"Holy hell, it went in! The card wasn't wasted!"
Arthur let out a sharp breath, his eyes locked on the net as the ball nestled perfectly into the top corner. For a brief second, he just stood there frozen, as if his body refused to believe what his eyes had just witnessed. Then his hand instinctively shot to his chest like he'd been struck by Cupid's arrow—only this time, the arrow was a Beckham-loaded Modric free kick with the precision of a cruise missile.
That feeling of blood boiling, adrenaline surging, and the electric buzz of pure football ecstasy—he hadn't felt that in years. Not like this.
On the touchline, he turned and let out a whooping cheer, nearly knocking over a fourth official as he pumped his fists into the air. The bench exploded with joy. His coaching staff leapt from their seats. Even Simeone, usually more granite than man, was jumping around like he'd just won the lottery.
Meanwhile, Reading's players looked like someone had pulled the plug out of their souls. After battling so hard for ninety minutes, they were undone by a stroke of genius with seconds left on the clock.
When the match restarted, they barely looked interested. Their heads were down, their movement sluggish, and any intention to claw back a goal was more theoretical than real. Arthur, arms folded and eyes scanning, knew the game was done. Reading were mentally already in the dressing room.
And sure enough, after three painfully short minutes of added time, the referee James put the whistle to his lips and blew. Game over. Leeds United had pulled off a comeback for the ages and walked away from the Madejski Stadium with all three points in their back pockets.
Arthur let out a long sigh, half from relief, half from exhaustion. "God bless Beckham," he muttered under his breath.
Two days later, back at Elland Road, Arthur barely had time to catch his breath before the next challenge landed on his plate. Leeds were hosting Portsmouth, their fourth game in eight relentless days. Arthur was convinced the Premier League schedulers were sadists.
Portsmouth, scrappy and unpredictable, weren't to be taken lightly. But thankfully, Leeds started this one better than they had against Reading. Much better, in fact.
By the time the first half reached the 29th minute, Leeds had already wrestled control of the match. The midfield trio of Alonso, Modric, and Gattuso were buzzing like caffeinated bees, and the attack was constantly probing for cracks in Portsmouth's defense.
Then, out of nowhere, came a gift.
Portsmouth attempted a lazy sideways pass in midfield. Bad idea. Alonso pounced like a hawk. He read the pass three seconds before it was made, stepped in, and with surgical timing, intercepted it cleanly.
Now, most players might've taken a few touches, sized up their options, maybe even carried the ball forward a bit. But Alonso didn't hesitate. He glanced up once and spotted Modric nearby. He zipped the ball over instantly—quick, sharp, decisive.
Modric controlled it with a gentle nudge using the outside of his right foot. It was like watching a violinist tune a string with his pinky—effortless, smooth, and perfectly measured. Then, without even pausing to admire his own technique, Modric drew back his leg and launched a pass so inch-perfect it could've been measured with a laser.
It wasn't just a pass. It was a statement. The ball soared, curling through the cold evening air, arcing behind Portsmouth's startled defenders and dropping neatly into the penalty box where Podolski had just sprinted clear of his marker.
The German didn't even need to look. He knew where the ball would land before it arrived. One bounce, and boom—a right-footed volley that nearly took the net off. The fans in Elland Road erupted in a roar so loud it rattled the stadium seats.
Arthur grinned like a proud father watching his kid score in a schoolyard match. He turned to his staff. "You see that? That's not just passing. That's bloody architecture!"
Simeone nodded, impressed. "That's not Modric. That's some kind of Croatian wizard."
Arthur chuckled, "That's Modric with a Beckham skin. Peak edition."
The goal was textbook: interception, transition, pinpoint pass, clinical finish. It was everything Arthur had demanded before the match. And to think, it all began with a tactical tweak that had raised some eyebrows.
Usually, Leeds relied on a double-pivot in midfield—Alonso and Modric sharing the responsibility of orchestrating attacks. But today, Arthur had made a bold call: give Modric full creative control. Everything went through him. Alonso? Still essential, but more like a conductor's baton guiding tempo rather than leading the melody.
Arthur had pulled Modric aside before the game.
"Luka," he said, draping an arm over his shoulder, "today, you're Picasso. Paint the whole damn pitch. I want you pulling strings like a puppeteer on Red Bull. Free kicks, long balls, the lot—it's all yours."
Modric looked at him, puzzled. "All of it? Even the corners?"
"All of it," Arthur repeated with a grin. "Consider it a test. Let's see how deep this rabbit hole goes."
The Croat didn't say much. He never did. But something in his eyes said he understood.
And boy, had he delivered.
Even during training, Arthur had noticed something strange. Modric's accuracy had skyrocketed. Free kicks that used to graze the post were now drilling into top corners. The wall dummies used in practice? Completely ineffective now. His passes, already good, had become surgical.
Arthur suspected the [Peak Beckham Experience Card] still had a bit of residual magic clinging to Modric. Or maybe he was just in the zone. Either way, it was like watching a man possessed.
Despite several more promising attacks from Leeds, the score remained 1-0. Ibrahimović went close with a bicycle kick that shaved the bar. Lahm, of all people, attempted a volley from 25 yards that nearly took out a cameraman.
Portsmouth tried to rally in the second half, throwing men forward and attempting to disrupt Leeds' rhythm, but Leeds were composed. Confident. In control.
When the final whistle blew, the scoreboard at Elland Road read:
Leeds United 1 – 0 Portsmouth
Another three points. Another clean sheet. Another game where Arthur's tactical tweaks had worked like a charm.
As the players walked off the pitch, Arthur stood at the edge of the technical area, hands in his coat pockets, watching with the kind of satisfied smirk only football managers understood.
Four games in eight days. Four wins.
He allowed himself a small nod of satisfaction.
"Not bad," he murmured. "Not bad at all."
****
After enduring a grueling stretch of matches packed tighter than sardines in a tin, Leeds United finally got something close to a breather—a whole week without a match. A week! For footballers, that was practically a vacation. But Arthur, ever the taskmaster in a puffer jacket, wasn't about to let his squad lounge around in hot tubs and play FIFA for six straight days. No, sir.
He gave them a single day off—one. Then it was straight back to work.
Why? Because the next two weeks were going to be absolute chaos. The kind of chaos that could determine whether this Leeds United team would end the season with their names carved into history… or buried under the weight of "what could've been."
First up, February 11th: an away clash at the Emirates against Arsenal. The kind of fixture that made your knees wobble if you weren't ready for it. Then just five days later, on February 16th, Leeds had to travel to Hertfordshire for a make-up match against Watford—a game that had become unexpectedly crucial. Assuming Manchester United did what Manchester United usually did (which was beat the stuffing out of Charlton), Leeds' game against Watford could be the decider on who topped the Premier League table. Goal difference was razor-thin.
And as if that wasn't enough, on February 22nd, Arthur and his merry band of misfits would march into the Camp Nou—the cathedral of tiki-taka—to face none other than defending European champions Barcelona in the Champions League Round of 16.
It was, in a word, insane. And Arthur knew it.
Tuesday morning arrived crisp and cold, the kind of day where breath hung in the air and every football boot felt like it had been dipped in ice water. While the players were jogging laps in their woolly hats and gloves, Arthur stood near the halfway line, arms folded, squinting slightly as he mentally replayed last night's match footage of Arsenal. His thoughts were a swirling tangle of formations, overlapping runs, and Mikel Arteta's disturbingly symmetrical eyebrows. Wait—no, that was someone else. Back to the tactics.
Suddenly, the peace was broken by the unmistakable sound of hurried boots slapping against grass and a voice already brimming with excitement.
"Boss! Boss! You've got to hear this!" Simeone came trotting over like an eager schoolboy clutching gossip, his ever-present notebook flapping in one hand and his laptop tucked under the other arm like a rugby ball.
Arthur didn't even look at him at first. "What is it this time, Diego? Did that French actress of yours drop a new film or something? You're practically glowing."
Simeone, caught mid-stride, blinked. "Y-Yes! Wait, no! No! What? Boss! I'm a father of three! I've moved on from that kind of… youthful indulgence."
Arthur turned slowly, one eyebrow raised, a knowing smirk creeping across his face. "Moved on, huh? That explains why you're grinning like a teenager who just discovered incognito mode."
Simeone's cheeks turned the color of ripe tomatoes. "Defamation! I'm suing you for defamation!"
Arthur laughed, clapped him on the back, and said, "Relax, man. Just tell me what you found before I call your wife and ask her about your browser history."
"It's not gossip, I swear. It's actual, legitimate good news."
Simeone passed him the laptop with the same reverence one might give a sacred relic. Arthur took it skeptically, but the headline flashing across the screen quickly grabbed his attention.
"Henry out again," he read aloud. "Another injury. Likely to miss this weekend's clash against Leeds United."
Arthur's eyes sparkled like a kid who just found a ten-pound note in his coat pocket.
"Oh, that does make things easier," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "The last time we played them, he was already out. I was starting to think the football gods had spared us twice."
Of course, Arthur knew better than to celebrate too early. Thierry Henry, when healthy, could destroy a defense with one swivel of those poetic French hips. But this season, he'd spent more time on the treatment table than the pitch. Still, Arthur couldn't afford to get complacent.
"If Henry's out, then Wenger will probably go with Adebayor and Van Persie up top," Arthur muttered, eyes still glued to the screen. "Van Persie's been starting regularly, but Adebayor's been benched most of the time. Could be a wildcard."
Simeone scratched his chin. "Yeah, Adebayor's barely featured lately. Only cameos, mostly. Do you want me to dig up his recent matches?"
Arthur handed the laptop back. "Do it. I want to watch every minute of him from the last few games. Doesn't matter if he only touched the ball once in 15 minutes—I want to see how sharp he looks."
Simeone nodded like a soldier receiving orders. But before he could turn, his signature grin returned, and his eyes gleamed with mischief.
"Oh, and boss," he said, slowly backing away. "I just remembered something. How exactly did you know about that French actress, hmm? You're not married yet… could it be… you watch—"
Arthur didn't let him finish. "Get lost!"
Simeone was already laughing, jogging backward across the pitch with a mock-frightened voice: "Let's talk about this like adults, boss! Don't hit me! Violence solves nothing!"
Arthur sighed, shook his head, and turned back toward the pitch where the lads were finishing their warm-up jog. The banter, ridiculous as it was, reminded him that they were still a tight-knit group. No one here had won a Champions League yet. No one had even sniffed a Premier League title. But they were fighting. And somehow, through laughter and stress and sweat, they were doing it together.