Chapter 95: Alonso's Debut

Arthur leaned into the microphone with the kind of grin that said I've had enough of this nonsense, but I'm going to enjoy it anyway. "Of course it won't have any impact, ma'am!" he said, flashing the kind of overconfident smile that could make even a 0–3 halftime scoreline seem like part of the plan. "Sure, a few players left, but haven't we got new ones coming in? And, last I checked, I'm still the head coach of Leeds United." He gave a dramatic pause, looked around the room like he was revealing a grand twist in a murder mystery, then added, "With the new additions, our tactics are going to get even more flexible. The overall strength of Leeds United will only go up. Decline? What decline? That word isn't even in our playbook!" There was a short silence. Then laughter broke out. Not the polite, fake kind either—actual snorts and chuckles from a few reporters who hadn't expected Arthur to roast the entire internet's doubts with such theatrical flair. One guy in the back even whispered, "I think he's lost it," to which another replied, "Nope, he's just having fun now." Arthur's response had that mix of smug confidence and sarcastic cheerfulness that made journalists either hate him or write three articles quoting him. He knew exactly what he was doing. Give them drama, give them quotes, but never give them a straight answer unless it was wrapped in glitter and sarcasm. The press, of course, loved it. This kind of response—bold, brash, and completely flying in the face of public outrage—was pure gold for headlines. "Arthur Laughs Off Leeds Crisis," "Coach Claims Team Stronger After Selling Stars," and "No Decline Here, Says Man Sitting on Ticking Bomb"—you could already see the headlines being typed. After swatting away a few more questions like he was playing verbal dodgeball, Arthur checked the time, gave the press one final smirk, and stood up. "That's all, folks. I've got a cup to win," he said, straightening his jacket like a man who was about to walk into a battlefield with a paintball gun and still claim victory. He stepped out of the room and headed straight for the locker room, where the real work—and the real madness—was waiting. *** As Arthur strolled into the stadium tunnel, hands in his coat pockets and wearing the same unbothered expression he had at the press conference, he heard Eddie Gray's booming voice already ringing through Elland Road. "Ladies and gentlemen! Elland Road welcomes you again!" The crowd erupted with a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation. Arthur paused, just for a second, to enjoy it. Nothing like a home game to stir up the chaos he called football. "Now let's take a look at Leeds United's starting lineup today!" Arthur kept walking toward the dugout as Eddie continued, and the closer he got to the pitch, the more he could feel the weight of the crowd's energy buzzing in the cold air like static before a lightning strike. "It's very different from the last match," Eddie said with theatrical suspense. "Today, Arthur's going with a bold 4-4-2! Up top, the strike duo—Falcao and Berbatov!" A cheer broke out from the crowd, especially from one poor soul already holding a "BERBA-TOUCH ME" sign. "In midfield, we've got Ribery on the left, Milner on the right, and in the center—Modric and a new face! That's right, folks! Making his debut in a Leeds United shirt—Xabi Alonso!" The spotlight in the stadium swung toward Alonso, who was already warming up with the kind of casual grace that made him look like he was playing chess, not football. Calm, elegant, and completely ignoring the fact that half the internet thought he'd been traded for a bag of crisps and drama. "Let's give the warmest welcome to this new member of the Leeds United family!" Eddie encouraged. Now, despite a good portion of the crowd still quietly fuming about Deisler's departure—some even holding up signs like "Where's my Deisler jersey refund?"—they still had the decency to give Alonso a respectful round of applause. Maybe it was peer pressure. Maybe it was Eddie Gray's smooth persuasion. Or maybe, deep down, they all wanted to believe Arthur had a master plan and hadn't just swapped a midfield wizard for a tactical gamble. "Continuing with the lineup," Eddie went on, "on the backline, we've got our two dependable fullbacks—Lahm and Maicon!" That announcement got a hearty cheer. At least something still felt familiar. "And in central defense," Eddie said with a bit more edge to his voice, "a youthful pairing today—Piqué and Kompany!" Some eyebrows raised. That duo sounded promising on paper, but also one mistimed tackle away from absolute disaster. "And between the sticks," Eddie added, "as always, our rock—Schmeichel!" A roar of approval. If there was one man everyone trusted to keep Leeds from spontaneously combusting at the back, it was the younger Schmeichel, who had inherited not just the gloves but apparently the nerves of steel too. As the players continued warming up, Arthur made his way to the bench, his expression unreadable. On the surface, he looked calm. Inside? Probably calculating 42 different scenarios in case the Piqué–Kompany experiment turned into a game of "Who Wants To Cause A Heart Attack First?" But tonight was no time for nerves. It was time for 4-4-2, for debut chaos, and for Arthur's ever-growing reputation as the mad genius—or madman—at the helm of Leeds United. *** The match had barely begun, and already chaos was brewing—in a good way. "It almost went in! Berbatov's shot! Ohhhhhhh~~~ What a pity!" Eddie Gray groaned dramatically into the mic. "Yossi's in good form today. Two brilliant saves already!" On the sidelines, Arthur barely flinched. He simply folded his arms and nodded. That was exactly what he expected. "But listen here, folks," Eddie continued, "our dear head coach might've just pulled off another sneaky masterclass of a deal! Because both of Berbatov's chances? They came from Alonso. Precise through balls. Like threading a needle with a football. Where was this Alonso hiding at Liverpool, huh? Was he just saving up all the magic until now?" The crowd burst into laughter at the commentary. Even Arthur smirked slightly, though he quickly wiped the expression off his face before anyone could catch him enjoying himself. Leeds had dominated the opening ten minutes. It wasn't just the scoreboard that mattered—this was about rhythm, control, presence. And they had all of it. Eddie's teasing remarks had struck the right note with the home crowd. They chuckled, clapped, and, without any prompting, gave a warm round of applause for Xabi Alonso. The Spaniard, standing coolly in midfield, raised an eyebrow in mild surprise before glancing around. Not bad, he thought. It had only been ten minutes on the pitch at Elland Road, and already he was hearing his name chanted and his passes praised. He didn't expect this. Hell, he didn't even think he liked the cold that much. But in that moment, standing in the heart of a buzzing stadium, hearing applause that didn't feel forced or sarcastic, Alonso realized—he kind of liked it here. It wasn't just the fans. It was Arthur, too. When Alonso was at Liverpool, things were different. Sure, Rafa Benitez trusted him. He was always part of the starting lineup when healthy. No doubt about that. But trust and freedom? Two very different concepts. At Anfield, the hierarchy was carved in stone: Steven Gerrard was the king, the sword, the shield, and the goalkeeper if he wanted to be. Alonso? He was the reliable sidekick. The dependable backup dancer to Gerrard's rock concert solo. He'd been asked to mop up, sit deeper, and just hand the ball off to Stevie when it mattered. And to be fair, Alonso hadn't complained. He was never the shouting type. But there was always that quiet itch inside him—what if I was allowed to create more? To move forward? To shoot without being yelled at? His first season had been rocky. A nasty ankle injury against Chelsea kept him sidelined for a while. It wasn't until the Champions League quarterfinals that he returned. Then came that unforgettable final in Istanbul, and his crucial equalizer that helped Liverpool complete one of the greatest comebacks in football history. He'd become a legend overnight. But still—he was a legend with limits. At Liverpool, the motto might as well have been: "Only one man leads. The rest follow." And now? Now he was standing in the middle of Elland Road with the ball at his feet, Modric making a quick run to his left, Ribery darting ahead, and Berbatov pointing exactly where he wanted the ball. And most importantly—he had permission to do whatever he wanted. Just yesterday, during training, Arthur had pulled him and Modric aside. While the players took water breaks and trainers yelled about cones and stretching, Arthur—looking far too relaxed for someone managing a club under media siege—grinned at them and said plainly: "You two are the dual-core of this team now. Run the midfield however you like. If you see space, go. If you think the shot's on, take it. I'm not going to clip your wings. As long as it threatens the other team, go wild." Alonso blinked. Modric blinked. Then they both gave the kind of subtle nods footballers give when they don't want to look too excited, but internally they're doing cartwheels. Now, on the pitch, Alonso felt the difference immediately. The shackles were off. He wasn't just a cog—he was part of the engine design. He played a pass that sliced between two Bolton midfielders like a hot knife through butter. Milner collected it wide. Another wave of applause from the stands. Yeah, Alonso thought again, I could get used to this. And just like that, he started to smile. Not a big grin. Just a small, knowing smirk. Elland Road was beginning to feel like home. (Till he sells you! ????) Sam Allardyce was beginning to sweat—and not from the weather. For the first few minutes, everything had gone to plan. He'd come prepared. Everyone knew that Leeds United's play flowed through Modric. With Sebastian Deisler sold off, Arthur's midfield wizard had to carry the creative load—right? That's what Sam had bet the house on. Before kick-off, he'd marched up and down the Bolton dressing room like a man possessed, barking at his midfielders like a general before battle. "Modric! Shut him down! Don't let that scruffy-haired elf get a second on the ball. Cut off his supply and the rest of Leeds will crumble!" It was a solid plan. The kind of no-nonsense, meat-and-potatoes football logic Big Sam was famous for. And to his credit, the Bolton players had executed it beautifully. Modric barely had time to breathe. Every time he got the ball, two—sometimes three—Bolton players descended on him like overly aggressive bees. And that's when Sam started getting a weird itch in the back of his neck. Because instead of collapsing under pressure, Modric just... stopped trying to play forward. No fuss. No drama. The moment Bolton's midfielders began their swarm routine, Modric simply turned and tapped the ball sideways to Xabi Alonso—who was loitering nearby with all the calm of a man waiting for a taxi. Then Alonso, completely unbothered by the lack of pressure, would look up, pick a pass, and split the Bolton defence like he was cutting cake at a wedding. Simple. Smooth. Ruthless. If not for Bolton keeper Yossi Jaaskelainen pulling off two spectacular saves, Berbatov would've already bagged a brace. And that's when it hit Sam like a tactical brick to the face. He'd planned for the wrong man. He'd built his whole strategy around stopping Modric... but Alonso was the one pulling the strings. This wasn't the cautious, deep-lying passer he'd seen at Liverpool. This version of Alonso was daring. Adventurous. Practically swaggering around midfield like he'd just been handed the keys to the kingdom—and Arthur had clearly given him permission to go wild. "No, no, no..." Sam muttered, already power-walking toward the touchline with the panic of a man whose kitchen just caught fire. "This can't continue. He's not supposed to be this... bold. We've got to shut him down!" But while Sam was halfway through formulating Plan B, Leeds were already executing Plan A—again. On the pitch, it was another familiar sequence. Modric received the ball near the centre circle. Predictably, two Bolton midfielders lunged toward him like hungry wolves. Without even glancing up, Modric nudged the ball sideways to Alonso and jogged away like a man clocking out for lunch. Alonso took over. Again, no pressure. He rolled the ball ahead, pushed into Bolton's half, and began casually surveying the field. That was when Bolton midfielder George finally decided to step up. "Alright, that's enough," George muttered to himself as he sprinted up to close the distance. He squared up, ready to block the passing lane. Alonso's eyes flicked to the left. His body followed. A subtle lean, a gentle sway of the hips, and it looked like the ball was about to fly toward Ribery out wide. George bit. He shifted left, anticipating the pass—and that's when Alonso struck. In one fluid motion, Alonso cut the ball back with his left foot, slicing past George's right side like a magician yanking a coin from behind someone's ear. George was left spinning, his legs tangled and his dignity gently leaking out of his boots. Eddie Gray couldn't help himself. "Nice fake move! He's sent his man for a hot dog!" he yelled over the mic, as Elland Road erupted in laughter and applause. Alonso didn't even smile. He just kept jogging forward, his head up, scanning again. This was just the beginning.