"Fuck!"
Arthur could not hold back anymore. His face twisted in fury, and with a sharp, violent motion, he hurled the plastic mineral water bottle he had been clutching at the ground. It exploded against the turf like his patience had finally snapped, sending droplets of lukewarm water splattering at his shoes. He didn't care. He was too furious to notice.
On the pitch, the nightmare had just unfolded.
Filippo Inzaghi — that slippery, ghostly striker who seemed to be invented purely to torture defenders — had done it again. As the ball rolled past Schmeichel and nestled perfectly into the lower right corner of the Leeds United net, Elland Road collapsed into despair.
"Ahhhhhhh—!" The roar of pain was deafening. Tens of thousands of Leeds supporters threw their hands to their heads in unison, like a stadium-sized version of The Scream painting. Some people shouted curses at the pitch, some buried their faces in their scarves, and others simply stood frozen, unable to process that their beloved team had just gone two goals down in their own fortress — and all within half an hour.
If grief could be measured, Elland Road had reached maximum capacity.
But not everyone was grieving. In sharp contrast, in a small pocket of the stands, a group of AC Milan supporters in their famous red-and-black striped shirts had completely lost their minds in joy. These Italians, who had flown in from afar, leapt from their seats, hugging, singing, waving flags, and dancing as though they were celebrating Christmas, New Year, and winning the lottery all at once.
They did this while being surrounded by thousands of angry Yorkshiremen glaring at them as if they had just insulted their mothers. But did the Milan fans care? Not in the slightest. They jumped and sang with wide smiles, utterly fearless — or maybe just insane.
Up in the commentary booth, the despair was no lighter. Eddie Gray's voice came through the stadium speakers, low and full of pain, like a man delivering tragic news.
"AC Milan have scored again," Eddie groaned, his words spreading to every corner of Elland Road like poison. "Only four minutes after their first, they've doubled their lead. The goal, scored by Filippo Inzaghi…" He almost choked on the last word, as though saying Inzaghi's name gave him indigestion.
The cameras quickly switched to the Sky Sports studio. Normally, Gary Lineker was never short of words. He could talk through anything — goals, fouls, even the weather if needed. But at this moment, even Lineker had gone silent. His mouth hung open slightly, like a fish pulled out of water, but no words came out.
To avoid the most awkward silence in football broadcasting history, his partner Jon stepped in, staring at the television screen where AC Milan's players were hugging each other in celebration.
"This," Jon said with a helpless shake of his head, "is the decisive role of world-class stars. They can do nothing for ninety minutes, and then, out of nowhere, create something magical. A flash of inspiration — and the ball's in the back of the net."
Lineker finally snapped back to life. He let out a long, heavy sigh, like a man being forced to pay an outrageous bar bill. "As painful as it is to admit, Jon, you're right. Compared with Seedorf's opener earlier, Leeds United actually defended this one about as well as they possibly could. They were ready, they were positioned — but then…" He slapped his palm against the desk in frustration. "That damn Brazilian. Where does Kaka get these ideas from? How can anyone think of a pass like that in the middle of a packed defense?"
Jon shrugged, lifting both hands in mock surrender. "That's the creativity of South American players for you. It's like they see the pitch in a completely different dimension. But no matter what, Leeds United are now in big trouble. Two goals down at home is already dangerous. And don't forget, the away goal advantage they fought so hard for in the first leg — it's already gone."
He leaned closer to the camera and added, "To put it bluntly, AC Milan have completely taken the initiative now."
Back at Elland Road, the match resumed. The whistle blew, and Ibrahimovic placed the ball back on the center circle. Normally, the Swede carried himself with an aura of arrogance — as if he personally owned the pitch, the ball, and possibly the entire stadium. But now, even Ibrahimovic's body language betrayed frustration. His recent golden form looked dulled. He looked like a man who had been forced to eat plain porridge when he had ordered steak.
Arthur was on the touchline, pacing like a madman. He shouted, waved, clapped his hands, and tried everything to keep his players motivated. His voice was hoarse, but he didn't care. "Come on! Heads up! We fight back now!" he bellowed. He knew how quickly a team's spirit could collapse after conceding twice.
But the truth was, conceding two goals in quick succession was a punch to the gut that no amount of shouting could fully fix. The Leeds players trudged on, their heads slightly lower, their movements a fraction slower. Even the usually fiery Ibrahimovic wasn't spitting venom like he usually did.
The remainder of the half felt like a blur. Leeds tried to string attacks together, but the edge, the spark, wasn't there. AC Milan, confident with their lead, played with poise, soaking up pressure and waiting for chances to counter.
Two minutes of stoppage time were added. Two minutes of Elland Road holding its breath, hoping desperately for some miracle before halftime. But it didn't come.
The referee's whistle pierced the air.
Halftime. Leeds United 0, AC Milan 2.
Arthur's face was like thunder. He didn't wait for anyone, didn't clap, didn't console. He turned immediately, his coat swishing as he stormed down the tunnel, a black cloud following him. Behind him, his players trailed in silence, frowning, their heads lowered, moving quickly as though hoping the darkness of the tunnel could hide their shame.
—
Meanwhile, the television studios erupted into chatter. Every broadcaster covering the match seemed to be chewing over the same point.
AC Milan were not as weak as everyone had thought.
Before the tie began, the story was clear. Leeds United were the heroes. They had knocked out the reigning champions Barcelona with confidence and flair. They were flying in the Premier League, fighting neck and neck with Manchester United for top spot. By comparison, AC Milan had stumbled through the previous round against Celtic, and in Serie A, they were still battling just to scrape into the top four.
Everyone — pundits, fans, newspapers — had been certain: Leeds United were favorites. Leeds United would progress. Leeds United would make this their season. The first leg seemed to confirm it too: a draw away in Milan, with two precious away goals in the bag. It looked like job done.
But now? Now, half an hour into the second leg at Elland Road, everything had turned upside down. Leeds United were wounded. They were trailing by two. And suddenly, the underdog from Italy was looking very, very dangerous.
****
Perhaps Leeds United had been playing too well this season. They'd been flying so high, smashing expectations, making pundits and fans believe this was the birth of something unstoppable. But now, reality was biting. Maybe, just maybe, people had forgotten one very important detail: Leeds United had been away from the Champions League for years. The team was talented, fearless, full of youthful swagger—but when it came to the knockout stages, experience mattered. And Arthur, for all his sharp suits, fiery passion, and occasional comic touchline antics, simply didn't have the mileage in Europe that a man like Ancelotti possessed.
In the Sky Sports studio, Jon leaned forward, hands clasped together, and voiced exactly that thought. His voice carried the mixture of pity and admiration pundits saved for English underdogs.
"Perhaps Leeds United are simply in too good a state this season," Jon said, his tone thoughtful. "So we've all overlooked a very important point. They've been away from the Champions League for many years. When it comes to knockout experience, Arthur still isn't on the same level as Ancelotti, who's a veteran in this competition."
Lineker, sitting beside him, blinked in surprise. "But hold on—wasn't Rijkaard more experienced than Arthur? And didn't Barcelona still lose to Leeds United?" he asked, raising his eyebrows in disbelief.
Jon turned, smiling faintly like a schoolteacher about to deliver the simplest answer in the world. He leaned back, blinked slowly, and said with the most obvious tone imaginable: "But Rijkaard doesn't have Kaka."
Lineker froze. His mouth opened, then shut again. The camera cut to his bemused expression.
"…." He had no words. His silence said it all.
After all that analysis, the discussion had come full circle. Jon had steered the debate right back to the Brazilian magician in red and black.
Meanwhile, inside Elland Road, the atmosphere was anything but analytical. It was heavy, tense, like a storm waiting to break.
The home team's locker room was deathly quiet. You could have heard a pin drop, or more likely, the sighs of twenty-odd exhausted men thinking about the first half they had just endured.
Arthur had been the first man through the door. His face was dark, jaw tight, and his usual spark was absent. He didn't shout, didn't kick a water bottle across the room, didn't rant like a madman. He simply stood there, arms folded, eyes burning holes into every single player who filed past him into the room.
For nearly a minute, Arthur didn't say a word. He just stared. Slowly, methodically, his gaze swept from man to man: from Ibrahimovic slumping on the bench, to the midfielders rubbing their faces in frustration, to the defenders who couldn't quite bring themselves to meet his eyes. It was like he was weighing their souls, deciding who had fight left and who didn't.
And then—suddenly—Arthur's eyes stopped. They locked onto one man.
"Ferreira," Arthur said sharply, breaking the silence.
Rivaldo looked up, startled. He'd been half-expecting Arthur to unleash a furious tirade about their marking, their pressing, or their lack of spark. Instead, his manager had called his name as if they were about to sit down for tea and biscuits.
"Ah? Me?" Rivaldo asked, pointing at his own chest in disbelief.
"Yes, you," Arthur said, his voice calm, deliberate. "Tell me—do you have any regrets about football?"
The room blinked collectively. The players who had been preparing themselves for an explosion of shouting looked up instead, utterly confused. What kind of question was that in the middle of a Champions League knockout match?
"Uh… regrets?" Rivaldo muttered, scratching his head. He hadn't expected to be thrown a philosophical essay question at halftime. "Well…" He paused, eyes flicking to his teammates. Then, slowly, he nodded. "To be honest, after we beat Barcelona last month, I don't have any regrets anymore. I could retire tomorrow, and I'd be happy."
His answer caught a few chuckles in the room. Rivaldo even grinned faintly, showing a rare bit of humor.
Arthur nodded approvingly. "Very good," he said, like a teacher pleased with his pupil's answer. Then his eyes shifted again, this time settling on another veteran figure sitting among them.
"Fabio," Arthur said suddenly.
Cannavaro, who wasn't even in the lineup due to injury, looked up from his quiet spot on the bench. His presence in the locker room had been meant as moral support, but now all eyes turned toward him.
"Fabio, what about you?" Arthur asked. "Do you have any regrets?"
Cannavaro straightened his back, his face calm but his voice firm. "Yes, boss. I haven't won the Champions League. That's my regret. I want to lift that trophy once before I retire. Unfortunately, I can't play today."
The room absorbed his words in silence. Every young player felt the weight of them—this was a man who had won almost everything else, but still yearned for that one missing prize.
Arthur clapped his hands together suddenly, his voice rising. "Okay!"
The players jumped slightly at the sudden burst of energy.
"Look at this," Arthur went on, pacing the room now. "Two old men in this team. Legends. Ferreira and Fabio. They've won everything under the sun, and yet… they still had regrets in their careers. Rivaldo has erased his through hard work. Fabio is still chasing his. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
The room was listening intently now. Heads that had been bowed in despair were lifting, eyes focusing again.
Arthur's voice rose higher, full of conviction. "Football careers are full of regrets. That's life! Some things you can change, some things you can't. But right now, right here, you are standing in the middle of a Champions League quarter-final. Do you understand what that means? You have the chance to fight for your dreams! The chance to erase those regrets with your own two feet!"
He jabbed a finger toward the ceiling, his voice echoing off the walls. "I don't care if we lose. Truly, I don't. If we lose this year, we'll come back next year even stronger! But what I will not accept—what I refuse to see—is you lot waking up tomorrow morning crying into your breakfast because you didn't fight hard enough tonight!"
Arthur stopped, staring around the room. His eyes gleamed. His voice softened, but every word carried weight.
"So I ask you—are you ready to bleed for this second half?"
There was a pause. A long, pregnant silence. And then, all at once, the response came like thunder.
"Yes!!!"
The roar shook the room. Players who had looked broken minutes ago were now on their feet, fists pumping, chests heaving with renewed fire. The sound rolled out of the locker room like a wave.
And just outside, Simeone who had been about to put his hand on the door handle froze. His eyes widened, his heart jolted. The sheer force of the shout from within made him stop in his tracks.