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***
With Carlos Tevez's transfer to Manchester United officially announced and plastered across every football website in existence, the transfer madness at Leeds United finally came to an end. Mercifully.
Arthur leaned back in his office chair, the hum of the air conditioning barely drowning out the distant thuds of footballs being volleyed around the training ground.
The chaos of the summer window was over. The media circus was winding down. The last sale had been made. The club's bank account had some breathing room again.
He'd sold nearly every key player from last season, turning the team sheet into something that looked more like a witness protection program than a football squad.
And yet, somehow, things were beginning to settle.
Over the past couple of weeks, Arthur had personally taken charge of every single training session. Not just in a symbolic, suit-wearing, whistle-blowing-from-the-sidelines way. He was in the trenches. Coaching. Demonstrating. Shouting. Occasionally embarrassing himself trying to show a stepover.
If he was going to be called cold-hearted by the media, he might as well work hard enough to deserve it.
He'd been using his secret weapon too—his mysterious coaching "system." A tool that gave him an inside look at every player's current ability and potential, visualized like video game ratings.
It was how he'd known who to sell, who to keep, and who needed an extra month running laps until their lungs gave out.
Back at the beginning of the summer, the only player who had stood out was Sebastian Deisler. He had an A+ rating—well, until his medical issues downgraded him to D-, which had been more disappointing than finding out your top scorer is allergic to grass.
Now, though?
Arthur opened the system again, and the numbers staring back at him made him grin like a kid finding out school was canceled.
Deisler was on the mend and back to a B+. Even the ones who'd been at C+ or B- when training started had shot up. Every single player on the squad—aside from one—was now rated at least B+. And that one exception? Danny Mills. Solid defender. Good lad. But his talent ceiling was B+, and right now, he was still stuck at B-.
Arthur made a note to keep Mills focused on the basics. Or yoga. Maybe both.
Still, the overall improvement was enough to relax his nerves. The squad was young, fast, hungry, and improving steadily. Not world-beaters yet—but good enough to survive the Premier League.
And that was the mission: survive the season. Rebuild the club. Pay off the debt. Don't get relegated.
Simple goals. Terrifyingly difficult to execute.
As he closed the system and leaned back again, Arthur glanced at the calendar on the wall. August 7th. Community Shield day. Not that Leeds was anywhere near that level right now, but he liked to keep an eye on the big matches.
Chelsea, the reigning Premier League champions, were up against Arsenal, who'd won the FA Cup. A classic Mourinho vs. Wenger clash. Fireworks guaranteed.
Arthur switched on the tiny office TV, half-listening while scribbling down next week's training schedules.
Within minutes, the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff was buzzing on screen. Mourinho stood on the touchline in his usual trench coat, looking like he was about to either coach a football match or interrogate someone in a spy movie. Wenger looked like a stern maths teacher who'd been forced into a PE lesson.
Chelsea scored first. Drogba muscled through Arsenal's backline like they were cardboard cutouts and slotted it past Lehmann. Arsenal equalized through a slick bit of passing, but then Drogba struck again—classic header, powered in like he was launching a missile.
Final score: Chelsea 2, Arsenal 1.
Chelsea lifted the Community Shield while Mourinho smirked like he'd just conquered Europe. Wenger, on the other hand, looked like someone had insulted his entire extended family.
And then came the post-match interviews. Arthur set his pen down. He already knew these were going to be more entertaining than the match itself.
Mourinho, ever the wind-up merchant, started things off:
"The Community Shield is still a trophy. It is better to win than lose. At least we go home smiling."
Translation: We won, you didn't, cry about it.
Wenger wasn't having it.
"The Community Shield is not a real championship," Wenger said, adjusting his glasses. "We've won it four times. Nobody here sees it as anything but a warm-up game. Only Mourinho would get excited about it."
Arthur spat his tea back into the cup.
These two needed their own sitcom. One episode a week, just them arguing about whether parking the bus is a valid tactic or whether lasagna causes match postponements.
And of course, the tension wasn't just about the match. Last month, Chelsea had held a "secret" meeting with Ashley Cole behind Arsenal's back—so secret that every newspaper in London somehow found out about it. Wenger had been furious. Mourinho had smiled through it like he'd been invited to a dinner party and decided to steal the silverware on the way out.
Arthur shook his head. "Premier League drama never disappoints."
Allen wandered into the office just in time to catch the last part of Wenger's interview.
"Oi," Allen said, nodding at the screen. "You see this? They're already at it again."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "If Mourinho and Wenger aren't fighting, is it even August?"
Allen laughed. "Honestly, though. I'd pay good money to see them locked in a room with one microphone and no media training."
"I'd make it mandatory viewing for the squad," Arthur said, half-joking. "Teach 'em how to handle pressure… or how notto."
As the coverage faded out, Arthur clicked off the TV.
The Community Shield was done. The media was back to picking apart Chelsea's tactics, Arsenal's injuries, and whether Wenger's sarcasm had finally reached atomic levels.
Meanwhile, Leeds United had their own, quieter mountain to climb. The season was almost here. No fireworks. No press battles. Just a newly built squad, led by a slightly overworked coach with a mysterious player-rating system and a bone-deep determination to keep his team in the top flight.
Arthur stood up, stretched, and looked out over the training pitch.
"Alright," he muttered to himself, "back to work."
Let Mourinho and Wenger throw their handbags at each other.
He had a team to build.
***
The post-match press conference was already entertaining enough, with José Mourinho and Arsène Wenger going back and forth like two grumpy neighbours arguing over a hedge. Reporters were eating it up—pens flying, cameras snapping, and microphones everywhere. Everyone assumed the fireworks would keep flying between the two headline machines.
But then, out of nowhere, a reporter lobbed a curveball that had nothing to do with Chelsea or Arsenal.
"Mr. Mourinho," the reporter asked, "the new Premier League season starts next week. What are your thoughts on your opening match against Leeds United? How much do you know about the team? And what do you think of their head coach, Arthur?"
Wenger, mid-answer to a completely different question about refereeing decisions, froze. He blinked. His head turned just slightly in Mourinho's direction, a faint smile curling on his face like he'd just heard someone mention his ex at a dinner party.
Arthur.
Ah yes. That cunning little fox.
Wenger had underestimated him once—when Arthur had somehow managed to wriggle Emmanuel Adebayor away from his grasp in the transfer window. It wasn't just about losing a player. It was the way Arthur did it: calm, polite, and sneaky as hell. Wenger had called him an "interesting young man" in the past, but after that stunt, the phrase quietly changed in his mind to "annoyingly clever little sod."
Now, Wenger leaned back slightly, watching Mourinho closely. He didn't say a word, but his silence was loud enough to draw attention. The reporters near him turned toward Mourinho too, crowding the Chelsea manager with microphones.
This was going to be good.
Everyone knew Mourinho was never one to shy away from a jab—especially if it involved someone he didn't care about. He looked up, seeing every journalist within ten feet now waiting for his answer, eyes twinkling with anticipation like kids around a birthday cake.
He smirked.
Then he gave the classic Mourinho shrug—palms out, head tilted, lips pursed.
"I don't know much about Leeds United," he said, with an exaggerated pause for dramatic effect. "To be honest, why would I?"
The room buzzed. Reporters perked up. Here we go.
"We played in the Premier League last season," he continued, in that slow, deliberate Mourinho way. "Leeds played in the Championship. Why would I spend my time studying second-division teams?"
He waved a hand, like he was brushing imaginary dust off his coat.
"As for their coach—uh, what's his name again?" He squinted as if trying to recall a hard math equation. "Arthur? Right. I just learned his name now."
The reporters chuckled. Wenger's faint smile tightened just a bit, turning into something between amusement and irritation. He knew Mourinho was playing up the arrogance, but it still worked.
"And the match itself?" Mourinho added, shifting in his chair, visibly enjoying the attention. "Look—Chelsea are the champions. Leeds are the newcomers. They have a lot to learn. It's nice that they're back in the Premier League, but let's be honest: we're going to win."
Boom. Headline secured.
Wenger sighed through his nose and muttered under his breath, just loud enough for one microphone to maybe catch it: "Classy."
Mourinho turned slightly toward him, catching the edge of the comment. "Sorry, Arsène? Didn't hear you. Must've been the sound of the Community Shield rattling around in our trophy cabinet."
The room practically exploded with laughter and scribbling pens.
Wenger didn't bother replying. He sat back with the exact same expression you'd expect from someone who'd been asked to share a boat with a loud parrot.
Back at Leeds United, Arthur was completely unaware that his name was now being used as ammunition in a Mourinho-Wenger press conference showdown.
He was probably at Thorp Arch, making sure his players knew how to mark corners without tripping over their own boots.
But if he had been watching, he might've had one of three reactions:
Roll his eyes.
Laugh out loud.
Add Mourinho's comments to the bulletin board under a big title that read, "THINGS WE'LL REMEMBER WHEN WE SHOCK THEM AT STAMFORD BRIDGE."
Because Arthur knew what he was walking into on opening day: a storm. Chelsea, with all their firepower and expensive suits. Mourinho, with his smug press conference swagger. And the media, who already assumed Leeds were just there to get beaten politely and quietly.
Wenger, for all his distaste, knew it too. Deep down, he didn't think Arthur could take on Chelsea either—not yet, at least. Leeds were too green. Too newly rebuilt. Too full of names that were only half-familiar to fans outside Yorkshire.
But Wenger also knew football had a way of flipping expectations on their heads.
He remembered the look on Arthur's face when they'd last met in person—a mix of polite humility and that glint of mischief, like someone who knew more than they were letting on.
So when the press conference wrapped up, Mourinho storming out with his usual flair, and Wenger trailing behind with a muttered goodbye, the cameras cut off and the reporters filed out with their juicy quotes in hand.
And on every notepad and laptop, one name had unexpectedly made it into the headlines:
Arthur.
Coach of Leeds United.
The man Mourinho couldn't even bother to remember five minutes ago.
But come next week, when the whistle blew at Stamford Bridge, everyone would remember him—whether they liked it or not.
***
While Mourinho and Wenger were busy trading verbal jabs during their interviews, Arthur had just wrapped up another exhausting day at Thorp Arch.
The training pitch was finally quiet, and Arthur, in his usual post-session routine, returned to his office to change into something more presentable. He had nearly forgotten the interview he agreed to weeks ago—an exclusive with the Yorkshire Post. After dodging reporters all summer long, he'd finally caved. One interview. That was the deal. After that, they'd hopefully leave him alone for a while.
Just as he was adjusting his tie in front of a small mirror, there was a knock on the door.
"Boss," Allen called out from the other side. "They're here. Reception room."
Arthur gave a tired nod, even though Allen couldn't see him. "Alright. Coming."
A few minutes later, Arthur walked into the reception room where the interview setup was already in full swing. One reporter and two photographers had arrived early and were adjusting their cameras, lights, and microphones like it was a high-budget documentary.
The reporter looked up, smiled, and extended a hand. Arthur blinked in recognition. It was the same guy who had asked him questions at his very first press conference after becoming manager. Back then, Arthur had no idea who he was—just another reporter in a suit.
Now, the man stood up and introduced himself properly. "Brian Lind," he said. "We met before—first press conference."
Arthur shook his hand. "Thought you looked familiar."
They sat down. The cameras were adjusted. Microphones checked. A bottle of water was handed to Arthur. Allen stood in the back, arms crossed, watching quietly.
Arthur took a sip, leaned back slightly, and gave a small nod to signal he was ready.
Brian opened his notepad and went straight in. "Arthur, thanks for doing this. I'll start with the obvious—Leeds United's return to the Premier League. Big moment. But your first game is no easy welcome party. You're up against Chelsea. At home. The fans are hopeful but cautious. So, let me ask directly—do you feel ready? And realistically, do you think Leeds can manage… maybe a draw?"
Arthur looked calm, unfazed. "Of course," he said plainly. "We've made all the necessary preparations. We'll win this game. We'll take all three points."
"Pfft—cough cough—" Allen suddenly sputtered from the corner of the room. He had just taken a sip of water and now looked like he'd nearly drowned in it. Water dripped from his chin as he bent over, coughing violently.
Brian froze.
The pen in his hand hovered above his notepad. His eyebrows slowly lifted, his mouth opened slightly—wide enough to fit a couple of eggs—and he looked across the table as if Arthur had just announced Leeds were planning to land on the moon.
"If I heard correctly…" Brian asked, cautiously, "you just said… Leeds United will win at home?"
Arthur gave a small nod, completely serious. "That's right."