"Did it work?"
Allen hovered beside Arthur like a dog waiting to be tossed a scrap from the dinner table. His voice was eager, practically trembling with anticipation.
Arthur pulled the phone away from his ear and gave it a satisfied little twirl in his hand before tossing it lightly to Allen. The look on his face said it all.
"Of course it worked," Arthur said with a grin. "When have I ever failed to offload a player? Name one time."
Allen caught the phone with both hands and chuckled. "Boss, you're unbelievable. We just flipped Maicon, brought in Alves and Marcelo, snagged Sneijder back like it was nothing, and still ended up 15 million euros ahead." He gave a snort. "No wonder the media's starting to call us a black-market operation. A clean one, but still shady as hell!"
Arthur burst out laughing and clapped a hand on Allen's shoulder. "Black shop, my ass. This is high-level asset management. I'm not selling watches on the sidewalk, I'm shaping football dynasties. Now quit flattering me and do something useful. Calderon's sending someone next week to finalize the paperwork—receive them properly. And tell Michael to get Sneijder's agent over to Madrid for the personal terms."
"Yes, boss," Allen said, already halfway to the door, likely dreaming of being knighted for services to football economics.
The Next Day – Matchday: Leeds United vs. Chelsea
As the clock ticked towards 7:00 PM, a chill winter breeze swept across the city of Leeds. Floodlights glowed over the stadium like stage lights preparing for a heavyweight duel. Christmas decorations blinked from the terraces, but this wasn't a time for cheer or carols. This was war.
Inside the Sky Sports studio, the mood was electric.
"Good evening, football fans!" the host boomed into the mic. "Welcome to Sky Sports' live broadcast of tonight's Premier League showdown—Leeds United vs. Chelsea—on Christmas Eve, no less! I'm here with Jon and Gary, and whether you're cheering for Arthur's upstart juggernaut or Mourinho's blue empire, you're in for a hell of a night!"
"Evening all," Jon added, adjusting his headset. "Gary, I saw your Twitter post last night about this match being a chess game in disguise. You might be right, because get this—at the pre-match press conference just an hour ago, both managers were MIA."
Gary Lineker chuckled, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. "Not only that, Jon, but Mourinho refused to talk about the match when reporters caught him leaving Cobham yesterday. And Arthur? He didn't even show. Sent Simeone in his place. Simeone! Like the most violent history teacher you've ever had, standing in for the school principal."
The two pundits laughed as Jon leaned in. "That tells you everything. Neither of these managers wants to give anything away. They know how high the stakes are. Especially Arthur—Leeds needs all three points to stay in the title race. United beat Villa today, and they're sitting pretty with 47 points."
Lineker held up the team sheets. "Alright, lineups just came in hot. Let's go over Leeds first. Arthur's set up in a 4-3-3, sticking to his guns. No massive surprises... but definitely some interesting choices."
"Goalkeeper," Jon read aloud, "is Schmeichel—he's been a wall lately. Back four: Mills at left-back, Cannavaro and Thiago Silva at center, Lahm on the right."
Lineker nodded. "That's a strong line. Lahm and Silva together give them real intelligence and mobility. Mills, though, might be a bit of a gamble. That's probably the weak spot Mourinho's planning to hammer."
"Midfield trio," Jon continued, "features Xabi Alonso and Mascherano as the holding pair, with Yaya Touré just ahead as the engine."
"Oof," Lineker said. "That's muscle, brains, and chaos wrapped into one. Alonso's passing, Mascherano's tackling, and Touré's... well, he's like a tank on roller skates."
"Front three?" Jon grinned. "Ibrahimović leading the line, Bale on the left, and Torres on the right."
"Huh," Lineker blinked. "No Podolski?"
"He's on the bench," Jon confirmed. "Probably a tactical call. Arthur's banking on speed and width today."
Lineker gave a sly look to the camera. "Well, I guess we'll see if Mourinho agrees with that choice. Speaking of which…"
He flipped over the second sheet. "Here's Chelsea's starting XI. Also a 4-3-3. Mourinho is sticking with what works. In goal: Cudicini. With Cech out, he's the safe pair of hands."
"Backline," Jon jumped in, "is classic: Ashley Cole on the left, Terry and Carvalho in the middle, and Paulo Ferreira at right-back."
Lineker smirked. "Ferreira's going to be tested tonight. That's where Bale and maybe even Lahm will look to exploit."
Jon pointed at the midfield list. "This is where Chelsea flex their power. Makelele as the anchor, Essien and Lampard ahead of him."
Lineker's eyes widened. "Oof. That's a bulldozer, a freight train, and a cannonball. If Leeds want the ball, they're going to have to earn it."
"And up top," Jon finished, "Shevchenko on the left, Robben on the right, and the beast himself—Drogba—leading the line."
"Now that is firepower," Lineker nodded. "But I have to say... Shevchenko still looks like a square peg in Mourinho's round hole. He hasn't fully adapted to the counter-attacking system. Meanwhile, Drogba has been on fire. You give him half a yard and he'll bulldoze your grandmother into the net."
They both laughed, then Lineker leaned back. "So, there you have it. Two tactical masterminds. Two teams with wildly different styles. Leeds with their high-press and fluid transitions. Chelsea with their wall of granite and surgical counters. Both with a point to prove."
Jon nodded. "It's about more than just three points tonight. This is pride. Strategy. Mind games. And maybe, just maybe... a preview of who's taking this title home come May."
****
After reading out both teams' starting lineups, Gary Lineker turned toward his co-commentator, eyebrows slightly raised, as if he'd just noticed Jon fidgeting in his seat.
"Jon, you looked like something was bothering you earlier. You've got that face—like when someone hands you tea and forgets the milk."
Jon chuckled and gave a small nod. "You caught that, huh? Yeah, when I first saw Leeds United's lineup, I was a little confused. Something didn't add up. But once you read Chelsea's starting eleven, it all made perfect sense. Arthur might have set a little trap."
Lineker blinked. "A tactical trap? From Arthur?" He grinned. "Alright, now I'm interested. Break it down for me."
Jon leaned forward, adjusting his glasses like a university professor preparing to explain quantum physics to a classroom full of undergrads.
"Well, first off, both these managers clearly spent their week buried in match footage. I mean, neither of them said a single word to the media this week—which is borderline historic when you're talking about Arthur and Mourinho. These two could start a fight at a charity golf event."
Lineker laughed. "True. Arthur once called Mourinho a 'Portuguese parking cone' in a press conference."
Jon smirked. "Exactly. But today? Silence. Because they were busy plotting. Look at Chelsea first. Mourinho had been using a 4-4-2 in the last couple of matches, even forcing Shevchenko into the lineup despite his poor form. Why? Because Robben had just returned from injury and needed protection. Mostly second-half cameos to ease him in."
Lineker nodded. "Right, I remember. Robben barely broke a sweat last week."
"Well, tonight," Jon continued, "Robben's starting. Away at Elland Road. Mourinho clearly thinks he's found Leeds' weak link—Mills at left-back. And to be honest, Mills is more of a glorified bouncer than a full-back. He's physical, sure, but against someone as quick and slippery as Robben? That's a gamble."
Lineker leaned back. "So Mourinho's finally unleashing Robben—targeting Mills, hoping to isolate him and let Robben cut inside for those classic curlers from the edge of the box."
"Exactly," Jon confirmed. "If Mills can't contain him early, it'll be a long night for Leeds."
Lineker tapped his paper. "Alright, then what about Arthur's plan? You hinted Bale's positioning is a clue."
"Absolutely," Jon said with a spark in his eye. "Look, Bale's always been used as a left-back or a left-sided wingback under Arthur. But tonight? He's starting as a proper left winger. And Podolski isn't injured—he's on the bench."
Lineker raised an eyebrow. "So Arthur benched one of his main attackers just to shift Bale forward?"
"Yep," Jon nodded. "And that tells me everything I need to know. Arthur's got his eyes on Chelsea's right flank. Paulo Ferreira. Now, don't get me wrong—Ferreira's dependable. But his legs aren't what they used to be, and he's never been the fastest."
Lineker hummed in agreement. "So while Mourinho's targeting Leeds' right side with Robben, Arthur's aiming straight at Chelsea's weakest link—Ferreira."
"And the masterstroke," Jon added, "is pairing Bale with Lahm behind him. Lahm's going to overlap constantly. They'll be doubling up on Ferreira, stretching Chelsea's right side, and trying to draw Essien away from the middle. Because if that happens, space opens up for Ibrahimović to receive the ball deeper, or even for Touré to drive forward."
Lineker sat back and whistled. "So it's not just about Bale running fast—it's about unbalancing Chelsea's structure."
"Exactly," said Jon. "Arthur's bet is that Ferreira can't handle two overlapping speed demons for 90 minutes. Meanwhile, Mourinho's hoping Mills has a meltdown on the left. Both managers are poking at cracks, not walls."
Lineker grinned. "It's like watching two generals move pawns before the first sword is even drawn. I love this."
Jon laughed. "It's tactical warfare with Christmas lights. And we get to enjoy it in real-time."
Lineker nodded slowly. "Right then. Let's stop jabbering and hand it over to our colleagues on the ground."
The screen faded from the studio to a sweeping drone shot of Elland Road—packed to capacity, lit up like a cathedral under floodlights. The stands were a swirling sea of white shirts and bobbing scarves, the chants already in full swing, echoing through the cold Yorkshire air like a war cry.
A familiar voice came alive in the stadium commentary box.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to Elland Road!"
Eddie Gray's voice, rich with that unmistakable Leeds pride, boomed over the speakers.
"It's Christmas Eve, and while some of you might be tucking in for turkey and pudding, we've got something even better on the menu tonight—a Premier League showdown between Leeds United and Chelsea!"
The camera panned across the pitch where both sets of players were finishing their warmups. Arthur, wearing a sharp black coat and looking uncharacteristically calm, stood near the touchline with arms crossed. Mourinho, meanwhile, had his usual smirk and trench coat, like a Bond villain preparing to sabotage the punch bowl.
In the tunnel, Ibrahimović was seen exchanging light banter with Drogba. Touré was bouncing on his toes, laser-focused. Robben stared straight ahead, face unreadable.
The energy was palpable.
Gray continued: "Leeds come into this match needing all three points to keep their title dream alive. Manchester United are pulling away at the top, and a draw tonight just won't cut it. But Chelsea? Well, they've only conceded 11 goals all season, and they'll be happy to dig in and take advantage of any mistakes."
The teams began filing out of the tunnel as the crowd erupted.
"Here they come!" Gray shouted. "Your Leeds United! And the Blues from London!"
Banners waved, drums pounded, and confetti drifted from the stands like snowflakes. It wasn't just a football match—it was a festival of nerves, of history, of tension wrapped in tinsel.
On one side, Arthur had assembled a dynamic, aggressive, risk-taking unit. On the other, Mourinho's fortress of precision and pragmatism waited, ready to absorb and punish.
And now, all the talking was done.
The only thing left to do… was kick off.