The newspapers hit the stands the next morning, their headlines loud enough to make Liverpool fans choke on their morning tea.
"Leeds United crush Liverpool 5-1 at Anfield! Benitez's job hanging by a thread!"
"The title race burns hotter than ever: Leeds smash Liverpool, United scrape past Boro!"
"Three games left, Leeds one point clear—Ferguson's dagger is out! Who will claim the crown?"
Arthur sat in his office, flipping through the back pages with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Leeds had just humiliated Liverpool at Anfield, no less. Five goals. Five! Against a Benitez side that was usually so tight at the back, they'd looked more like an open barn door on a windy night.
But of course, the English press wasn't focusing on Leeds' brilliance. No, they were too busy gossiping about Chelsea. Apparently, Mourinho's team was now the mysterious "third party" in the title race—the unpredictable wild card who could swing things one way or another. Leeds were top, Manchester United breathing down their necks, and Chelsea… well, Chelsea were being painted as the kingmakers.
Arthur grumbled under his breath. "We thump Liverpool at their own bloody ground, and instead of praising us, they're all drooling over whether José's lads will roll over for United. Typical."
The papers spelled it out clearly: Leeds had 80 points, United 79 with a game in hand, Chelsea way back on 71. With only three rounds to go, Chelsea were finished in the league. Out of the title picture. But because they were about to face Manchester United, they suddenly became the most talked-about team in England.
At Stamford Bridge, Mourinho's words after their 2-0 win at Newcastle were already making the rounds. He'd been brutally honest—too honest for some tastes.
"Chelsea have failed in the league this season," he admitted, arms folded like a general conceding a lost battle. "We cannot win the Premier League. But we still have two trophies to fight for—the FA Cup and the Champions League. That is where our focus lies."
Of course, the reporters didn't care about his sensible talk of silverware. They smelled blood. They wanted to know the one thing everyone was whispering: Would Chelsea deliberately ease up against Manchester United in the league, saving energy for their Champions League clash with the same opponent?
One brave—or stupid—journalist had put it to him bluntly. "Mister Mourinho, will Chelsea… let Manchester United through? For the sake of the Champions League?"
The room froze. Mourinho leaned back in his chair, a slow grin spreading across his face before he let out a sharp laugh. "Letting go? Ha! That is an insult—to me, and to my players. Chelsea does not 'let go.' We fight, always. But…" His voice dropped, eyes narrowing. "It is far too early to talk about such things. For now, I am only thinking about Manchester United—in the Champions League, four days from now."
The press scribbled furiously, delighted. José was never dull.
Arthur, watching the press conference replay later that night, shook his head. "You've got to hand it to him, he knows how to play the media. He basically said nothing, but somehow made it sound like a war cry." Simeone, sitting beside him on the couch in the manager's office, just chuckled. "Classic José. He's like a magician—waves one hand in the air, while the other hand steals your watch."
And then came April 26.
The day the Champions League semi-finals turned into civil war.
Two English giants, Manchester United and Chelsea, colliding under the bright lights of Europe.
Arthur had circled this fixture on his calendar weeks ago, not because he supported either side—far from it—but because it directly affected Leeds. His lads were in the fight of their lives for the Premier League title, and here were United, juggling a domestic battle and a European dream at the same time. Would the distraction help Leeds? Could fatigue slow Ferguson's machine?
The evening before, Arthur had squeezed in some overtime paperwork (read: trying to avoid the endless pile of scouting reports Simeone dumped on his desk), and so he and Simeone decided to watch the other semi-final instead—Bayern Munich versus AC Milan.
They settled into the office with takeaway containers balanced on the desk, Simeone with his usual black coffee, Arthur with a half-eaten pie.
The game had been a belter. Bayern stormed to a 3-2 win in Munich, but Milan had something far more valuable than a narrow loss: two away goals.
And the man who kept Milan alive? None other than Ricardo Kaka.
Arthur watched in awe as Kaka glided through Bayern's defense like a man walking through a revolving door. He scored twice, each goal more graceful than the last—first a thunderous run finished with icy calm, then a curling shot that left the keeper rooted.
"Bloody hell," Arthur muttered, wiping gravy from his chin. "That lad's playing like he's got rocket boosters hidden in his boots. If I were Ancelotti, I'd be building him a golden statue outside the San Siro."
Simeone laughed. "Ancelotti's lucky, that's for sure. Having Kaka in this form is like cheating. You only need half a plan when he's on the pitch. Just give him the ball and pray."
Arthur leaned back, sighing. "You know, if there's one man who can terrify defenders single-handedly, it's him. Honestly, if I had him at Leeds… oh, the things I'd do."
The two men sat quietly for a moment, both acknowledging the obvious: Bayern might have won on the night, but Hitzfeld, their coach, would be the more worried man. Because when you concede two away goals to a player like Kaka, you're basically inviting doom to your doorstep in the second leg.
Arthur shook his head in admiration. "Lucky fat sod, Ancelotti. Meeting Kaka in 2007 is like stumbling across Excalibur in your backyard. Some managers win trophies. Others win lotteries."
And with that, he flicked the TV off. Tomorrow, it would be United and Chelsea's turn. The whole of England was watching, but Arthur? He had more reason than most to keep his eyes glued to the screen. The fate of Leeds United's season, their dream of a Premier League crown, might just hinge on what happened next.
*****
The match had ended, the press conferences were over, and Arthur finally had a night to himself. No tactics board staring at him, no scouts ringing his phone at ungodly hours, and no Simeone hovering nearby like an over-caffeinated hawk. For the first time in weeks, football wasn't his date. Tonight, Shakira was.
He'd arranged a surprise: a quiet little restaurant tucked away in a cobblestoned street of Leeds, dimly lit with candles on every table, violins whispering in the background. When Shakira walked in, heads turned—of course they did. Her hair shimmered under the golden lights, her smile could have outshone the chandeliers, and she carried herself with the effortless confidence of someone who'd long since conquered the world stage. Arthur, wearing a sharp blazer he'd almost forgotten he owned, stood to greet her like a gentleman.
"You look… devastating," Arthur said, fumbling for words. His tongue usually had no trouble delivering tactical instructions, but when it came to her, his vocabulary suddenly became about as useful as a chocolate teapot.
Shakira grinned, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Devastating? That's one way to put it. You look decent enough yourself, manager man. I half-expected you to turn up with a clipboard and marker pens."
Arthur pulled out her chair for her, trying to play it smooth. "I left the tactics board at home tonight. But if you like, I can draw up a plan for how we'll get through the wine list."
They both laughed, the tension melting immediately.
Dinner passed like a blur. They spoke about everything and nothing—the chaos of Arthur's football season, the endless travels and rehearsals of Shakira's music career, and the ridiculous reality of trying to maintain a relationship when half the time they were in different continents.
"Sometimes," Shakira said between sips of wine, "I feel like I'm dating two men. One is Arthur, who's charming and funny and makes me laugh. And the other is Arthur, the football coach, who vanishes into the training ground and forgets what sleep is."
Arthur chuckled, pointing his fork at her. "You forgot the third one: Arthur, the madman who yells at referees and thinks Leeds United can take over the world."
She giggled. "Oh, trust me, I've seen that one too. I like the first one the best."
He reached across the table, brushing her fingers with his. "Then I'll try to stick around as him more often. But you have to admit, the second and third versions are doing alright—Leeds United on top of the league, remember?"
"True," she conceded, smiling playfully. "I'll give you that. But don't let it go to your head, mister."
The flirting grew bolder as the night went on. Jokes became whispers, whispers turned into stolen touches under the table. Arthur found himself laughing more in two hours with her than he had in two weeks of training sessions. By the time dessert arrived, he was already thinking less about tiramisu and more about getting her back home.
They didn't exactly take their time when they got back to Arthur's place.
The door barely clicked shut before Arthur's jacket hit the floor, followed swiftly by her heels. They stumbled through the hallway, lips locked, hands tangled, bumping into the wall with a thud that rattled a picture frame.
"Arthur—" she half-laughed, half-gasped, "—bedroom… now."
They didn't quite make it gracefully. In fact, it looked more like a clumsy football tackle—Arthur scooping her up in his arms like he was carrying a Champions League trophy, only to misjudge the doorframe and bang his shoulder on the way through. She laughed against his neck, her breath hot, her voice teasing. "Smooth, coach. Very smooth."
"Oi," he growled, kissing her harder. "Just warming up."
What followed was hours of passion, the kind of reckless, desperate lovemaking that comes from months of missing each other. The kind where every touch feels magnified, every kiss turns into something that leaves you gasping for more. Arthur wasn't a man who did anything half-heartedly—on the pitch or off it—and tonight was no exception.
When it was finally over, they collapsed in a sweaty, tangled heap of limbs, laughing breathlessly like two teenagers who'd just snuck out past curfew.
Later, after showering together (which turned out to be far less about cleaning and far more about starting round two), they ended up on the sofa. Arthur had thrown on a pair of joggers, while Shakira had stolen one of his shirts—oversized, half-buttoned, looking infinitely better on her than it ever had on him.
She curled up beside him, legs tucked under her, hair still damp from the shower. Arthur couldn't help but stare, grinning like a fool.
"You know," he said, voice low, "I really need to start hiding my shirts. You're always nicking them."
Shakira gave him a mock glare, tugging at the hem of the shirt. "Not my fault you tore mine to pieces. Again."
Arthur raised his hands innocently. "In my defense, they were in the way."
Her glare sharpened, though the corners of her lips betrayed her amusement. "Arthur, next time you're paying for my clothes. I'm not made of wardrobes."
Arthur smirked, leaning back into the sofa with a cocky grin. "Or… hear me out… you could just wear the Leeds United jersey. Plenty of those lying around."
She laughed, shoving him playfully in the chest. "Oh, sure. Nothing says romance like polyester with your team logo plastered across my chest."
"Don't knock it till you've tried it," he teased. "Imagine it: you, singing in front of a stadium full of fans, wearing Leeds colours. That's marketing gold. We'd double our merchandise sales overnight."
She rolled her eyes, but the sparkle in them was undeniable. "You are so obsessed. Even in moments like this, you're thinking about your club."
Arthur leaned closer, lowering his voice. "That's because Leeds United is my second love." Then, with a grin, he added, "You'll always be my first."
Her glare softened instantly, replaced with that radiant smile he adored. She leaned in, kissing him softly this time, not rushed , just warm and tender.
"You're lucky you're charming," she whispered against his lips. "Otherwise, I'd never put up with you."
Arthur smirked. "Oh, admit it—you love me for it."
Shakira pulled back just enough to smirk right back. "Maybe. But you're still paying for the clothes."
They both laughed, the sound filling the quiet room, blending with the faint hum of the city outside. It was simple, it was ordinary, but for Arthur, it felt like heaven.
He hugged her tightly as she rested her head on his chest with a soft hum. They drifted off to sleep just like that.
*****
There were about twenty minutes left before kickoff, and the TV studio lights glowed with that familiar pre-match buzz. On screen, Gary Lineker and Jon Champion were perched behind the desk, the match graphics spinning beside them as they went through their final analysis.
Arthur, sprawled on his sofa with a cup of tea in hand, watched them like a man about to grade two schoolboys on their homework.
Lineker, as always, looked relaxed—suit jacket neat, tie tidy, calm smile plastered on like he had no dog in this fight. Which was true enough. His beloved Leeds United were already out, and when your team's been eliminated, all that's left is enjoying the spectacle and secretly hoping both sides kick each other into exhaustion.
Jon, however, looked like he'd been born wearing a Chelsea scarf.
"Jon," Lineker said cheerfully, after running through both line-ups and formations. "What's your take on tonight's game?"
"Chelsea win," Jon fired back instantly, like a man who'd been waiting all day to say it. No hesitation, no hedging, just straight out of the barrel.
Lineker blinked, eyebrows shooting up. He quickly leaned toward him, microphone half-covered, muttering, "We're live, mate. Do you really have to sound like Chelsea's PR department?"
Jon, caught off guard, stammered. "Ah? Oh—right!" He shifted awkwardly, leaned back into his mic, and scrambled to add, "I just think Chelsea have the greater chance tonight… you know, home advantage and all that."
It was the sort of weak backtracking that made Arthur groan out loud from his sofa. "For heaven's sake, Jon," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "That's your grand analysis? Home advantage equals victory? Brilliant. By that logic, why did United just get smashed by Milan at Old Trafford, eh? You going to explain that one?"
Still, Arthur couldn't deny Jon had stumbled onto something that wasn't completely nonsense. Chelsea did look the likelier winners tonight.
Both clubs had been in Premier League action on Sunday. Both had three days to rest. But the difference lay in priorities. Manchester United were still clawing tooth and nail for the domestic title, so Ferguson had rolled out his strongest eleven. No rest, no mercy. His lads would come into tonight's Champions League semi-final already carrying heavy legs.
Chelsea, on the other hand, had kissed their title defence goodbye weeks earlier. Mourinho knew his Premier League race was run, so he'd shuffled the deck, rotated half his squad, and given his big guns time to recharge. They were coming into this semi with their batteries full.
So yes, Jon was clumsy with words, but the core idea was there.
Of course, Arthur reminded himself, the ball's round, and ninety minutes is an eternity in football. Predictions are as useful as umbrellas in a hurricane.
Kickoff came, Stamford Bridge roaring like a cauldron. Blue flags waved, chants rumbled, and you could almost feel the electricity pulsing through the TV screen.
And right from the whistle, something odd happened.
Mourinho—yes, that Mourinho, the man whose career was built on pragmatic counterattacks, bus-parking, and sly grins—decided to rip up his own script. Instead of sitting deep and waiting for United to tire themselves out, he strode to the edge of his technical area, coat flapping, and gestured furiously for his players to push up.
Chelsea went straight at United. Not cautiously, not probing—full-blooded, wave after wave, pressing high, attacking with intent. Drogba bullied at the front, Joe Cole and Robben buzzed like wasps, Lampard sprayed passes around like a bartender slinging cocktails.
United, caught off guard, were shoved back into their own half like kids in the playground being cornered by the bigger lads.
Arthur leaned forward, mug forgotten. "What in the world… are they playing Freaky Friday out there? José's the one going all-out attacking, and Fergie's the one sitting deep?" He scratched his head. "Did they swap playbooks before kickoff?"
United's red shirts were practically welded to the edge of their penalty box, defending grimly. Carrick and Scholes were chasing shadows. Ronaldo barely touched the ball, Rooney looked frustrated, and Van der Sar was barking instructions every thirty seconds just to keep his defence organised.
It was only a matter of time before something cracked.
Twenty-eight minutes in, the breakthrough came.
Chelsea worked it smoothly through midfield—Lampard, under Carrick's constant nipping at his heels, shrugged him off with that stocky balance of his and drove forward. With one swing of his right boot, he slipped the ball into Drogba's feet at the edge of the area.
Drogba, all muscle and menace, immediately felt Heinze breathing down his neck. The Ivorian spun, a sudden burst of strength sending the Argentine stumbling half a step. He shaped like he was about to unleash one of his thunderous strikes.
Brown saw it and panicked, rushing across to cover.
But that's exactly what Drogba wanted. With a sly grin, he cut his boot across the ball and threaded a disguised pass into the gap Brown had vacated.
And there, arriving perfectly timed, was Joe Cole.
Completely unmarked, Cole ghosted in from the right, touched the ball once to set himself, and then drilled a low shot toward goal. Van der Sar scrambled, throwing himself down, but he was half a second too slow. The ball zipped through the narrowest of gaps—right between the Dutchman's legs—and nestled into the back of the net.
The Bridge erupted. 1–0, Chelsea.
Arthur whistled under his breath, shaking his head. "Through the keeper's legs. Nutmegged by Joe bloody Cole. Edwin, my lad, you'll never live that one down." He leaned back on the sofa, half-amused, half-impressed. "And José, you sneaky fox. You really are full of surprises."