Arthur clenched his fist and gave it a triumphant shake, the kind that nearly dislocated his shoulder from sheer enthusiasm. For a moment, he actually felt his stern face crack, just enough to allow the faintest, most reluctant smile to crawl across his lips. That goal—it wasn't just a goal, it was oxygen pumped straight into Leeds United's veins. Zlatan Ibrahimovic had done it.
You could feel it in the stadium. The air shifted. A few minutes ago, Elland Road had been a restless sea of fans, buzzing but muted, like people watching a kettle boil too slowly. But now? Absolute bedlam. Leeds fans leapt from their seats as though springs had been installed under every chair. Shirts were waved in the air, beer flew skyward, and voices collided into a single, thunderous roar that rattled the stands.
The goal had shaken away all the gloom. Earlier in the second half, even the cheers had sounded tired, half-hearted, like people pretending to be excited for politeness' sake. Now the whole stadium was on fire.
"Leeds United scored a goal, the goal was scored by Zlatan…" Eddie Gray, perched in the commentary booth, drew out the pause theatrically, like a magician holding a trick just one beat too long. He dragged it until every fan inside Elland Road had their lungs ready. And then, together with him, the crowd roared the name in one almighty blast:
"IBRAHIMOVIIIIIIIC!!!!!!"
The ground shook as if the old stands themselves were celebrating.
And yet Zlatan, the man at the center of it all, stood there like he'd just tied his shoelaces. No wild celebration, no chest-thumping, no shirt-off nonsense. He simply snatched the ball straight from Dida, who was trudging miserably into his own net to pick it up. Zlatan barked something short and sharp to his teammates, waving them furiously toward their own half.
Message received. Leeds were still behind. There was no time to celebrate like idiots. One goal down, job unfinished.
Arthur's reaction wasn't so different. He allowed himself that fleeting smile, yes—but he quickly sobered. He leaned forward, his sharp eyes flicking instinctively toward the opposite bench. He wanted to know how the enemy had taken the blow.
There sat Carlo Ancelotti, not looking the slightest bit rattled. When Zlatan's strike hit the net, Ancelotti's first move had been to summon Paolo Maldini to the touchline. The grizzled captain trotted over, listened calmly, and trotted back. No panic, no shouting, no throwing of water bottles. Now, Ancelotti was back to his trademark pose—arms folded, body relaxed, face set in a cool mask of composure, as though this entire storm was still unfolding exactly as he had planned.
Arthur couldn't resist. He curled his lip and rolled his eyes so hard they nearly stuck. "Oh, don't you look clever, sitting there like you're the godfather of football," he muttered under his breath.
But he knew the truth. A coach of Ancelotti's experience had already spotted the obvious. Milan had conceded not because Leeds had produced some miracle of tactical genius, but because his players had strolled out after halftime as though the match was already won. Complacency had cracked the door open, and Leeds had barged through.
And Maldini? Arthur knew what that little sideline chat had been. Ancelotti hadn't given him a chessboard lecture on tactics. No, he'd simply told him: "Go back out there, Paolo, and scream at them until they wake up."
Sure enough, Leeds' celebrations hadn't even finished when Maldini's booming voice carried across the pitch, dragging his teammates back to full alertness.
For a few minutes after the restart, Leeds looked like they might actually steamroll their way to an equalizer. The energy was back, the passes were sharp, the running was relentless. Every touch was accompanied by a surge of noise from the stands, fans urging their team to keep pressing.
But then Jon, watching intently from the commentary booth, let out a heavy sigh. "Ah! AC Milan seem to have realized the problem after losing the ball," he observed, disappointment dripping from his tone. "They've tightened up their defense on the right side. Looks like this will become another tug-of-war. Oddo isn't giving Bale any chance to break free now."
Lineker, who only moments ago had practically jumped out of his chair from excitement, also sobered up. "Yes… now that I think about it, Leeds United took advantage of Milan's lapse in concentration right after halftime. That's when the gap appeared. But it won't happen again. I saw Maldini shouting like a man possessed, and judging by the response on the pitch, AC Milan have snapped back into their first-half rhythm."
And they were right.
Arthur, prowling the technical area like a man in need of both coffee and tranquilizers, could see it too. Leeds continued to direct their attacks down the right flank, piling their hopes on Bale's blistering runs. The players were buzzing, full of adrenaline and momentum. They threw wave after wave forward, each one looking as though it might smash through Milan's defenses at last.
But each time, just before the final crack appeared, Maldini and company closed it.
Oddo stuck to Bale like Velcro now, no longer leaving a blade of grass between them. Gattuso snarled back into midfield duels, snapping at heels like a terrier. Pirlo drifted cleverly, filling gaps and quietly cutting off supply lines. Leeds charged like a storm, but Milan held like a fortress. From the stands, it looked as though the Italians were being battered. In truth, Leeds weren't carving out real danger—they couldn't even win a corner kick, let alone force Dida into a save.
It was maddening. The ball was almost entirely in Milan's half, yet the breakthrough never came.
Arthur knew why. Maldini.
The veteran defender wasn't just playing—he was orchestrating. The moment he'd returned from that chat with Ancelotti, he had unleashed a verbal hurricane. He scolded Gattuso, snapped at Pirlo, barked at Oddo, and even turned to Jankulovski on the far side to tear strips off him. Nobody was spared. His voice, his presence, carried so much authority that even the younger stars—Kaká, Seedorf—snapped to attention.
Arthur watched with grudging admiration. He'd seen captains before, but this was something else. Maldini wasn't just a player—he was practically the emperor of Milan out there, commanding his troops with nothing more than his glare and a few choice words.
And the effect was immediate. Milan's midfield and defense returned to that razor-sharp focus of the first half.
Leeds had the ball, yes. They had the energy, the crowd, and the momentum. But Milan? Milan had the patience. They sat back, absorbed, waited. And Arthur could see it in their eyes—they weren't just defending. They were hunting. Every time they nicked the ball back, every time Pirlo or Seedorf got a touch, Leeds hearts skipped a beat. Because Milan were biding their time, ready to strike the moment a crack appeared.
It was a cruel reminder for Arthur and his men. They had forced the Italians onto the ropes, but AC Milan weren't just going to crumble. No—this was still very much a battle.
And Milan, he realized, were waiting for the perfect moment to kill the game.
*****
Time ticked away, second by second, like water dripping into a bucket that was already nearly full. For Arthur, every tick of the clock felt like a hammer banging against his ribs. His eyes darted toward his wrist, checking the watch again and again, as though staring hard enough might somehow slow down time.
Seventy-four minutes had been played. The scoreboard still read: Leeds United 1 – 2 AC Milan. No change. No mercy. The minutes were slipping away like sand through his fingers.
And the cruel part? Jon, that blasted commentator who always sounded far too smug for Arthur's liking, had been right from the start. Leeds had burned too much fuel early on. Ribery and Bale had been sprinting up and down the flanks like maniacs, stretching Milan, harassing their defenders, running like their lungs were powered by jet engines. But there was a price to pay.
By the hour mark, Bale was clearly fading, grimacing, his legs wobbling, before collapsing into cramps. Ribery wasn't much better—his runs had slowed, his usual sharp bursts now looking more like a man dragging a piano behind him.
Arthur stood on the touchline, fists clenched, coat flapping in the cool air. He hated it—hated being forced into desperation. But he had no choice. He turned, barked instructions, and then, with the dramatic flair of a gambler shoving his final chips into the middle of the table, made three substitutions at once.
The Elland Road crowd stirred—three changes, all at once? This was no tinkering. This was Arthur pushing every piece of furniture into the fire to keep the house warm.
Out went Bale and Ribery, their exhausted legs done for the night. In came Lukas Podolski on the left, and Fernando Torres on the right. If Milan thought the flanks were safe, they were in for a rude awakening.
Then came the midfield shake-up. Luka Modrić jogged on to replace Mascherano. Yaya Touré, the big Ivorian, was shoved backward into a lone holding role, a one-man shield in front of the defense. Modrić partnered up with Sneijder, giving Leeds a pair of playmakers in the middle, architects who could thread the needle through Milan's iron curtain.
Arthur squatted low on the sideline, his coat dragging in the grass, eyes gleaming. "All in," he muttered under his breath.
"Looks like Arthur is going to give it a try!" Jon announced, his tone almost theatrical. "He's burning his last card here. Leeds United have practically abandoned their defensive shell. This is high risk—be careful of AC Milan's counterattack!"
"Wait, why do you say he's giving up defense?" Lineker asked, blinking.
Jon turned and looked at him like a teacher scolding a student who hadn't done his homework. "Brother, have you everseen Podolski or Torres chase all the way back to defend like full-backs? No, you haven't, because it doesn't happen. Trust me, Leeds are throwing everything forward now. The last fifteen minutes are going to be madness. Leeds will attack like there's no tomorrow!"
And Jon was dead on.
The moment those changes settled, Leeds surged forward. The formation, now a 4-3-3 in full attacking mode, looked like a tidal wave rushing up the pitch. Torres immediately took on Cafu down the right, Podolski charged at Oddo on the left, while Zlatan Ibrahimović prowled through the middle like a predator sniffing blood. Sneijder and Modrić snapped passes back and forth, looking for the killer ball. Yaya, left alone in midfield, patrolled like a lone bouncer at a nightclub where every guest wanted to cause trouble.
Elland Road roared them on, the crowd rising to its feet, believing in the equalizer. Every surge forward felt like the moment, the chance. But football, cruel as ever, doesn't always pay back effort with reward.
By the time the match hit the 85th minute, disaster struck.
Leeds were attacking again. Torres muscled Cafu on the right flank, using his strength to shield the ball, before whipping a dangerous cross low into the middle. Zlatan charged onto it, brushing off Maldini with his towering frame. He managed to connect, but not cleanly—his shot skidded weakly, almost apologetically, toward goal and trickled wide for a goal kick.
Arthur slapped his thigh in frustration, teeth gritted. Zlatan glared at the heavens as if betrayed by the gods themselves.
Then came the moment that twisted every stomach in the stadium.
Dida, Milan's giant of a goalkeeper, jogged to retrieve the ball from beyond the line. Instead of wasting time like most keepers would, he looked up, saw Leeds scrambling to reorganize, and made a snap decision. Without hesitation, he booted the ball long, a cannon blast to the left side of the pitch.
And there, like a shadow creeping into Leeds' nightmare, was Kaká.
The Brazilian had already ghosted past the halfway line, perfectly timed, waiting for just this chance. Dida's clearance soared, and suddenly Elland Road gasped as one.
"Watch him! Watch him!" Arthur screamed on the sideline, pointing furiously.
Sun Jihai, Leeds' right-back, reacted first. He threw himself into Kaká's path, muscling up, determined not to let him get a free run. The two collided shoulder to shoulder, bodies jarring. Neither could claim the ball cleanly.
The ball bounced awkwardly, dropping forward toward the baseline, teasing both players.
Silva, Leeds' left-back, had already anticipated danger. He sprinted across, trying to shut the door. Together, he and Sun could box Kaká in, smother the threat.
But Kaká was not ordinary. He was fire and silk, power and grace rolled into one.
As the ball dipped, Kaká lunged forward, nudging it with his head just before Sun could react. In that single flick, he gained a step. Then, using his shoulder and sheer strength, he shoved Sun aside and accelerated.
Arthur's heart sank.
Kaká reached the ball first, controlling it with those impossibly smooth strides. Silva came charging, legs pumping, eyes blazing, determined to cut him down.
But Kaká improvised. With one casual flick of his right boot, he lofted the ball over Silva, lifting it delicately into space. Then, in the same breath, he swung his left foot, hooking it around and bursting past Silva before the defender even had time to turn.
The Elland Road crowd roared in panic.
Kompany had been tracking the play from deeper, his eyes locked on Kaká since the duel with Sun Jihai. He had been torn between watching Inzaghi, lurking like a thief near the penalty area, and closing down the Brazilian magician.
But the moment Kaká skipped past Silva with that outrageous lob and run, Kompany knew—there was no choice. He abandoned everything else and sprinted at full tilt toward Kaká.
Because if Kaká got free now, Leeds United's European dream would collapse in an instant.