"Ibrahimović shoots from just outside the penalty area—powerful strike!"
The crowd held its breath.
"But Van der Sar gets down quickly! What a save! He pushes it wide for a corner!"
That was Leeds United's last gasp. As Ibrahimović's curling strike was palmed away by the long arms of Manchester United's Dutch veteran, the referee raised the whistle to his lips and blew three sharp blasts.
"Full-time at Old Trafford!" the commentator shouted, voice nearly cracking. "Manchester United and Leeds United shake hands on a goalless draw. 0–0. A tactical chess match if there ever was one. Both teams share the spoils tonight!"
As the final whistle echoed through the Theatre of Dreams, players on both sides slumped to the turf, wiping sweat from their brows. It had been a fierce, fast-paced clash—no goals, perhaps, but no lack of intensity. Tackles had flown in like meteorites. Passes zipped across the slick pitch. Managers shouted themselves hoarse.
Inside the commentary booth, Gary Lineker exhaled like a man who'd just finished running a marathon.
"Phew!" He grabbed his water bottle like it was the last one on Earth and took a deep gulp, as if trying to quench the heat radiating from his overworked vocal cords.
"There may not have been any goals," he said, placing the bottle down and adjusting his headset, "but what a match! That was proper football—fast tempo, non-stop action, tight marking, clever switches. Lightyears ahead of that snoozefest we had the day before yesterday."
The live camera on the broadcast panned between the two technical areas. Sir Alex Ferguson, with his arms crossed and jaw clenched, looked like a man who'd just found a scratch on his car. Meanwhile, Arthur—Leeds United's manager—stood motionless on the edge of his technical box, hands in his coat pockets, eyes locked on the pitch as if trying to decode a mystery only he could see.
"Neither Ferguson nor Arthur looks particularly pleased," Lineker continued. "And I don't blame them. Both sides had chances. Leeds had a big one just then. United had plenty in the first half. I think both managers will feel they could have walked away with more."
Lineker leaned in, lips twitching slightly. "Of course, they probably haven't heard the surprise yet. Chelsea's match finished ten minutes earlier—and believe it or not, they were held 2–2 by Reading at Stamford Bridge!"
The studio let out a collective gasp, even the camera guy muttering something under his breath.
"That's right," Lineker said. "Reading came from behind, snatched a late equaliser, and walked off with a point. So, the standings stay exactly the same—Manchester United still top with 48 points. Leeds United and Chelsea follow, both on 43 points, but Leeds stay second due to goal difference."
Down in the tunnel, Arthur finally heard the news.
He was just stepping into the locker room when Simeone came jogging over, holding a phone and grinning like a man who'd just heard free kebabs were being handed out.
"Arthur!" Simeone said breathlessly, "Chelsea drew. Reading got them. Two-all. Late equaliser."
Arthur blinked. "Seriously?"
"Yep. I checked three sources. It's official."
Arthur let out a low whistle, the tension visibly dropping from his shoulders. "Well… that's something, isn't it? Would've hated to drop points and see Chelsea leapfrog us."
It didn't erase the frustration entirely—Arthur was a perfectionist—but it helped. It meant their hard-fought draw at Old Trafford wasn't wasted. It meant the lead pack remained tightly bunched heading into the New Year.
And with the next league match—against Watford—postponed until February, this would be Leeds United's final match of 2006. A dramatic, intense goalless draw at the home of the champions.
At the post-match press conference, Arthur faced a swarm of reporters, microphones raised like a jungle of metallic snakes. Everyone had questions. About tactics, about the title race, about whether he was finally ready to admit Leeds were contenders.
Then came the inevitable curveball.
"Mr. Morgan," a voice called out from the crowd, "I noticed you've demoted Maicon to the reserves for almost a month now. Also, reports suggest Leeds United is no longer entertaining offers for him this winter. So when exactly do you plan to bring him back into the first-team squad?"
Arthur turned his head slowly toward the voice. The man asking the question had a smug little grin and a press badge clipped to his jacket that read: Charles—Manchester Evening News.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. Oh, for crying out loud. Not this guy again.
He recognised Charles instantly. The same bloke who'd bet him earlier in the season that Leeds wouldn't last in the top four until Christmas. The same guy who had a habit of asking questions with landmines hidden in them.
Arthur leaned back slightly in his chair, arms folded. "I remember you," he said dryly. "You're the one who still owes me a bottle of whisky."
There was a chuckle from a few reporters in the back.
Arthur's tone sharpened, still polite, but with an edge.
"And to answer your question—what does Maicon's status have to do with you?"
Charles blinked.
"That's an internal matter," Arthur continued. "Whether he returns to the first team next week, next month, or not at all, is something for the club to decide. Not something I need to share with you at a press conference."
There was a pause.
Arthur added, with a faint smirk, "Besides, I don't remember inviting the Manchester Evening News into our dressing room strategy meetings."
A few scribes snorted quietly. Charles sat back, scribbling something, probably bitter.
The truth, of course, was far more complex.
The English Players' Union had been a right pain ever since the Maicon saga began. After Leeds demoted him to the reserves, citing discipline issues and inconsistency, his agent Antonio went to the union claiming Arthur was violating player rights by sidelining a healthy, competitive player without cause.
The union sent someone to investigate. They sniffed around Thorpe Arch for a couple of days. But once they realised Leeds had already been in transfer negotiations with other clubs and hadn't technically broken any rules, they backed off.
In fact, by Monday of that very week, everything had already been signed and sealed.
Real Madrid's president Ramón Calderón had sent representatives to Leeds, and the paperwork was done. The fee? A whopping €40 million. Straight into Leeds' bank account.
But per Real Madrid's request, everything had been kept under wraps. No official announcements. No leaks. Not even Antonio, Maicon's mouthy agent, was allowed to breathe a word until the window opened.
So Arthur had to play the press like a seasoned poker player. No tells. No confessions. Just the same clipped answer.
"This is Leeds United's internal business."
And if Charles wanted drama, he'd have to write fiction.
****
Charles' face dropped like a deflated soufflé after Arthur publicly called him out. His lips twitched, trying to find a comeback, but none came. He could only sit there, caught like a schoolboy being scolded in front of the entire class. No excuse, no lifeline. Just a big fat L.
Knowing he was beaten, Charles changed tactics.
"Well, let me rephrase then," he muttered, trying to sound dignified despite the embarrassment. "Mr. Morgan, after today's game, has Leeds United's goal for the season changed?"
As soon as those words left his mouth, every reporter in the room perked up. Microphones sprang forward like meerkats popping out of their holes. Pens hovered midair. This was it—the golden moment. The last time Arthur made a bold statement about Leeds United aiming for the league title or the Champions League, it had set the press ablaze. Headlines, talk shows, Twitter threads, pub debates—it was Christmas all over again for the media.
Arthur leaned back in his chair, unbothered. Then, calmly, he fired back with a pair of rhetorical bullets.
"Did Leeds United lose today?"
A few reporters exchanged glances. One or two shook their heads.
"No," Charles muttered stiffly.
"Is this the final round of the league season?"
"No," came the same reluctant answer.
Arthur spread his hands, his smirk widening. "Exactly."
He leaned forward again, locking eyes with Charles and letting his words land like well-aimed darts. "I know what you lot are fishing for. And since the reporter I dislike most decided to ask again today, I'll say it again—Leeds United's goal for this season has not changed. Whether it's the league or the Champions League, winning at least one of them remains our target."
There was a flicker of movement from Charles, a twitch like he wanted to jump back in and protest—but Arthur cut him off with clinical precision.
"And Mr. Reporter, who I truly dislike, if I remember correctly, I already said I don't wish to accept any interviews from you anymore. So, next time, if we're unfortunate enough to share the same press room again, I hope you'll have the self-awareness to stay seated and keep your mouth shut. Deal?"
The room erupted into a mix of stifled laughter, raised eyebrows, and frantic typing. Arthur didn't even blink. Charles, on the other hand, looked like he'd just swallowed a mouthful of expired mayonnaise. His mouth opened and closed, but he knew there was no point. Arthur had sealed it.
Before the awkward silence could drag on any longer, a more sensible journalist jumped in.
"Mr. Morgan," said a reporter from The Guardian, raising his hand like a polite schoolboy. "The Premier League winter transfer window is opening in a few days. Does Leeds United have any plans to strengthen the squad?"
Finally, a question worth answering.
Arthur's expression lightened, and he gave a small, knowing smile. "Of course. You'll all find out in a few days."
And with that, the press conference finally moved on from its public execution segment.
——
After returning to Leeds, Arthur wasted no time. The team's last game of 2006 was in the books, and with the Watford match postponed to February, it was time to wrap things up for the year.
His first order of business? A full-club staff meeting at the Thorp Arch training facility.
He stood in front of the assembled coaches, analysts, medics, and cafeteria workers, clapped his hands once, and delivered the summary like a victorious general. "Everyone—you've worked your socks off. We're in second place. We're pushing hard in Europe. And most importantly—" he grinned, "—you've made this club fun again."
Then, without missing a beat, he waved to Allen, his ever-reliable right-hand man. "Give everyone their bonus. Five million euros, split among staff and players."
There was a collective gasp. Then applause. Then possibly someone trying to hug Allen, who backed away like he'd just seen someone charging him with a knife.
The money from Real Madrid had arrived earlier in the week—40 million euros for Maicon—and Arthur knew they had more than enough to spare. At this point, Leeds United had nearly 200 million in the bank. Five million? That was loose change in his coat pocket.
But he didn't stop there.
He made sure the youth team wasn't left out either. Dozens of youngsters, many still unpaid, still fighting for their pro contracts, got a surprise €2,000 New Year's gift each.
"Call it a bonus," Arthur said. "Or a bribe to keep training hard."
——
Two days later, Tuesday morning, training resumed. Arthur arrived at the office bright and early, armed with a tactical board, a travel mug of suspiciously strong coffee, and a mind buzzing with strategy.
Just as he grabbed his clipboard and prepared to head down to the pitch, his phone vibrated in his coat pocket.
He pulled it out. Mino Raiola.
Arthur narrowed his eyes and answered, expecting nothing more than a New Year's greeting or maybe a cheeky comment about Ibrahimović's shooting.
Instead, the moment he hit "Answer," Mino's voice exploded through the speaker like a firecracker.
"Mr. Morgan! I heard something recently—something huge!" he said, breathless with excitement. "And I swear, you're gonna want to hear this. I bet you're interested."