"Bang!"
The sound of wood splintering against the tiled floor echoed through the Leeds United dressing room like a gunshot. Arthur had slammed the tactical clipboard to the ground the very second he stormed in after the press conference. Bits of marker ink smeared across the whiteboard clattered off, skittering like frightened cockroaches across the floor. It was not a good sign.
Nobody dared to speak. Not a whisper. Not even a cough.
Every player, from the cocky Ibrahimovic to the usually chatty Podolski, was rooted to their spot on the benches. Simeone had already warned them: no one leaves until the boss is finished. So there they sat, hands clasped together, eyes flicking nervously at Arthur as though he were a judge about to hand down a sentence.
The room was full — twenty-odd players crammed into a space meant for half as many — yet the silence was suffocating. The only noise was the collective breathing of young men who had just squandered two points in a title race where every single one mattered.
Arthur stalked to the center of the room, his shoes thudding heavily against the tiles. He turned slowly, letting his gaze sweep across the squad like a searchlight. His jaw was clenched so tightly that a muscle in his cheek twitched. His eyes were sharp, almost glittering with the kind of restrained fury that made even Zlatan lean back a little.
When he finally spoke, his voice wasn't the explosive roar they feared — it was worse. It was low, steady, like the calm before a storm.
"I'm curious," Arthur said, his tone slicing through the silence. "Besides Ferreira and Fabio… who among you has actually won a league title? Hm? Anyone?"
The words hung in the air. The silence deepened. Players glanced around as though desperately hoping someone else would raise a hand and save them. None did.
Finally, Vincent Kompany — young, proud, and carrying the armband — rose stiffly to his feet. His lips pressed into a thin line, but he forced himself to speak.
"No, boss," he said, his voice steady despite the tension.
Arthur locked eyes with him, unblinking. "Good. Very good. Then tell me, Vincent — do you want the championship?"
"Yes!" Kompany replied instantly, without hesitation, as though the answer had been branded into his heart.
Arthur gave the faintest of nods, then turned to the others. His voice sharpened. "What about the rest of you? Do you want it?"
"I want to…" mumbled Alonso under his breath.
"I want to," Podolski added, staring at the floor.
"I want it," came a few more half-hearted murmurs, a weak chorus from men who looked suddenly very small.
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Louder. Are you men, or are you church mice?"
His palms slammed down onto the heavy oak table in the middle of the room with a crack that made half the squad jump. "I said — I can't hear you!"
The eruption worked. The dam broke.
"I WANT TO!"
The players' voices boomed, some hoarse, some raw, some almost breaking with emotion. A few fists punched the air. Several faces flushed crimson, eyes glassy with frustration and pent-up energy. They weren't just answering Arthur — they were shouting at themselves, at the game, at the way they had thrown away victory yet again.
Arthur straightened, breathing hard himself. He gave a satisfied nod. Finally, some fire.
"Good," he said, calmer now. "Since you all want the championship… tell me this: with that performance today, can you win it? Are you worthy of winning it?"
The room sagged under the weight of the question. The earlier shouts faded, replaced once more with downcast eyes and bowed heads. The truth hurt.
Arthur's voice grew sharper, cutting like a whip. "We only got one point today. One point! Four games left in the season, gentlemen. Four. And if Chelsea can't take care of Manchester United in their make-up game next month… then I'll tell you right now: the title will slip away from us."
He let that hang for a moment, watching their faces tighten.
"If we're lucky, Chelsea beat United at Stamford Bridge. Or maybe they scrape a draw. Then, in theory, we still have a shot. But why do I say theoretically? Because after watching that circus you lot called a football match today, I felt something I have never felt before — that maybe, just maybe, this league title is far away from me. Far away from us."
The words struck harder than any shout. The players shifted uncomfortably. A few rubbed their thighs, others picked at the floor with their boots. Their heads, which had lifted only moments earlier, drooped once again.
All except one.
Zlatan Ibrahimovic.
The big Swede leaned forward, his ponytail bouncing slightly as he smirked. Arms folded across his chest, he looked right at Arthur with that trademark arrogance plastered all over his face.
"Boss, that's not the case," Zlatan said. His tone was firm, confident, almost dismissive. "We really did try our best out there today."
Several players winced, as if Zlatan had just poked a bear with a stick.
Arthur's eyebrows shot up. For a heartbeat, he looked ready to explode. But then, unexpectedly, a small smile tugged at his lips.
"Of course, Zlatan," Arthur said evenly. "Of course you tried. And you know what? I'm glad you said that. At least it shows someone here still has the guts to speak his mind."
The players exchanged nervous glances.
Arthur stepped closer to Zlatan, lowering his voice slightly but still loud enough for everyone to hear. "Brothers… I'll give you this: you did try your best physically. You ran. You tackled. You sweated buckets. I'll never say you didn't."
His eyes hardened. "But did you truly give everything? Did you focus? Did you keep your heads? Every time we scored, we switched off. Every time we pulled ahead, we let them back in. Equalized once, twice, three bloody times! You call that concentration? You call that hunger?"
He barked a bitter laugh. "Quick counterattack goals! Against us! Ha! I never thought I'd live to see the day we'd be picked apart like schoolboys, caught with our trousers down again and again in a ninety-minute match."
His voice rose, booming off the walls. "Have you forgotten who runs England? Have you forgotten who we are?"
The words reverberated through the room like cannon fire. Even Zlatan flinched, his smirk slipping. His head dropped, eyes flickering downward.
Because deep down, he knew the boss was right. The two goals they'd thrown away weren't masterstrokes from Spurs — they were gifts. Lazy moments. Switch-offs. And those gifts had cost them dearly.
For the first time that evening, Zlatan didn't argue. He sat back, silent, chastened.
Arthur scanned the room one last time, his players sitting there in shame, frustration, but also smoldering determination. He could see it in their eyes now — the fire was still there.
*****
"Bang!"
The sound echoed like a gunshot in the suffocating silence of the locker room. Arthur had just smashed the tactical board onto the floor, splinters and magnets scattering across the tiles. Not a single player flinched—because every single one of them had already seen the storm brewing in their manager's face. They were braced for it.
After the press conference, they had all returned to the dressing room, waiting. Simeone had passed word that no one was to sneak off early, and so here they were—every last Leeds United player gathered. The room was full, but it felt eerily empty. The kind of silence where you could hear not only your own breathing but the thumping of your neighbor's heartbeat.
Arthur strode into the center of the room, his boots clicking like a judge marching into a courtroom. His eyes swept over the squad—his squad—like a man choosing which sheep to scold first. He was seething, though holding the anger back, like steam straining under a pot lid ready to blow.
"I'm curious," Arthur began, his voice unnervingly calm. "Besides Ferreira and Fabio, which one of you has ever actually won a top-league championship? Hmm? Anyone?"
The silence stretched. Players glanced at each other, waiting for someone—anyone—to speak. Finally, Vincent Kompany, their captain, stood. His lips were tight, his shoulders square, but there was no avoiding the truth.
"No, boss," Kompany admitted.
Arthur's stare could have cut diamonds. "Good. Very good, Vincent. Then let me ask you this. Do you want a championship?"
"Yes!" Kompany fired back, not even hesitating.
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "And the rest of you?"
"I want to…"
"I want to…"
"I… I do…"
The answers were mumbled, scattered, like schoolchildren muttering excuses to a furious teacher.
"LOUDER!" Arthur slammed both palms against the table in the middle of the room, rattling water bottles and kit bags. His voice thundered. "Are you men or what?! I can't hear you!"
This time the response roared back at him, raw and unrestrained.
"I WANT TO!"
It wasn't polished, it wasn't pretty, but it was loud enough to shake the walls. Some players were red-eyed, others were flushed with adrenaline. The fire that had been missing all match was now flickering to life in this room.
Arthur seized that moment, his voice softening but still sharp as steel. "Good. So you want it. But with that performance today, do you deserve it? Are you worthy of it?"
The words hit harder than the smashed tactical board. His players shifted uneasily, some staring at the ground, some at their boots.
Arthur continued, pacing like a prosecutor. "We only scraped a point today. Four games left in the league. Four! If Chelsea don't stop United in their make-up match, then congratulations, lads—we can kiss the title goodbye. That's reality. Even if Chelsea help us out, even if the door cracks open… do you honestly think, playing like you did today, you could walk through it? Your performance—your pathetic, sloppy, half-baked performance—made me feel, for the first time this season, that the title might actually slip away. Do you get that?"
The heads that had lifted earlier sank again. Shoulders slumped. Except one.
"Boss, that's not fair," Zlatan Ibrahimović finally shot back, his trademark arrogance glinting in his eyes. "We really gave everything today!"
Arthur turned, and for a moment there was a flash of satisfaction in his face. At least someone still had fire in their belly.
"Yes, Zlatan, I believe you," Arthur said evenly. "Physically, you gave everything. But mentally? In focus? Not even close. You score, and what happens? You switch off. They equalize. You score again, same story. Over and over. That's not commitment. That's carelessness."
He jabbed a finger at the squad. "Counterattack! That's what they used against us, and it worked every bloody time! You let yourselves be tied up like children. Did you forget where we are? Did you forget who we are? Who runs England, eh?"
The words rang so loud even Ibrahimović couldn't hold his head up anymore. He muttered something under his breath and stared at his boots, embarrassed. Because Arthur was right—the two goals they had conceded were embarrassing, the kind that could haunt a team's dreams for weeks.
The silence returned, thick and heavy. Then Kompany stood again, his voice quieter, heavy with guilt.
"I'm sorry, boss," the captain said.
Arthur exhaled through his nose, sharp but controlled. "I accept your apology, Vincent." He looked at every single player in the room, one by one, as if pinning them to the wall with his gaze. And then—just when they expected another explosion—he did something different.
Arthur climbed up onto the table. Literally. One boot on the surface, then the other, until he was standing tall above them like a furious general addressing his army.
"You're sorry for me?" Arthur bellowed. "Forget me! You're sorry for the 50,000 fans who came today and watched that garbage! But most of all—you're sorry for yourselves!"
The players' heads jerked up.
"Think about it!" Arthur went on, voice hoarse but booming. "Think about the hours you've sweated this year! Think about the bruises, the knocks, the injuries you've taken! You think you're doing all that just to let the title slip away? You think you're doing it so you can say, 'Ah well, we tried'? Is that what you'll tell yourselves when you look in the mirror?"
The young squad—most of them barely out of their teens—felt their blood boil. Faces flushed, fists clenched. The frustration of the game was being burned into something hotter, something sharper.
One by one, they erupted.
"I'm sorry!"
"I'm sorry!"
"WE'RE SORRY!"
Water bottles flew, towels hit the floor, and the locker room transformed from a funeral into a war council. Arthur looked around at the chaos he'd unleashed, at the fire returning to their eyes, and for the first time since the match began, he allowed himself the faintest smile.
"Good," he said, stepping down from the table. His voice softened, almost gentle now. "Next week at Anfield, I want to see a massacre."
Anfield Stadium.
"Bloody hell, are these Leeds players insane today?!"
Rafa Benítez hurled his water bottle to the ground, eyes blazing. His gaze cut across the pitch toward Fernando Torres, who had just sprinted to the bench to throw himself into Arthur's arms in celebration.
The clock read 87:29.
The scoreboard read Liverpool 1–5 Leeds United.
Anfield, packed with more than 50,000 fans, was no longer a wall of boos. The soundtrack had shifted from jeers, to abuse, and now—humiliation. Silence. Streams of supporters were already trudging to the exits, unable to stomach any more.
Torres had just netted Leeds's fifth of the afternoon, and it wasn't just a goal—it was a statement. Arthur found himself crushed in the middle of a mob of celebrating players, barely able to breathe.
On the pitch, Steven Gerrard stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the chaos in disbelief. His Liverpool side had been battered into submission. From the first whistle, Leeds had swarmed like rabid dogs, snapping and chasing every ball, giving no Liverpool player a moment to breathe. It wasn't football—it was a street fight, and Leeds were the ones grinning through bloody teeth.
The referee eventually broke up the celebrations, sending the players back to their positions. Arthur, freed at last from the bear hugs and back slaps, glanced up at the giant electronic scoreboard. The numbers glowed in mockery: 5–1.
And in that moment, Arthur realized something. Something vital to his career, something that would stay with him forever.
Being a head coach wasn't just about tactics.
Sometimes—sometimes—you had to scold.