder to hold, one to roam. In practice? Not so much. The "other core" was supposed to be Yaya Touré. Keyword: supposed. Yaya, bless him, had all the discipline of a golden retriever chasing a tennis ball. He was supposed to sit deep, help Modric manage the midfield, and maybe occasionally join the attack. Instead, the moment Arthur looked away, Yaya would be ghosting into the opposition penalty area like a striker on holiday. Half the time, Arthur found himself yelling from the sidelines, "Yaya, where the hell are you going?!" only to spot him trying to poach goals in the six-yard box. It had driven Arthur mad for half a season. But now, with Alonso in the picture, all those headaches vanished overnight. Finally, someone who knew the meaning of "midfield balance." Alonso stayed when needed, moved when appropriate, passed like a genius, and didn't act like he had a personal vendetta against positional discipline. Arthur had found his missing piece. After training ended that afternoon, Arthur pulled Simeone aside. The two of them strolled slowly across the pitch, boots crunching over the fading grass of Thorp Arch. With the cones still scattered and the nets rattling in the wind, they stood in the center circle, huddled together like two generals plotting a campaign. It didn't take long before they locked it all in: the formation, the starting eleven, the tactical approach for the second half of the season. It was sharp, aggressive, and, most importantly, built on a spine of Alonso and Modric running the show. This was it. Leeds United's real campaign was about to begin. —— Thursday morning rolled around, and training at Thorp Arch was sharper than ever. The players looked focused, Simeone shouted less (slightly), and Arthur only had to scream about defensive positioning twice—a new record. After lunch, they loaded onto the team bus and headed straight for Elland Road. Tonight wasn't just another game—it was the League Cup quarterfinals. The opponent? Bolton Wanderers. Now, Bolton had surprised everyone at the start of the season. For a few glorious weeks, they were flying high in second place, dreaming of Europe and pretending they hadn't borrowed their entire midfield from a Sunday league. But once the fixtures piled up and reality kicked in, their energy levels dropped faster than a Nokia battery in winter. Twenty rounds later, they were sitting in seventh. One more slip, and they'd tumble out of the European qualifying spots altogether. Media chatter leading up to the game had been... dismissive, to say the least. Most pundits and fans assumed Leeds would steamroll this one. Five wins in a row had built momentum, and even though Arthur's side had lost to Chelsea in their last match, everyone knew that was just squad rotation. Arthur had fielded a lineup of backups, clearly saving his firepower for this exact match. Tonight, it was full throttle. Leeds United were coming for that semifinal spot—with Alonso running the engine and Arthur in the driver's seat. **** The moment Leeds United's official website updated with the news—Chiellini and Deisler out, Alonso in—the internet basically exploded like someone had kicked over a beehive of angry, confused, and deeply caffeinated football fans. Public opinion, which had been simmering with confusion, now went full-blown conspiracy mode. Since neither Leeds nor Liverpool had held a press conference, the vacuum of information was quickly filled with wild theories and hot takes. One popular theory claimed Arthur had fallen out with the players, forcing them out of the club. Another insisted that he was secretly trying to cash in before getting sacked—selling the team's best players to fund a golden parachute or a luxury yacht named Tactical Genius. But the most unhinged rumour? A truly cinematic one: apparently, the reason Arthur traded Deisler for Alonso wasn't tactical at all—it was personal. According to one particularly imaginative post on a fan forum, Arthur and Alonso shared some kind of mysterious, possibly romantic history. A dramatic one. Probably with violins. Arthur, of course, hadn't seen any of this nonsense. He was far too busy preparing for the League Cup quarterfinal at Elland Road. He'd been buried in tactics and training, and now he was seated calmly in his office, sipping coffee like he wasn't being accused of masterminding a football soap opera. Lina, on the other hand, had been online. And she was loving every second of it. While Arthur focused on the matchday logistics, Lina sat nearby at her desk, grinning at her phone like she'd found buried treasure. At one point, she even rested her chin in her hands and sighed dreamily at a particularly juicy thread, probably imagining Arthur and Alonso in some overly dramatic romance scene under the rain. Arthur, thankfully, was blissfully unaware she was shipping him with his new midfielder. But Arthur's peace wouldn't last. Because Alan, the usual media buffer, wasn't with them today. Which meant Arthur—who had skillfully avoided public statements for the past 48 hours—was finally caught and forced to face the press before the game. There was no escape this time. The moment he stepped into the press room at Elland Road, it was chaos. Reporters surged forward like they were chasing a Black Friday deal, microphones waving in the air like torches. The poor staff had to physically push them back to restore order. Arthur strolled to the front, sat down at the table, adjusted the mic... and braced himself. The first question came in hot, from a bald, flushed man clearly eager to land a jab. "Hello, Mr. Arthur, I'm from the Daily Mail. I'd like to ask—what were your considerations in choosing Diego Simeone as Leeds United's assistant coach?" Arthur gave the man a blank stare, then slowly leaned into the mic. "If I remember correctly, I'm here for the League Cup pre-match press conference, right? So I'll be refusing to answer any question that doesn't relate to tonight's game." The reporter turned redder than a tomato in a sauna. "You—!" Arthur cut him off without blinking. "This question isn't related to the match. Next." The man opened his mouth to argue, but Arthur had already turned away, scanning the crowd for someone less annoying. He pointed at a woman in the second row. "You. Go ahead." The female reporter sat up straighter, smoothed her hair, and raised her microphone with careful professionalism. "Hello, Mr. Arthur. I'm from World Football. Yesterday, your team parted ways with two absolutely vital first-team players. How do you think their departure will affect tonight's game? Or, more broadly, do you believe Leeds United's overall strength has dropped because of these exits?" Arthur stared at her for a beat. Then he let out an exaggerated gasp. "Wow. Grandma. Why didn't anyone tell me you reporters were this aggressive?!" The room burst into awkward laughter—part amusement, part fear that Arthur might start roasting them one by one. And the press conference... had only just begun.