Sky Sports Studio
The cameras weren't rolling yet, but the atmosphere inside the studio already carried that familiar hum of anticipation. The lights were hot, the crew was buzzing around like worker bees, and in the middle of it all sat Gary Lineker, perfectly suited, flashing the grin of a man who had just stumbled upon some juicy gossip. Beside him, Jon Champion was bent over his stack of notes, methodically arranging them in neat piles like a teacher getting ready to mark exams.
Lineker leaned sideways, unable to keep the smirk off his face.
"Jon, tell me — have you been on the internet these past couple of days?"
Jon, still scribbling something on a page, didn't even bother to look up. His brow furrowed in mild confusion.
"Internet? No, I've been buried under these stats, as usual. Why? What's up?"
Lineker clapped his hands dramatically against his knees, as though Jon had just failed a quiz.
"Ohhh, that's a pity! An absolute pity!" His grin widened mischievously. "You've missed a show, my friend. Arthur has been getting roasted alive on social media. Not just roasted — flambéed. Torched. Absolutely hammered!"
Jon blinked, finally pausing mid-note. He turned his head slowly, eyebrows lifting.
"Arthur? Scolded? You're joking."
For a split second, Jon genuinely looked puzzled. Arthur wasn't exactly shy in front of cameras, sure, but scolded? He thought back to the newspapers that had been delivered to his house the past couple of mornings. Not a single headline in England had mentioned Arthur in trouble. Nothing in The Times. Nothing in The Guardian. Not even the tabloids had picked up on anything particularly scandalous.
So Jon narrowed his eyes, leaned a little closer to Lineker, and muttered with suspicion.
"Don't lie to me. I've subscribed to all the major papers — not a word about anyone scolding Arthur."
Lineker couldn't hold it in anymore. He threw his head back and laughed, the kind of laugh that made the stagehands glance over in curiosity. Then, still chuckling, he pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and shoved it toward Jon.
"Not our people, Jon. Not the British press. It's the Portuguese media, mate. They're absolutely losing it. Look, look!"
Jon reluctantly took the phone, squinting down at the too-small screen. The headline blared across the top of the Lisbon Daily's website:
"Arrogant Arthur! Alvalade Stadium will send Leeds United crawling back to England in disgrace!"
Jon couldn't help himself. He grinned. That headline alone dripped with enough venom to keep him entertained, even without reading a single word of the article. He glanced at Lineker, then back at the phone, then promptly handed it back with a shrug.
"The words are too tiny. I'm too lazy to read it. You tell me, Gary — who did Arthur upset this time?"
Lineker stuffed the phone back into his pocket, still wearing that grin of a man who'd been saving a good punchline.
"I don't even think he meant to pick a fight this time, honestly. The Portuguese reporters were just too impatient. Instead of waiting for the official pre-match press conference, they ambushed him at the airport the moment he stepped off the plane. And, well… you know Arthur's mouth."
Jon groaned loudly, already picturing it.
"Oh dear. Go on."
Lineker leaned back in his chair, enjoying the retelling far too much.
"So, they're peppering him with questions, right? And somehow, the topic turns to whether João Moutinho is a genius. And Arthur — bless him — just couldn't resist. He didn't outright say Moutinho wasn't any good, but… let's say he wasn't exactly flattering either."
Jon's eyes widened, his pen dropping onto the desk.
"Moutinho? Really? Of all people, he went after Moutinho?"
Lineker spread his hands innocently.
"Hey, don't shoot the messenger. That's what happened. Apparently, Arthur was polite at first — said if Ronaldo or Nani were still there, they'd definitely be the dangerous ones. But with Moutinho? He kind of shrugged, hesitated, and then basically implied Sporting Lisbon's captain wouldn't be much of a problem."
Jon sat back in his chair, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Well… if I'm being honest, the Portuguese aren't wrong to be angry. Moutinho's been outstanding since he broke through. Captain at 21, dictates the midfield, keeps the tempo. To the locals, he's absolutely a genius."
"Exactly." Lineker nodded, almost agreeing — but then he leaned forward, finger raised like a professor about to drop the real lesson. "But think about it, Jon. If they asked you or me, sure, we'd politely say he's a genius. No doubt. But they asked Arthur. And you've seen Leeds United's dressing room, haven't you? Who in that squad isn't a genius? You line Moutinho up against Modric, Alonso, Kaka… come on. Is he really standing taller than them?"
Jon paused. His lips parted, then closed again, and finally, he let out a reluctant laugh.
"Alright… alright, you've got a point. When you put it like that, Arthur wasn't exactly wrong."
Lineker slapped the desk with satisfaction.
"Exactly! Leeds United is basically a museum of young prodigies. So from Arthur's perspective, calling Moutinho a 'genius' is like calling tap water a fine wine. He's not being cruel, he's just… Arthur."
Jon chuckled, shaking his head in resignation.
"Still, he really doesn't do himself any favors with the way he says things."
Lineker leaned back with a grin that stretched ear to ear.
"True. But admit it — it makes things far more entertaining for the rest of us."
Jon couldn't argue with that. He leaned back too, sighing as the floor manager started counting down the minutes to go live. And deep down, both men knew one thing for certain: win or lose, Arthur had already made this match against Sporting Lisbon twice as dramatic before a single ball had even been kicked.
*****
The Estádio José Alvalade was buzzing like a beehive, every corner alive with green and white scarves, flags, and voices raised in anticipation. Inside the home dressing room, the Sporting Lisbon players had just returned from their warm-up. Some were toweling sweat from their foreheads, others stretching lazily, and a few trying to stay calm by fiddling with boots or headphones. The atmosphere was half nervous, half determined—until the squeak of the door cut through the air.
Every head turned.
Paulo Bento, their head coach, stepped inside with his assistants trailing close behind. He didn't look tense; instead, his expression carried the kind of stern resolve you'd expect from a man ready to lead his side into a European battle. He strode straight to the middle of the room, planting himself firmly where every eye could see him.
"In half an hour," Bento began, voice steady but forceful, "we kick off. You've all read it, you've all seen it. The Portuguese press may talk us up, but beyond these borders? Nobody gives us a chance tonight. The foreign media think Leeds United will crush us. That we are nothing more than another stepping stone."
A ripple of irritation passed through the room.
Bento raised his hand, cutting off the mutters. "But I don't share that view. Not one bit. From the moment you step on that pitch, forget all the noise. Forget the headlines. Forget what the world thinks. Focus only on the ninety minutes in front of you."
He swept his arm toward the walls, as though they couldn't already hear the roar vibrating through them. "Listen. Fifty thousand of our people are out there—fifty thousand fans in green and white. They came here to watch you fight for them. To believe in them, you must first believe in yourselves. And why shouldn't you? We have quality in every position. We have spirit. We have our home. Tell me—what reason do we have to lose tonight?"
His words hit home. Players sat taller, fists clenched, eyes sharpening.
Meanwhile, across the corridor in the away dressing room, Arthur gathered his Leeds United squad for one final briefing. Only, the way he started caught them off guard.
"Right," Arthur said, standing at the front with the tactical board under his arm. "Quick question—how many of you read the interview I gave two days ago?"
Almost every hand shot up without hesitation. A few players even exchanged knowing grins.
Ibrahimović, never one to miss a chance to stir things up, raised not just his hand but his voice. "Boss, since when did you start stealing my style? You sounded almost as arrogant as me out there!"
The room chuckled.
Arthur shot him a glare that was only half-serious. "Shut it, Zlatan." His tone shifted, stern now, eyes narrowing on the group. "Listen carefully. When I spoke to their media, that wasn't arrogance—it was necessary. As the manager, sometimes you've got to throw the first punch in the press room. But for you lot? That attitude is off-limits. You respect every opponent. Every single one. That's how you grow, that's how you win."
Ibrahimović, still grinning, leaned back in his chair. "Relax, boss. We're not underestimating them. Doesn't matter if it's Sporting Lisbon or your hometown's national team—we'll give them the same treatment."
The room froze for a beat. Then Arthur's jaw tightened.
Bloody hell, Zlatan.
The words hovered on his tongue, but no comeback felt sharp enough. Instead, Arthur hurled the clipboard at him, half-laughing, half-furious. "Out! Say one more stupid thing and I'll bench you tonight!"
Zlatan plucked the board out of the air with reflexes as smug as his grin. "Oh, come on. Don't bluff. Ferreira already told us the starting lineup got sent in ages ago."
The squad erupted in laughter, some nearly doubled over, others clapping shoulders and shaking their heads. Arthur tried to scowl, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. Soon even he was laughing along, hands on hips, shaking his head at the madness of his striker.
But in truth, Zlatan's interruption had done some good. The tension that often tightened stomachs before a Champions League night had lifted. The room felt lighter, the players more relaxed, yet still ready for the fight ahead.
Arthur let the laughter run its course, then clapped his hands to bring focus back. "Alright, enough comedy hour. Get your heads straight. Out there it's serious. We stick to the plan, we stay sharp, and we show them what Leeds United is all about."
The players nodded, their smiles fading into determination.
And outside, as the stadium lights blazed and the noise swelled to a deafening roar, the cameras were already rolling.
"Good evening, fans!" Lineker's familiar voice boomed cheerfully from the Sky Sports broadcast. "Welcome to tonight's coverage. I'm Gary Lineker."
"And I'm Jon," came the calm follow-up.
"Tonight, we bring you live the 2007–2008 UEFA Champions League group stage clash between Sporting Lisbon and Leeds United. The Alvalade is rocking, and we can feel it even from up here in the commentary box!"
Jon nodded with a grin. "We've just got confirmation of the starting lineups, Gary. Both managers have made their choices, and it's clear they've prepared something special for tonight. This should be a fascinating contest."
The broadcast camera panned over the packed stands, the swirling flags, the faces painted green and white. Then it cut to the tunnel, where two teams stood side by side, waiting for the signal to step into the cauldron.
Kickoff was drawing closer. The battle lines were drawn.