Joe Cole's goal was like a match dropped into a fireworks factory. Stamford Bridge erupted. The cheer started in the South Stand, surged across the entire ground, and for a moment it sounded like the very roof of the stadium might lift off and drift into the London night sky.
Blue scarves twirled, blue flags whipped, and the noise was so deafening that even the commentators had to shout to hear themselves.
"The ball is in!!" the commentator's voice boomed, straining against the chaos. "Twenty-eighth minute! Chelsea are ahead!! And the scorer is—JOE~~~~ COLE!!!"
As if rehearsed, the stands picked up his call like a choir, thousands of throats roaring together:
"COLE!!!!"
For the Blues faithful, this wasn't just a lead—it was vengeance. Their league title hopes had been snuffed out by Manchester United and Leeds United's relentless pace. But here, in Europe, they had the chance to make United suffer, to deny them glory and scratch a little payback into the history books.
Arthur, watching at home with his arms folded, shook his head with a smirk. "Typical Chelsea. Lose the league, but give United hell in the Champions League. Mourinho's basically running a revenge service now."
On the touchline, Sir Alex Ferguson was fuming. The veins on his forehead were threatening to explode as he marched to the edge of his technical area, jabbing his finger toward the pitch. "Push up! Higher! Don't you dare sit back!"
He barked at his players like a general rallying a battered army. The message was clear: United were not to roll over. They were to fight their way out of Chelsea's chokehold.
But Mourinho, sly grin hidden under his serious expression, had already decided his next move. With a one-goal lead in hand, the Portuguese manager signaled for his men to retreat into familiar territory. Out came the metaphorical double-decker bus. Chelsea snapped into their defensive shape, two solid banks of blue, daring United to break them down.
Every so often, just to twist the knife, Chelsea launched quick counterattacks. Drogba would suddenly bulldoze forward, Robben would dart into space, and Lampard would surge through the middle—enough to make Ferguson's blood pressure spike.
The game turned into a tug-of-war. United pressed, Chelsea repelled. United probed, Chelsea snapped back. But the equalizer never came.
When the final whistle blew, Stamford Bridge erupted once again. Chelsea had a precious 1–0 lead to carry into the second leg.
Arthur leaned back on his sofa, muttering under his breath. "José, you cunning devil. He'll defend that lead like it's the crown jewels next week."
After both semi-finals had been played, Saturday rolled around.
Leeds United had their own job to do. West Ham came to Elland Road, and Arthur's lads handled business with efficiency. A 2–0 win, professional and tidy, the goals greeted by thunderous applause from their own faithful.
Arthur gave the briefest of post-match press conferences, rattling off answers like a man desperate to escape. "Yes, the lads were good, yes, three points important, yes, title race exciting. Thank you, goodbye." He bolted out before the reporters had time to start digging.
He rushed back to the dressing room, only to find Simeone waiting with that all-too-familiar grim shake of the head.
Arthur stopped in the doorway, frowning. "What? Don't tell me."
Simeone sighed, rubbing his forehead. "United beat Everton. Away. Four-two."
Arthur groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Bloody typical. Of course they did."
The points table hadn't budged an inch. Leeds still top with 87, Manchester United snapping at their heels with 86. One point between them, the tension tighter than a drum.
And now it was May. The season was on a knife edge.
The Champions League semi-finals returned first.
Over in Milan, something spectacular unfolded. AC Milan welcomed Bayern Munich to the San Siro, already holding two away goals from their first-leg defeat in Germany. And they dismantled Bayern with surgical ease.
Three-nil. No fuss, no panic—just calm destruction.
And at the heart of it, again, was Kaka. He was a man possessed, gliding past defenders like they were cones on a training pitch. Two goals and an assist. Arthur, watching with a mixture of admiration and jealousy, muttered, "If Ancelotti ever complains about his squad, I'll personally fly to Milan and smack him. Having Kaka in this form is like playing FIFA on easy mode."
With that, Milan booked their place in the final.
Which left one slot open. And Old Trafford was about to decide it.
Arthur brewed himself a strong cup of tea, sat down, and instantly noticed something strange as the second leg kicked off.
Chelsea weren't even pretending to attack. Mourinho had gone full bunker mode from the first whistle. Ten men behind the ball, Drogba isolated up front, and the rest of them forming a living, breathing wall.
"José, you coward," Arthur muttered, though not without a hint of admiration. "He's trying to smuggle Joe Cole's goal through customs like contraband."
But Sir Alex Ferguson was not a man to be toyed with. This was Old Trafford, and he was prepared to burn the place down if it meant forcing his way through. League fixtures, player fatigue—none of it mattered tonight. He unleashed his strongest eleven, a full-throttle side that screamed: Win, or die trying.
From the first minute, the battle was clear. The wings became warzones. Cristiano Ronaldo and Ryan Giggs took turns launching themselves at Chelsea's fullbacks, cutting inside, whipping crosses, drawing fouls. Every time Ronaldo got the ball, the crowd rose as one, expecting magic. Every time Giggs sprinted down the flank, you could almost hear Mourinho mutter curses under his breath.
Chelsea held on grimly, their defensive line retreating deeper and deeper. Carvalho and Terry barked orders, Makelele snapped at ankles, and Petr Čech stood tall behind them like a man preparing for a siege.
But United's persistence was relentless.
And finally, in the 21st minute, it cracked Chelsea open.
Giggs, still full of running despite being twice the age of half the lads on the pitch, tore down the left. He feinted past Ferreira, reached the byline, and whipped in a delicious curling cross.
In the box, Carrick timed his run perfectly. Rising above Essien, he powered a header downwards. The ball skipped off the turf, flew past Čech's desperate dive, and bulged the back of the net.
Old Trafford exploded.
"YEEEEEESSSSSSS!" The roar was primal, shaking the rafters, rolling across Manchester like thunder.
Arthur set his tea down carefully, grinning despite himself. "Well, well. Look who's level. One-all on aggregate. We've got ourselves a proper semi-final now."
*****
After the restart, it felt like déjà vu.
Chelsea, having absorbed the shock of falling behind, finally decided to throw themselves forward. They began pushing higher up the pitch, piling bodies into Manchester United's half as if José Mourinho had suddenly remembered the game wasn't a training drill but a Champions League semi-final. Manchester United, on the other hand, were quick to flip the switch. The moment they got the lead, Sir Alex Ferguson barked from the touchline, waving his arms like a mad orchestra conductor, ordering his men to drop deeper, close ranks, and protect their goal with the ferocity of a cornered animal.
It was, in essence, a carbon copy of the first leg. One side attacking nervously, the other defending grimly, and Arthur—sitting comfortably on his sofa with a cup of lukewarm tea in hand—yawning like a man watching reruns of a soap opera he'd already memorised.
"Here we go again," Arthur muttered to himself, his eyes half-closed. "Park the bus. Kick the ball. Rinse and repeat. At this rate, they'll bore each other into penalties."
And that's exactly what happened. Ninety minutes came and went. Then extra time. The score stubbornly clung to 1–0 in United's favour, perfectly balancing the aggregate at 1–1. Neither side seemed willing—or able—to land the knockout punch. Stamford Bridge had witnessed chaos the week before, Old Trafford now hosted a chess match between two grandmasters too afraid of losing their queen.
When the referee finally blew the whistle at the end of 120 minutes, Arthur slapped his thigh and laughed bitterly.
"Knew it! Straight to penalties! Why waste two extra hours when we could've just started here?"
The penalty shootout began under a thunderous roar from the United faithful. Red scarves waved like banners of war. Every Chelsea penalty taker walked up to the spot like a condemned man being dragged to the gallows. And then—enter Edwin van der Sar.
The tall Dutchman looked like he'd been plugged into an electric socket. Diving left, springing right, stretching those long limbs like some octopus on caffeine—he denied Chelsea not once, not twice, but three times in a row. Stamford Bridge's hero Joe Cole could only watch from midfield as all the momentum drained from his side.
When the dust settled, Manchester United had won the shootout 4–1. The Theatre of Dreams erupted into a thunderous, spine-rattling roar. Ferguson stormed the pitch with his fists clenched, his face crimson with passion, looking like a man twenty years younger. Mourinho, meanwhile, kept his poker face, though even he couldn't hide the grimace tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Manchester United were through. Chelsea were out.
····
The very next morning, Arthur arrived at Leeds United's training ground. He hadn't even taken three steps inside when Diego Simeone came charging towards him like a gossip-hungry journalist. His eyes gleamed with excitement, his hands gesturing wildly.
"Boss, did you watch the match last night?" Simeone blurted out before Arthur could even take off his coat. "Ferguson's got all the luck in the world! Van der Sar turned into Superman! Three saves in a row! Mourinho was so close, what a pity, eh?"
Arthur gave a slow side-eye, the kind of look that could cut through stone. He raised his eyebrows and replied with dry sarcasm.
"What pity? Chelsea losing is a blessing for us. Think about it. If Mourinho had gone through, don't you think he might've rolled over and handed Ferguson a nice little win in the league? At least now, United have to fight tooth and nail."
Simeone pouted like a sulking child, his arms crossed.
"Yeah, I get it, I get it. Still, I can't help it—I prefer Mourinho's style of play. You know, pragmatic, compact, sneaky little stabs on the counter…" He sighed dramatically, as though mourning a lost love. "Compared to Ferguson, I like watching him more."
Arthur nearly choked on his own spit.
"Wait… hold on. Since when do you 'prefer' Mourinho? Aren't you my assistant coach? Shouldn't you be admiring my tactical genius instead of flirting with Mourinho's philosophy?"
Simeone avoided Arthur's glare, suddenly very interested in the grass under his boots. "Well… uh… you know, it's just… stylistic preference, boss. Nothing personal."
Arthur shook his head, muttering to himself. Unbelievable. My assistant's gone soft for Mourinho. What's next—he'll be asking for Mourinho's autograph?
Before Arthur could lecture him further, Allen, his ever-efficient sporting director, came striding briskly across the pitch, briefcase in hand. He looked slightly out of breath, which was unusual for the man. He was not the type to interrupt training unless something significant was on the table.
"Boss! Over here!" Allen waved frantically from the sidelines, as if he'd just discovered buried treasure. His briefcase bulged with papers, and his expression carried the urgency of a man who'd stumbled upon a once-in-a-lifetime deal.
Arthur groaned. "Keep an eye on the lads, Diego," he muttered, handing Simeone his tactical clipboard. "And don't start teaching them Mourinho's bus-parking tricks while I'm gone."
Simeone smirked but nodded, and Arthur strode over to Allen.
"What's the emergency?" Arthur asked as soon as he reached him.
Allen snapped open the briefcase like a magician revealing his final trick. From inside, he produced a stack of documents and handed the top sheets to Arthur.
"Here. Inter Milan sent this over early this morning. Moratti has agreed to add Edin Džeko and Jamie Vardy to the Adriano deal. This is their letter of intent."
Arthur blinked. "Wait, seriously? Already? I haven't even started haggling yet! What about the players? Are they even willing to move?"
Allen chuckled knowingly. "Boss, Moratti's offer is surprisingly fair. He's valuing Džeko and Vardy together at twelve million euros. If you push for more, he'll probably back off. As for the players, I passed the news to Raiola. He'll break it to them."
Arthur scratched his chin, staring at the paper. "Twelve million… for two players I bought for less than a hundred grand combined. Now they're worth over a hundred times more? Hah!" He couldn't help but burst out laughing. "That's daylight robbery in our favour. If I start quibbling over a few more coins, I'll look like the greedy villain in a cartoon!"
For a moment, Arthur imagined Moratti pacing nervously in Milan, terrified Arthur might reject the offer. The thought made him chuckle again.
"Fine. No bargaining this time. Moratti's shown good faith, and we'll pocket a massive profit. Sometimes you've got to take the win gracefully."
Allen gave a small nod, clearly relieved that—for once—Arthur wasn't going to drag him into weeks of endless negotiations.
Arthur folded the papers, slipped them under his arm, and exhaled in satisfaction. A Champions League final without Mourinho, United facing fixture congestion, and Leeds about to pull off another clever deal—it wasn't shaping up too badly at all.