London – Arsenal's Colney Training Base. A Dreary Tuesday.
The training ground was alive with shouting, thudding footballs, and the occasional exaggerated dive from a player trying to win sympathy during drills. Assistant coach Patrice was running the show, barking instructions in rapid-fire bursts, his whistle practically glued to his lips.
But something was missing.
Well, someone.
The professor—Arsène Wenger—was nowhere in sight.
That's because while the players did their laps and drills, Wenger sat inside the club's quiet, sterile physiotherapy room, fidgeting in his chair like a man waiting to hear if his prized racehorse had a broken leg. Across from him, dressed in a crisp white coat and with a clinical calmness only a lifelong physiotherapist could master, sat Sergio, Arsenal's longtime medical expert.
Wenger finally broke the silence.
"Sergio… how's Thierry? Can he play Saturday?"
There was a pause. A long one. The kind of pause that always comes before bad news.
Sergio sighed. Then he shook his head slowly, the way a mechanic might when telling you your car engine is toast.
"Don't count on it, Arsène. He won't be ready. Not a chance. He might be alright for the Champions League on the 21st, but as for Saturday…" He spread his palms. "He's out."
Wenger closed his eyes for a moment. He had suspected as much, but hearing it aloud still stung. Henry, his team's spearhead and soul, had been in and out with injuries all season. And now, right before a crucial clash with Leeds United, he was unavailable again.
As Wenger rose to leave, Sergio got up and walked over, giving the manager a firm pat on the shoulder.
"I know you're frustrated. But it's not just the knock. His body's slowing down faster than we expected. Too many miles on the engine, Arsène."
The Frenchman nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. "You're right. I know. It's just…" He hesitated, then added softly, "I wanted to beat that young man at home."
Sergio blinked. "Who? Arthur?"
Wenger didn't answer, but the twitch of his brow gave it away.
"Oh come on," Sergio said, chuckling. "We've got other weapons. Emmanuel. Robin. They're more than capable."
Wenger muttered, "Robin, yes. Emmanuel…"
He didn't finish the thought. Instead, he pushed open the door and stepped back into the corridor. But just as he reached the exit, Sergio called after him:
"And Arsène—don't forget—Thierry turns 30 this year."
The words hung in the air like a bad omen. Wenger paused, then exhaled deeply before walking out.
The grey clouds outside mirrored Wenger's mood as he crossed back to the training ground. His boots crunched softly over the gravel as he made his way to the sidelines, watching Adebayor leaping like a gazelle in the penalty area, showing off his athleticism in a small-sided drill.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
Adebayor had been something of a wild card this season. Just a year and a half ago, he was the pride of Leeds United—a raw but dazzling talent. Wenger had plucked him from Elland Road for a decent fee, certain he could shape him into the perfect successor.
But things hadn't quite gone to plan.
Last year, the Togolese forward was practically undroppable, Arsenal's iron man in the front line. But this season? Not so much. Robin van Persie had hit a rich vein of form, and Adebayor found himself sitting on the bench more often than he liked. Wenger's preference for a fluid, selfless style of play suited Van Persie and Henry better.
And that was when the headaches started.
About a month ago, Arsenal's board had quietly approached Adebayor's agent to discuss a new deal. The forward had one year left on his three-year contract, and the club wanted to sort things before it became a circus.
Simple enough.
Until the agent opened his mouth.
As soon as he sat down, he demanded a salary just one notch below Thierry Henry's. Not "a small bump." Not "incentive-based." No, this was a full-on leap into superstar wages.
Wenger was stunned. He honestly thought it was just the agent being greedy, trying to juice his commission. So he went to the source. Sat down with Adebayor privately in his office, thinking, "He's a good kid. This can't be his idea."
He was wrong.
It was all Adebayor.
In fact, he seemed insulted the club hadn't already offered him that salary.
The conversation went downhill from there.
Wenger left that meeting with a pounding headache and an even bigger question: "Since when did Emmanuel become so obsessed with money?"
After a few discreet inquiries, he got his answer.
It was the family.
Adebayor's story was well-known. Born in Togo, raised in poverty, he had climbed out of the slums by sheer talent and grit. But ever since arriving in Europe, he'd been hounded by relatives—cousins, uncles, siblings—people who treated him less like a family member and more like an ATM with legs.
When he was at Monaco, even at Leeds, the demands were manageable. But now? With a salary of €80,000 a week at Arsenal, the pressure had exploded.
Relatives constantly called, emailed, even showed up in person. They needed houses, cars, business loans. Some even demanded he buy them plane tickets to Europe. A few tried guilt. Others threatened to "expose him" for abandoning his roots.
And unfortunately, Emmanuel—still young, still easily swayed—listened.
Wenger could see it in his eyes: the boy was cracking under the weight of it all. Every decision he made lately, every outburst, every sulk on the bench—it all came from that same pressure.
But now, here they were. Henry injured. Van Persie not at 100%. And Emmanuel Adebayor, moody and overambitious, might have to lead the line against the most stubborn, irritating, chaos-loving team in the league: Arthur's Leeds United.
Just thinking about that young man with the arrogant smirk made Wenger grind his teeth.
Arthur, with his unpredictable tactics and audacious substitutions. Arthur, who had already knocked Arsenal out of the League Cup earlier in the season. Arthur, who had built a Leeds United side that never gave up, never stopped running, and always found a way to ruin your Saturday afternoon.
Wenger watched Adebayor chase down a loose ball, control it with a bit of flair, then shoot wide by about a yard.
The professor sighed again.
"Thirty. Henry will be thirty…" he muttered to himself. "And this one wants Henry's salary…"
He shook his head slowly, hands buried in his coat pockets.
From the other side of the pitch, assistant coach Patrice jogged over, clipboard in hand.
"Boss! Should we work on pressing drills next?"
Wenger didn't answer immediately. His eyes lingered on Adebayor for a long time.
Then he simply said, "Let's go over set pieces again."
Patrice blinked. "Set pieces? We already—"
"Again," Wenger repeated.
Because deep down, he knew—without Henry, without a reliable plan B, Arsenal might need to steal a goal from a corner or free kick.
And against Leeds United, every single detail might be the difference between revenge… and embarrassment.
****
A cold wind rolled over the pitch of the Emirates, flapping at coats, banners, and the nerves of over 60,000 fans packed into the sleek stands. The sky was a dull gray, like someone had thrown a wet sheet over the city and forgotten to take it off. The floodlights were already buzzing to life, casting a faint glow on the green turf that was about to see battle.
Arthur, in his signature navy-blue overcoat and a scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, stepped out onto the touchline. A gleam flickered in his eyes—not from the cold, but from anticipation. Arsenal at home. A shiny new stadium. A manager who still looked like he drank chamomile tea with quantum physicists. And most importantly… no Thierry Henry.
Or so Arthur thought.
He wasn't one to waste time. He strolled confidently towards the Arsenal bench, that trademark smirk plastered on his face like a schoolboy who had just rigged a prank and couldn't wait for it to go off. There, standing quietly with a notepad in one hand and his eternal unreadable expression, was Arsène Wenger.
"Good evening, Arsène," Arthur greeted brightly, hands tucked into his pockets. "Your new stadium is massive! Bit jealous, to be honest."
Wenger turned, smiling politely, and replied in that soft French-accented voice of his. "Good evening, Arthur. I'm sorry your first visit to the Emirates will end in disappointment."
Arthur's smirk widened. "Cold joke, Arsène. Very… Parisian. You must've practiced that in the mirror."
Wenger gave a faint shrug, not rising to the bait. He was the calm eye of the storm—until Arthur dropped the next bomb.
"By the way," Arthur said casually, stepping a little closer, "didn't you say Thierry was injured? Then why's he on the team sheet? Surely you're not bluffing with a decoy, are you?"
Wenger blinked.
And for the first time, a tiny vein began to twitch at the corner of his temple.
"I'm not sure where you got your information," he said slowly, like someone trying not to step on a landmine. "Thierry had a slight knock, but nothing serious. He's fit to play today."
"Oh really?" Arthur raised an eyebrow in mock surprise, his voice dripping with theatrical disbelief. "You sure it's worth risking him? I mean, you're already out of the title race. Might want to keep him fresh for the Champions League. Would be a shame if your knockout hopes died in the round of sixteen."
That did it.
Wenger's calm melted like butter on toast left too close to the radiator. His eyes narrowed. His lips drew a tight, grim line. And for a brief moment, the Professor looked like he might shove his notes down Arthur's throat.
"You…" Wenger began, his voice low.
But Arthur was already backing away with both palms raised, grinning like a teenager who'd just won a slap contest and knew when to run.
"No, no, don't get mad! Just a little banter before kickoff! Good luck, mon ami!" he chirped, pivoting on his heel and making a beeline for his dugout.
Wenger watched him go, face red with irritation, and muttered something in French that probably wasn't very polite.
The Leeds bench welcomed Arthur back like a pack of schoolboys watching their ringleader return from teasing the headmaster.
"Boss," said assistant coach Tony grinning, "you really know how to rattle him."
"Of course," Arthur replied, plopping down on the bench with exaggerated ease. "It's psychological warfare. And he fell for it."
"You think Henry will really play?"
"Not a chance," Arthur said, pulling out his clipboard. "They're bluffing. Probably hoping we overthink our setup. But just in case... tell the lads to keep one eye open for him. If he does come on, I want him wrapped tighter than Christmas morning."
Tony nodded and ran off to spread the word.
Back over on the other side, Wenger was still fuming, trying not to show it. He sat with his arms folded, eyes fixed on the field like he could control the weather with his stare.
The absence of Henry wasn't just a tactical blow—it was emotional. Thierry was his trump card, the elegant dagger he liked to unsheath when the match hung in the balance. Without him, Arsenal's front line leaned heavily on Robin van Persie's technique and Adebayor's... well, enthusiasm.
It was the latter Wenger was secretly worried about.
He hadn't wanted to rely on Adebayor today. The lad had been, frankly, a headache ever since his agent started demanding a salary only a notch below Henry's. Never mind the fact that the Togolese striker had spent half the season sulking on the bench and the other half missing headers by the mile.
But now, with injuries thinning his options, Wenger had little choice.
Adebayor, for his part, was bouncing on the spot during the warm-up like a kid high on fizzy drinks. He caught sight of Arthur from across the field and flashed a grin, as if to say, "You remember me? You sold me once. Bet you're regretting that now."
Arthur noticed. He leaned over to Tony. "Remind me why we sold that tree trunk with legs again?"
"Because he asked for Henry's salary."
"Right. And played like he deserved half of Heskey's."
As the teams lined up in the tunnel, the buzz in the stadium grew louder. The Emirates crowd was expectant, hopeful, but they could feel it—this wasn't going to be a walk in the park. Leeds had momentum, swagger, and Arthur's relentless cheek on their side.
In the lineup, Van Persie looked serious, a man ready to take up the burden. Adebayor was... chewing gum and bouncing, apparently immune to pressure. Meanwhile, over in the Leeds column, the boys were laser-focused. Arthur had drilled them hard all week. Watford was coming next, and then Barcelona. But first, this was about sending a message.
As the referee blew the whistle and the players stepped out onto the pristine grass, Arthur rose from his seat and clapped once, sharp and commanding.
"Alright, lads! Let's ruin their fancy carpets!"
The game hadn't even kicked off, and the battle had already begun—with words, with tension, with jabs both literal and mental.
And on the touchline, Arthur stood tall, scarf flapping in the wind like the standard of a cheeky general, ready to storm the citadel.