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***
Berbatov's goal didn't just hit the back of the net—it hit Bolton right in the soul. Whatever scraps of hope they were clinging to got flushed straight down the drain.
From that moment on, it didn't matter how loud Allardyce screamed from the touchline, or how many red-faced instructions he flung into the wind like desperate lottery tickets. The game was done. His players looked like their spirits had just been repossessed.
Even when he tried to shake things up—throwing on another striker in a last-ditch "YOLO" attempt to claw something back—nothing worked. Bolton's attack fizzled out like a wet sparkler. They huffed and puffed but couldn't even dent Leeds United's defense, which stayed calm, compact, and annoyingly perfect. Their only real shots came from way outside the box, and Schmeichel handled them like a bored cashier scanning groceries.
Meanwhile, Leeds kept counterattacking with the energy of kids on a sugar rush. Every break had Bolton's defense flailing like inflatable tube men in a windstorm. It was a miracle they didn't concede a fourth.
By the 70th minute, Arthur knew it was in the bag. He casually started making substitutions, giving his stars some rest and letting the bench get a taste of the glory. When Alonso was subbed off—after completely owning his debut at Elland Road—the fans rose like a wave and gave him a thunderous ovation that shook the stadium. The man walked off looking half-embarrassed, half-smug.
And so, with no late drama or heroics, the whistle blew at 3–0. Leeds United were through to the next round—cool, confident, and three goals to the good.
***
After the match, Arthur strolled into the press room with the calm of a man who just watched his team win 3–0 while sipping metaphorical tea. But today, for once, the spotlight wasn't all on him. Sat beside him was Xabi Alonso, freshly crowned Man of the Match and still looking like he hadn't broken a sweat—despite scoring a goal, assisting another, and generally gliding around the pitch like he owned it.
The reporters, who usually treated Arthur like a lightning rod for chaos, gave him a quick congratulations and then swiveled toward Alonso like synchronized owls. Microphones flew in his direction. Arthur looked vaguely amused, like a parent watching their kid get all the birthday presents.
One particularly eager reporter from The Sun, already known for asking questions designed to start pub brawls, leaned forward and fired off the first salvo:
"Xabi, today you seemed much more involved than during your time at Liverpool. You scored, assisted, and ran the midfield. Does this mean Arthur's system suits you better than Benítez's ever did?"
The room tensed for a split second. It wasn't just a football question—it was a sneaky little grenade with names attached. A jab at Benítez. A trap for Arthur. A potential dig at Liverpool. Classic Sun nonsense.
But Alonso wasn't born yesterday. He chuckled, leaned into the mic, and defused it like a bomb technician sipping espresso.
"I wouldn't put it that way," he said smoothly, eyes twinkling. "Rafa's system at Liverpool gave me a strong platform, and I enjoyed my football there a lot. Today, I was simply asked to play a slightly more advanced role by Arthur, and it clicked. I followed the plan, and thankfully, it worked well."
The reporter blinked, visibly disappointed that Alonso hadn't taken the bait and kicked off a tabloid war. Arthur sat back, arms crossed, enjoying the show like someone watching a magician pull a pigeon out of thin air.
The microphone moved on, this time to a familiar face—Lind, the local reporter from the Yorkshire Post, who greeted Alonso with a warm grin.
"Hello, Xabi. First off, welcome to Elland Road. You've already won the hearts of the fans—and mine, I'll admit it—so congratulations. I'd like to know: now that you've joined Leeds, what are your personal expectations this season? Any goals for yourself or the team?"
Alonso, still fresh from his debut glory, didn't miss a beat. He sat forward slightly and answered with the quiet conviction of a man who's seen and won it all.
"As a professional, my goal is simple—victory, every time I step onto the pitch. I'll do everything I can to carry out the coach's instructions to the letter. As for expectations? Well, I think that's something you'd have to ask my head coach here."
He turned toward Arthur with a grin, then added with a mock salute,
"After all, we go where the general sends us! Hahaha!"
The room laughed, Arthur included. It was a perfect way to wrap up the press conference: confident, respectful, and funny. Alonso had just nailed his off-pitch debut too.
***
After breezing past Bolton, Leeds United found themselves just one step closer to a potential League Cup trophy—something no one really expected a few months ago when Arthur was still being questioned for selling half the squad like it was a garage sale.
The next opponent? That would depend on the outcome between Doncaster and Arsenal. Arthur, sitting calmly at the press conference table after the match, wasn't too concerned. He figured Arsenal would go through without much fuss—after all, Doncaster were a League One side, and Arsenal had more budget in their training bibs than Doncaster had in their entire squad.
But as he walked off the stage and checked his phone, he raised an eyebrow. The scoreline wasn't what he expected. Arsenal had advanced, yes, but barely.
Turns out, Wenger had once again treated the League Cup like a glorified youth tournament. He sent out a squad full of benchwarmers, kids from the U19s, and probably a ball boy or two. The whole thing was less "Arsenal first team" and more "Arsenal crèche."
And somehow, Doncaster almost pulled it off.
They battled for 120 minutes like their lives depended on it, dragging Arsenal into a penalty shootout. For a brief moment, Arthur imagined Wenger on the touchline sweating bullets while some 17-year-old with a moustache drawn on took a decisive penalty. In the end, Arsenal scraped through. Barely. But a win's a win—even if it's by fingernail.
Arthur chuckled. "Looks like I won't have to wait long to see Wenger again," he muttered to himself.
There was no time to dwell on it. Saturday came fast, and Leeds United were already back on the bus, heading to Birmingham for one last game before a much-needed breather. The players looked like a mix of sleepy kids on a school trip and zombies just waiting for the sweet release of a full week off. Some napped. Some scrolled endlessly through their phones. Falcao was having a deep conversation with Ribéry about what kind of cereal was objectively the best. Arthur didn't ask.
While everyone was quietly recovering from the Bolton match, Arthur's phone buzzed. It was Allen.
"Arthur," Allen said, sounding far too cheerful for someone in the middle of transfer chaos, "Rivaldo and Camoranesi are all set. Their transfers are done."
Arthur perked up. "Both of them?"
"Yep. I've already spoken to them. They'll report next week. We'll announce the signings after their physicals are completed."
Arthur grinned. Two world-class reinforcements were incoming, and nobody in the media had a clue. Rivaldo and Camoranesi were about to walk into Leeds like it was 2002 again, and Arthur couldn't wait to see the headlines.
Meanwhile, across England, every club was scrambling to patch holes in their squads. Phones were ringing nonstop, agents were spinning tales, and newspapers were churning out more rumors than a high school cafeteria.
But only two clubs had made actual moves so far—Leeds United and Liverpool. Everyone else? Still stuck in the group chat trying to decide which overpriced midfielder to panic-buy.
Just as the football world was busy speculating who would make the next big move in the winter transfer window, Manchester United threw a surprise punch—right to the face of everyone's expectations.
While Leeds United were still unpacking their suitcases in Birmingham, Arthur sat down in the hotel lounge with a cup of strong coffee and flipped open the morning newspaper. And there it was—blaring across the sports section in bold letters:
"UNITED SNAP UP VIDIC AND EVRA IN DEFENSIVE OVERHAUL"
Arthur blinked. Then blinked again. "Well... Fergie's finally had enough of his leaky defence," he muttered, half to himself and half to no one in particular.
Apparently, after their catastrophic exit from the Champions League—a disaster so bad it probably still haunted Ferguson's dreams—Sir Alex had taken decisive action. He splashed €9.5 million on Nemanja Vidic from Spartak Moscow and €6.5 million on Patrice Evra from Monaco. A combined fee of €16 million to stop the defensive bleeding.
Of course, as usual, the media had mixed feelings. Some pundits were already moaning about "unproven players" and "risky buys." But Arthur wasn't fooled. He knew exactly what Ferguson had done. He'd just secured two rocks for his future backline. In fact, Arthur knew—though he wasn't about to say it out loud—that these two were about to become permanent fixtures at Old Trafford for years. Leeds might have Rivaldo and Camoranesi arriving, but Manchester United had just solved their defensive crisis in one swoop.
Still, that was their problem. Arthur had his own match to worry about.
The next day, Leeds United travelled across town to face Birmingham City at St. Andrews Stadium. Now, Birmingham weren't exactly in top shape, but they had money coming in next season thanks to a new owner from Hong Kong. Until then, they were basically playing for pride, contracts, and the occasional miracle.
Arthur wasn't taking chances. No rotation, no mercy.
He looked at his lineup and made the call—Modric and Alonso were starting. Both of them looked surprised. Alonso raised an eyebrow and asked, "No rest?"
Arthur replied flatly, "You can sleep on the bus home."
Kickoff came—and right out of the gate, Birmingham shocked everyone. Five minutes in, they scored.
"...What the hell," Arthur muttered from the touchline, staring at his defenders like they'd just walked out of a pub.
But while the home crowd roared like they'd just won the FA Cup, Leeds didn't panic. Modric and Alonso just rolled up their sleeves—well, metaphorically. Modric is tiny, he doesn't really roll sleeves. Together, the two midfield generals calmed things down, sprayed passes around, and slowly turned the tide.
And then Bale decided to go full turbo.
In the 37th minute, Modric slid a pass to the Welshman, who galloped past a defender like he was late for a sale and fired it past the keeper with his left foot.
Three minutes later, he did it again. This time, Alonso fed the ball through and Bale slalomed inside like a skiing champion before calmly slotting the ball in.
"BALE AGAIN! Two goals in three minutes!" screamed the commentator.
Arthur didn't even celebrate. He just leaned over to his assistant and said, "I told you, all he needs is space and two Weetabix."
By the second half, it was all Leeds. Birmingham couldn't even get the ball out of their own half. It was like trying to play football with an anchor tied to your legs.
Then, in the final ten minutes, Modric split the defense with a sublime through ball. Falcao, who had been quietly hunting for chances all game, pounced like a tiger.
One touch. Bang. Goal.
His 12th league goal. Easy as you like.
When the final whistle blew, Leeds walked off with a comfortable 3–1 win. Bale had a brace, Falcao added another, and Arthur didn't even need to break out his Plan B.
More importantly, after briefly dropping to fifth place following their narrow defeat to Chelsea, Leeds were back in the top four again—right where Arthur wanted them.
Now, with a full week of rest ahead and the squad clicking like a well-oiled machine, Arthur finally leaned back on the team bus and let himself relax.
Sort of.
"Let's just hope Bale doesn't go flying off to Madrid next summer 7 years early," he chuckled, checking the headlines again.
***
After the win in Birmingham, Arthur did what every good manager does during a tight schedule—he gave the whole team a day off. No training, no meetings, no pretending to stretch while secretly checking Instagram. Just pure, blissful rest. Naturally, the players took full advantage, disappearing like squirrels the moment they got off the team bus.
As for Arthur? He did what any over-caffeinated, transfer-obsessed football manager would do on a Monday: he stayed home all day, glued to his laptop, trawling the internet like a bargain-hunting grandma at a car boot sale. With Manchester United having just announced the signings of Vidic and Evra, he figured other European giants would follow soon. Maybe, just maybe, there was a hidden gem waiting to be discovered.
Spoiler alert: there wasn't.
He scrolled endlessly, hoping to stumble across a transfer that screamed steal. But the market was as quiet as a library at midnight. Still, two names did catch his attention—though not in a good way.
The first was Christian Vieri. Remember him? The striker with a chin you could use to break coconuts? He had joined AC Milan just half a year ago, only to now pop up at Monaco on a free transfer. Arthur raised an eyebrow and muttered, "That man changes clubs like I change socks."
The second was Antonio Cassano. Ah yes, Cassano—the self-proclaimed 'bad boy' of Italian football, now joining Real Madrid from Roma for a mere €5 million. Arthur snorted. "Five million for Cassano? That's not a transfer, that's a warning label."
He remembered Cassano's time at Real Madrid. In his head, it played out like a soap opera: wild nights, chaotic dressing rooms, more drama than football. The man had talent, no doubt, but discipline? He had about as much of that as a cat in a room full of laser pointers.
After dinner—which was suspiciously silent since Arthur kept mumbling about tactical setups between spoonfuls of pasta—he settled in front of the TV. The Champions League Round of 16 draw was on tonight, and he wasn't going to miss it for anything. As the camera panned across the crowd, Arthur spotted all the usual suspects: Fiorentino Pérez trying to look smug, Mourinho trying to look smarter than everyone, Wenger looking like he was already planning next season, and Morse… well, just being Morse.
The draw began, and one by one, the matchups were revealed. And let's just say—no one got off easy.
Real Madrid vs. Arsenal? That was less a football match and more a European power struggle. Chelsea vs. Barcelona? Someone at UEFA clearly enjoyed chaos. Liverpool were the only ones who managed to draw a "less scary" opponent—Benfica—but even that wasn't exactly a walk in the park.
Arthur watched the reactions on screen. No one looked happy. Not a smile in sight. Mourinho had that weird half-smirk that could mean anything from "I've got this" to "I might throw a boot at someone." Wenger looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. It was a draw that respected no reputations.
Other pairings weren't much better. AC Milan got Bayern Munich. Inter Milan drew Ajax. Villarreal and Rangers got each other in what the media would probably call "the hipster derby." Juventus landed Werder Bremen. And PSV would take on Lyon—another matchup that was far from straightforward.
Arthur leaned back, rubbing his chin. The Champions League. The biggest stage in club football. Just watching the ceremony made him itch to be there. He didn't envy the matchups—but he definitely envied the moment.
He glanced at the Leeds United crest on the mug beside him. "Just one more year," he whispered.
He wasn't bluffing. Arthur knew he had the tools: the tactical insight, the scouting database, and yes, his trusty football management system that gave him a slight… informational advantage.
One more season. And then Leeds United would return to Europe.
And if things went right—if the stars aligned, if the players clicked, and if Cassano didn't throw a tantrum and take out a teammate with a baguette—who knows? Maybe they'd even win it.
Arthur smirked. "Yeah… maybe."
***
While Arthur was at home daydreaming about someday lifting the Champions League trophy—probably with dramatic theme music playing in his head—his most loyal and perpetually overworked assistant, Allen, was already deep into what can only be described as "Mission Impossible: Footballer Pickup Edition."
It was officially a day off for Leeds United. The players were sleeping in. Arthur was zoning out in front of the TV. Even the club cat was probably curled up in some office chair. But not Allen. No, Allen was up at the crack of dawn, dragging his half-dead body out of bed and muttering curses about loyalty and bad luck.
Why? Because Arthur had given him a task the day before. Not just any task, either. A sacred one. A mission that required utmost precision and no screw-ups: pick up Rivaldo and Camoranesi from the airport and get them settled in Leeds.
Originally, Allen had thought about outsourcing the job. Maybe send one of the interns. Or better yet, someone from the security staff. But then he remembered Arthur's face from yesterday—dead serious, eyes narrowed, tone low like he was ordering an assassination. Yeah… better to do it himself. Promotion or not, Allen knew better than to ignore the "king's command."
Camoranesi's flight landed first, around 10 in the morning. Allen was there, bleary-eyed and running on fumes. After meeting the Italian midfielder, he whisked him back to the club, handed him over to the staff like a fragile parcel, and… did not eat. Not even a sad airport sandwich. No time. Rivaldo's flight was next.
Back to the airport he went, clutching a rapidly cooling coffee and questioning every life decision that led him here. When he finally met Rivaldo that afternoon, he did his best to act casual, but it's hard to stay cool when you're standing next to a living legend who once made defenders cry on live TV.
While the two new signings were getting their formalities done back at the club—medical checks, paperwork, the usual "Welcome to Leeds" brochure—Allen scrambled to make housing arrangements. Thankfully, he'd already contacted the landlord earlier. Two apartments had been secured, but they were in completely different blocks. Of course they were. Because the universe enjoys mocking him.
So Allen called up Lina, who was busy flirting with Arthur, and asked her to come help.
She'd take Camoranesi to one flat, he'd take Rivaldo to the other. Simple. Efficient. And hopefully the last errand of the day that required him to sprint across Leeds like a panicked wedding planner.
Now, over in a quiet neighborhood near Thorp Arch, landlord Monroe Berkeley was anxiously waiting. He was the third generation in his family to be a die-hard Leeds United fan. The kind of guy who could name the entire 1992 squad in his sleep. And now, apparently, he was going to rent out his apartment to a Leeds player. Pretty standard, right?
What he didn't expect was Rivaldo.
When Allen pulled up in the car and stepped out with Rivaldo behind him, Monroe nearly collapsed on the spot. He froze, eyes locked on the Brazilian legend, mouth slightly open like he was trying to catch invisible flies.
His brain tried to reboot. That's Rivaldo. Rivaldo is standing in my driveway. With luggage. He's going to live… in my house?!
As Allen opened the trunk and started unloading the bags, Monroe just stood there, still processing the situation like someone had dropped Beyoncé at his doorstep and asked to borrow the WiFi.
"No way. This isn't real. This is a prank show. Am I being filmed? Is this a dream?"
But it wasn't a dream. Rivaldo, World Footballer of the Year, legend of Barcelona and Brazil, was really moving in.
As the Brazilian pulled his suitcase toward the front door, Monroe's brain could only scream one sentence on loop:
"Fuck! The World Footballer of the Year really lives in my house???"
The chaos started with a single photo.
Arthur's assistant Allen, already exhausted from spending the entire day running across Leeds like a stressed-out delivery man, was standing roadside with Rivaldo, waiting for the landlord to come open the front door. The legendary Brazilian footballer looked pretty chill, dragging his suitcase behind him, maybe thinking about his new team, or maybe just wondering if it was going to rain.
Then a fan walked by.
At first, the lad squinted. Double-checked. Pulled out his phone. Took one cautious step closer.
And then, like all logic left his body, he sprinted across the street yelling, "OH MY GOD IT'S RIVALDO!"
Allen's soul nearly left his body.
Before anyone could react, the guy had his arm around Rivaldo, camera in hand, grinning like he'd won the lottery. "One photo, mate! Just one!" Click. Flash. Boom. Immortalized.
Now, if it were just Rivaldo alone, people might've assumed he was just visiting Leeds for a charity match. Or maybe on a weird football-themed holiday. But standing next to Allen—Arthur's right-hand man, the guy who shows up at every press conference like a loyal golden retriever in a suit—the situation became impossible to ignore.
And to Allen's horror, it didn't stop at one fan.
Word spread like wildfire.
Despite Allen's increasingly panicked "Please don't post that online" speeches and desperate pleas of "It's not what it looks like," the internet had already lit the match. By the time Rivaldo even saw his apartment, the photo was everywhere.
One fan posted it to a football forum, captioned dramatically:
"Guys, big news! Do you know who I saw near Thorp Arch today? No joke! I saw Leeds United's manager's assistant and RIVALDO. With luggage in the trunk! Looks like someone's not here for sightseeing! (Attached photo)"
The replies came in thick and fast:
"Damn! That's the World Footballer of the Year! Since when were we this lucky?"
"There's no way this is happening. I must be hallucinating. Arthur must've broken the Football Manager simulation."
"Are you kidding me? Rivaldo is 34! This isn't 1999. He's basically on football retirement tour now. What is Arthur thinking?"
"Pipe down. Maybe he's an assistant coach or something. You know Arthur likes to throw curveballs. Remember that Argentine guy?"
"Actually… this does make sense. Arthur's whole plan has always been to develop young talent. Why would he suddenly sign players with bus passes?"
That last question aged about 30 seconds.
Because right as speculation reached its peak—just as fans were nervously convincing themselves that maybe Rivaldo was just a passing tourist and Camoranesi was a figment of someone's sleep-deprived imagination—Leeds United's official website dropped a bombshell.
Two simple announcements. No fluff. No dramatic teaser video. No countdown.
Just:
"Welcome Rivaldo to Leeds United."
"Welcome Camoranesi to Leeds United."
Cue the collective internet brain-meltdown.
Fans stared at their screens, blinking in disbelief. Journalists dropped their coffee mugs. Rival clubs went into panic mode. And across every corner of Leeds United's fanbase, one shared question echoed in all caps:
"WHAT IS HAPPENING?!"
Arthur, previously known for his youth-first strategy, had suddenly gone full "football museum mode." This was the guy who was obsessed with developing 19-year-olds into world-beaters. Now he was out here recruiting 30-somethings with more trophies than hair.
No explanation. No press conference. Just vibes. Beautiful, confusing vibes.
And as fans scrambled to figure out what it all meant, one thought began creeping into every supporter's mind, like a glitch in the matrix:
Did Arthur just change his entire transfer strategy?