Arthur, who had just vented his frustration at Ancelotti with that little verbal jab, reached out almost absentmindedly and gave the Italian's shoulder a pat. Ancelotti, still caught off guard and half-choked by Arthur's words, stood there blinking, lips parted as if trying to find a comeback but failing miserably. Arthur didn't bother waiting for him to recover. Instead, he turned away with a sly, mysterious grin plastered across his face, the kind of smile that made you wonder if he had another joke loaded in the chamber. But he kept it to himself.
Now wasn't the time to stand around bickering with this round-bellied strategist. The field was still filled with his own players — young men who looked utterly gutted by the loss. Their shoulders sagged, their faces pale and blank, and several looked one bad thought away from bursting into tears. They weren't looking for excuses or analysis right now; they were looking for their manager. They were waiting for him.
Arthur stepped onto the pitch slowly, his boots crunching softly against the grass, and his expression shifted. The mischievous grin disappeared, replaced by a calm, steady look. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't wag a finger. He didn't scold anyone. There was no blame to be found in his words or his eyes. He knew — every single one of them had given everything they had. They had fought, they had run, they had bled out every ounce of energy in pursuit of a dream. They lost, yes, but their performance wasn't shameful. Not in the slightest.
Football was cruel like that. You could pour your heart and soul into ninety minutes, push yourself to the edge of exhaustion, and still walk away empty-handed. The game had no sympathy. It never guaranteed that effort would equal reward. And tonight, Leeds United had learned that lesson in the most brutal way.
But Arthur wasn't about to let them drown in despair.
He gathered them together, speaking gently, clapping shoulders, and offering words that steadied shaky hearts. "Lads," he said, "there's nothing wrong with what you did today. Nothing. This is football. Sometimes it bites you. But I wouldn't trade a single one of you. Not for anything." His tone wasn't heavy. It was simple. Honest. Exactly what they needed to hear.
The older heads in the squad, the veterans who'd been through both triumph and heartbreak before, followed his lead. They pulled the younger players close, murmured reassurances, ruffled their hair, and even cracked small jokes to loosen the tension. Slowly — very slowly — the tightness in their shoulders eased. The hollow stares softened. The trembling hands steadied.
And then, together, they moved toward the south stand.
That end of the stadium was a wall of noise and color. Leeds United's most loyal supporters, the ones who never stopped singing even when the scoreboard mocked them, were waiting. Arthur led his players there, heads bowed in gratitude, hearts still aching but swelling too.
What greeted them was not jeers. Not blame. Not a chorus of angry accusations about mistakes or failures. No — every single fan in that section rose to their feet. The sound of applause rolled across the stadium like thunder. Smiles stretched across faces, even wrinkled ones that carried decades of Leeds United heartbreak in their lines. Arthur even spotted a few gray-haired grandfathers clapping with all the energy of teenagers, tears glinting in their eyes as they shouted words of encouragement.
This was Leeds United.
Yes, they had lost. Yes, the dream was over — at least for this season. But the journey? The progress? It was nothing short of extraordinary.
Two years ago, these same fans had been watching Championship football, trudging into smaller grounds to watch their team claw and scrap just to climb back into the Premier League. Last year, survival and stabilizing had been the focus. And now? In only their second season back in the big time, Leeds had marched all the way to the quarterfinals of the Champions League. That wasn't failure. That was something to be proud of. Something to build on.
Arthur could see it clearly in the fans' faces: they weren't disappointed. They were grateful. They were proud.
The players lined up, clapped back at the supporters, and some even raised their hands in apology, mouthing silent "sorrys." But the crowd answered not with complaints, only louder applause, louder chants. A wave of energy that said: We're with you. Always.
Arthur smiled faintly. This was why they fought. This bond between pitch and stands.
"Alright, lads," Arthur said, raising his voice so his players could hear him over the cheers. "Listen to them. They're telling you everything you need to know." He paused, his eyes sweeping across their tired faces. "You've done brilliantly. You've given them pride again. Now—what you need to do is rest. Recharge. Because we've still got work to do."
He turned, gesturing toward the league table that existed only in his mind but weighed on everyone's thoughts. "We've got a league title to chase, haven't we?"
There were nods, small smiles, even a few chuckles. The players were starting to breathe again.
Fans shouted too, throwing their support into the mix.
"Good job, boys! You did amazing!"
"Arthur, don't carry this on your shoulders! We're proud of you!"
"Quarterfinals of the Champions League — do you know how long we've waited for this?"
"Arthur, you better bring that Premier League trophy home though!" one joker yelled, earning laughter from the row around him.
Arthur laughed too, shaking his head. "Hear that? They're already demanding more. No pressure, eh?"
But inside, he felt a spark of fire again. These supporters weren't broken. Neither would his team be.
Another fan cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed: "Don't worry, Arthur! My pub will still be open for you, Zlatan, Fernando, all of you lot! Win or lose, my door's always open!"
That earned roars of laughter from the players. Even the dejected ones couldn't help but grin. A cheeky midfielder leaned toward his teammate and quipped, "Sister, why are you playing so fancy about it?"
Laughter spread down the line. Shoulders eased. The bitterness of defeat was still there, but now it was coated with warmth.
And so, with fans applauding and joking, players smiling through the sting of elimination, and Arthur standing tall at their side, Leeds United's Champions League adventure came to a close. Not with bitterness, not with blame — but with pride, humor, and hope.
Because if there was one truth Arthur knew, it was this: whether it was fans or players, Leeds United would always look forward.
*****
After a short break in the locker room—where sweat, silence, and the faint stench of muscle rub mingled together like some bizarre post-defeat perfume—Arthur finally had to face the inevitable: the post-match press conference.
Carlo Ancelotti had gone before him, delivering his calm, diplomatic responses as smoothly as a man ordering wine at dinner. Now, it was Arthur's turn. He sighed, adjusted his jacket, plastered on his best "yes-I-know-we-lost-but-please-don't-kill-me" smile, and stepped into the lions' den.
The moment he sat down, the room exploded.
Dozens of reporters shot up like meerkats on caffeine, hands flapping in the air, voices tumbling over each other in a chaotic chorus:
"Mr. Morgan, what do you think of Leeds United's performance at home today?"
"Mr. Morgan, do you admit that tonight's loss was entirely because of Kaka's brilliance?"
"Mr. Morgan, earlier this season you said Leeds United's goal was to win a trophy—now you're out of the Champions League, do you still believe you can deliver?"
"Mr. Morgan, how do you view Manchester United and Chelsea's chances tomorrow?"
Arthur stared blankly at the frenzy. His head throbbed as if someone had stuffed a vuvuzela into his ear. For a split second, he considered pretending to faint just to escape. Thankfully, the UEFA staff swooped in, gesturing for order before the mob tore each other's notepads apart.
Arthur leaned into the microphone, letting out a deliberately exaggerated breath. "Right… first come, first served, yeah? You're firing questions at me faster than Kaka runs past my backline. Let's slow down before I end up answering the wrong one."
A ripple of laughter went through the press corps. Arthur scanned the room. To his relief, none of the faces belonged to the handful of reporters who usually delighted in skewering him. No troublemakers lurking today—at least, not the usual ones.
He began with the obvious. "Leeds United's performance tonight? Honestly, the lads gave everything. I couldn't fault their effort. Sometimes football is like this—you play well, but the other side just happens to play better. It hurts, but that's the reality."
Pens scribbled furiously. Cameras clicked. Arthur continued, his voice steady but candid: "And yes, let's not dance around it—Leeds lost tonight because of Kaka. Full stop. He's that kind of player, the one who keeps opposition managers awake at night. Before this match, Diego and I went through countless scenarios trying to cage him in. We rehearsed pressing traps, double marking, cutting off his supply… you name it. Then the referee blew the whistle, and poof—everything went up in smoke. He tore right through us."
That admission drew raised eyebrows. Arthur wasn't usually this blunt about an opponent's brilliance. The room shifted as though the journalists had just been handed an unexpected gift. They smelled a story.
The same reporter who had brought up Kaka earlier jumped at the chance. "So, Mr. Morgan, if you were to face him again in the future, do you think you'd have a plan to stop him?"
Arthur smirked, leaning back in his chair as if savoring a private joke. "Oh, absolutely. In fact, I've already thought of one."
The reporter perked up instantly. "Can you share it with us?"
Arthur shook his head with theatrical seriousness. "Nope. Classified information. You'll just have to wait and see."
Groans and laughter spread through the room. One journalist muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Tease," under his breath, which only made Arthur's smirk widen.
"Right, moving on," Arthur said quickly, not giving them a chance to press further. He glanced at the notebook the UEFA staffer beside him was holding, where the previous questions had been scribbled down in neat bullet points.
"My promise to win silverware? Look, I stand by it. Leeds are still sitting at the top of the Premier League table. We've been eliminated from the Champions League, yes, but I'd say that's a blessing in disguise. You know the phrase—when one door closes, another opens. It simply means we now have more energy, more focus, and more time to throw everything into the league campaign. And if we do that, I like our chances."
The reporters nodded thoughtfully. For once, Arthur's reasoning was hard to argue with. Leeds were now free from the distraction of midweek European fixtures, while their biggest rivals still had those hurdles to clear.
"Think about it," Arthur added, warming to the theme. "Manchester United lost their first leg against Roma 2–1. They've still got a mountain to climb at Old Trafford. If they advance, great for them—but that means Ferguson has to split his focus between Europe and the league. And when your attention is divided, you're not at your sharpest domestically. That could work to our advantage."
More scribbles. More murmurs of agreement. Arthur had hit the sweet spot: respectful to rivals, but strategic enough to highlight Leeds' position.
One final hand shot up. "Mr. Morgan, what about tomorrow's matches? Who do you think will win—Manchester United or Roma, Chelsea or Valencia?"
Arthur paused, his lips twitching as he pictured Sir Alex Ferguson's face—probably the color of a ripe tomato—if he dared to say Roma. That mental image alone nearly made him burst out laughing. He steadied himself, leaned toward the microphone, and delivered his answer with a grin.
"As manager of an English club, it's my duty to say I believe Manchester United and Chelsea will both win tomorrow."
That was it. Short, cheeky, and perfectly diplomatic. The smirk on his face, however, gave away the mischief lurking beneath the words.
And with that, Arthur had survived the press conference—outnumbered but unbowed, turning what could've been an interrogation into a performance.