Close.
So, so close.
For a brief, electrifying heartbeat, Vincent Kompany truly believed he was about to save Leeds United. The ball was hanging there, dropping like a ripe fruit just begging to be plucked. He'd timed it, pictured it, even rehearsed it in his head in the split second before making his move: just leap, extend the leg, give the ball a thump into the Elland Road night sky, and crisis averted. Simple.
Only, football has a cruel sense of humour.
Kompany sprang upwards, every muscle tightening, his eyes fixed on the ball like a hawk spotting prey. But before his boot could rise to meet it—before the heroic clearance could be written into Leeds folklore—something else happened. Something infuriating. Something Brazilian.
Kaká.
The AC Milan star, who had looked for a moment like Silva's problem and not Kompany's, suddenly ducked his head forward at just the right instant. The ball skimmed off his forehead, delicate as a flick of a paintbrush, and then—like some magician vanishing behind a puff of smoke—Kaká slipped away, his whole body dipping low and escaping behind Silva's shoulder.
And poor Kompany? He collided full force with Silva instead. A clumsy, heavy, bone-jarring smash that sent both men sprawling onto the turf like two unfortunate drunks arguing over a taxi.
By the time Kompany hit the ground, blinking in disbelief and trying to figure out how Kaká had Houdini'd his way past them, the Brazilian was already gone. He'd ghosted free, long legs eating up the grass, chasing the ball as it rolled with perfect invitation into the penalty spot.
Arthur, prowling on the touchline, felt his heart lurch into his throat. "Oh no, not him again!" he muttered, clutching at his head. His stomach twisted in that special manager's cocktail of hope and dread.
Kompany scrambled up, grimacing, ignoring the throb of bruises blooming across his ribs and hips. He launched himself after Kaká, desperate, arms pumping, but deep down he already knew. The gap was too wide, the seconds too few.
And Kaká? He wasn't the kind of man to waste time. He caught up with the ball in full stride, didn't even bother to cushion it, didn't even pretend to think about passing. No hesitation, no drama. Just ruthless simplicity.
Schmeichel, poor lad, came haring out of the Leeds goalmouth, trying to make himself a mountain in Kaká's way. He bent low, arms spreading, eyes fierce. For a flicker of a moment, it looked like he might smother it.
But Kaká was already swinging. One smooth, clinical right-foot strike. The ball skimmed across the grass, sliding cruelly beyond Schmeichel's desperate stretch, brushing past his left hand, and rolling with infuriating calm into the back of the net.
The net bulged. The stadium died.
1–3.
And with that, AC Milan had one hand firmly around the throat of the tie.
For the briefest of moments, Elland Road went utterly silent. Fifty thousand voices frozen in disbelief, as if the entire ground had been struck dumb by the inevitability of it.
Arthur's stomach sank like a stone dropped in a well. He didn't need a scoreboard. He didn't need Jon's commentary in his earpiece or the gasps from the crowd. He knew. That was the dagger.
Yet something strange happened in the silence.
No boos. No jeers. No angry whistles raining down on the pitch. Instead—like a tide slowly rising—applause spread across the stands. Genuine applause. Leeds United fans, arms coming together, clapping not in mockery but in awe. Kaká's brilliance had cut so deep it commanded respect.
Arthur turned his head, eyes widening at the sight. He could scarcely believe it. His team had been torn apart, his defence shredded, but the fans were applauding their executioner.
"That man," Arthur muttered under his breath, almost smiling despite himself, "he's just stolen my funeral and turned it into a show."
····
Meanwhile, far away from the Elland Road touchline, in the Sky Sports studio, Jon had completely lost the cool professionalism of a commentator.
"KAKÁ!!" Jon bellowed into his microphone, practically jumping from his seat. His arms flailed like a man describing a UFO sighting. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have just witnessed something indescribable! Absolutely indescribable! Kaká has taken Leeds United's defence, ripped it to pieces, danced on the ruins, and crowned himself king of the night!"
He wasn't stopping there. "Look at that sequence—assist, orchestrate, dribble, burst, finish—my word, what can't he do? He is the son of God in football boots!"
Lineker sat beside him, blinking slowly, the very picture of a man who knew when he'd been beaten.
Jon, however, was far from finished. "That was not just football! That was divine intervention! Kaká, carrying AC Milan, this so-called fading giant, on his shoulders, dragging them step by step toward the Champions League semifinals!"
"Alright, alright, Jon," Lineker finally interrupted, though his tone was more weary admiration than irritation. "Calm down before you combust on air." He let out a long sigh, his lips twitching into a wry smile. "But… as much as it pains me to admit it, you're right. Leeds United, Arthur, all of them—they've been beaten tonight. Beaten by one man."
He shook his head, exhaling loudly into the microphone. "And yes, the game isn't over, the clock hasn't run out, miracles can always happen… but if we're honest, this one's gone. Kaká has driven the dagger in deep. Leeds United have been punished on their home soil by a masterclass of personal heroism."
His words hung in the air, heavy as truth itself.
Back on the pitch, Kaká jogged toward the corner flag, his arms spread, face serene, as his Milan teammates mobbed him. The roar of the away fans cut through the stunned silence of Elland Road like a defiant anthem.
Arthur stood on the touchline, frozen, watching. He felt frustration, of course. Bitter, gnawing frustration. But there was no denying it, tonight belonged to Kaká.
*****
"Don't give up! The game is not over yet! Have you all forgotten what I told you at halftime?" Arthur's voice cut across Elland Road like a whip. His arms were spread wide as if he could physically hold his team's spirit together. "I can accept losing, and the fans can accept losing, but we will never, ever accept a pathetic loss. If we're going down, we go down fighting until the last bloody second!"
The players on the pitch, shoulders drooping and heads lowered, looked like schoolboys caught cheating on an exam. Their legs were heavy, their eyes hollow. Kaka's goal had hit them harder than any tackle. But Arthur, pacing like a lion in a too-small cage at the technical area, wasn't going to let them sulk their way to the final whistle.
Perhaps it was his sheer stubbornness—or maybe the contagious volume of his shouting—but Vincent Kompany suddenly straightened his back, puffed out his chest, and clapped his hands together with such force it could have woken pigeons on the roof. "Come on, lads!" the captain barked, stomping the ground as though trying to shake life back into the team. "Heads up! We fight till the end!"
Arthur gave him a quick nod, silently grateful. Nothing worked better than when a captain took over the shouting for a bit—his own throat already felt like sandpaper.
Yet even with Kompany rallying, the truth was cruel: the Leeds players were still staggering, like boxers trying to swing after a knockout punch. AC Milan, already purring with confidence after Kaka's dagger, passed the ball around like they were having a picnic in the middle of Elland Road. Leeds tried to press, but their energy was drained; their attacks broke down before they even began.
And then the referee looked at his watch.
Five minutes of stoppage time. Arthur clenched his fists. "Five minutes! That's enough to start a fight in a pub and finish it!" he bellowed.
But reality mocked his optimism. Leeds pressed forward half-heartedly, Ibrahimović threw himself into challenges like a man possessed, but there was no sharpness, no composure. AC Milan weren't going to give them another sniff. When the referee finally raised the whistle to his lips, the sound was like a guillotine blade falling.
Game over.
Arthur's first ever Champions League campaign as Leeds United's manager had just come to a brutal end.
On the pitch, his players collapsed in all possible varieties of despair. Some fell flat on their backs, staring at the floodlights as though begging for divine intervention. Others crouched with their hands on their heads, motionless.
Sun Jihai and David Silva were the hardest to watch. Both had been directly involved in Kaka's wonder run, and guilt weighed on them like lead. They sat on the grass, shoulders slumped, burying their faces between their knees. Their jerseys were soaked, not only from sweat but from the tears that trickled freely now. Their bodies shook as though they were cold, though it was nothing but heartbreak.
Zlatan Ibrahimović, the eternal showman, had a different kind of sorrow. He stood tall, hands on hips, chest heaving, his long hair tied back and his eyes glaring at the night sky. He had dragged Leeds back into the fight with his goal after halftime, throwing the team on his back. But what did it matter now? Kaka had waltzed through, undone everything, and made Zlatan's personal heroics meaningless. He tilted his head back, jaw clenched. It was the look of a man who had just lost an argument with the universe.
Arthur himself stood frozen for a moment, his shoes rooted to the touchline. His lips pressed into a tight line, his hands balled into fists. He had dreamed of this night for so long: the music, the lights, the roar of Elland Road in the Champions League. He had dared to imagine himself leading this young Leeds side to the summit of Europe. He had imagined, more than once, being tossed in the air by his players, champagne raining down, chants echoing into the night.
And now? All of it—popped like a balloon by Kaka's right boot.
The only tiny consolation, a bitter one, was this: that "Son of God" in red and black, who had just ripped his team apart, would be wearing white next season. Leeds United would own the storm instead of suffering under it. But tonight, Arthur still had to endure the misery of defeat.
He turned, ready to walk onto the pitch and pick up his players one by one, when a hand landed gently on his shoulder.
"Arthur."
Arthur glanced sideways. Carlo Ancelotti stood there, as calm as a man who'd just finished a light stroll rather than managed his way through ninety brutal minutes. His gentle smile was almost infuriating. How was it possible that someone could eliminate you from Europe and still look like your favourite uncle offering you biscuits?
Arthur forced a thin smile and accepted the handshake. "Carlo, congratulations." The words tasted like vinegar.
"Thank you. But I was just lucky tonight," Ancelotti replied, his tone humble, his eyes twinkling as though he'd just drawn a four-leaf clover.
Arthur snorted. "Luck is part of strength, Carlo. Besides—" he jerked his chin toward the pitch, where Kaka was still being mobbed by teammates "—with a player like that, calling it luck is basically an insult to the rest of us. Hah!"
Ancelotti turned his head, following Arthur's finger. His eyes softened immediately as he saw Kaka smiling shyly, clapping the fans, hair damp with sweat, the hero of the night. "Of course," he said warmly, almost paternally. "Kaka's performance tonight was the key. He's… extraordinary. I'm lucky to have him."
Arthur's jaw tightened.
Lucky? You're calling yourself lucky? He wanted to scream. You had the best player on the pitch and now you're rubbing it in with that saintly old-man act?
He rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw the back of his skull. But when Ancelotti looked back at him, Arthur pasted on his most devilish grin, the one that always made journalists nervous.
"Well," he said, voice calm, almost casual. "Fortunately for me… starting next season, I'll be the one enjoying that happiness."
Ancelotti blinked. His gentle expression froze. Then his eyebrows arched in surprise.
Arthur just smiled, letting the silence stretch, the smirk never leaving his face.
Ancelotti: "???"
And with that, Arthur walked away, leaving the Italian baffled on the touchline.