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***
The next morning, Arthur regretted opening the news.
He knew the 0–0 draw with Charlton wasn't going to win him any fans, but he wasn't quite prepared for the storm that followed.
The headlines came fast and loud.
"Top 4 in the league? Arthur's biggest joke yet!"
"Mourinho was right—Leeds beat Chelsea thanks to blind luck!"
"Genius coach? Or just lucky?"
"Leeds rotate against Charlton, and all they get is one lousy point!"
"Get ready: Old Trafford might send Arthur back to Earth!"
Arthur sipped his coffee and scrolled in silence, barely blinking as more headlines popped up.
One site even used a photo of him mid-sneeze with the caption:"Is this the face of the man leading Leeds to Europe?"
Another ran a side-by-side graphic of the Premier League table and a clown emoji hovering next to Leeds.
"Classy," Arthur muttered.
James walked in with a breakfast wrap and took one look at Arthur's screen.
"Still reading that stuff?"
"I was hoping they'd moved on. They haven't."
"Oh no. They've tripled down."
On the forums and social media, things were even worse. Every random guy with a keyboard suddenly had an opinion about Leeds United, and none of them were pleasant.
"Hahaha, this kid thinks he's Pep after one fluke win. Go home, Arthur."
"Imagine beating Chelsea and then drawing Charlton. What next, losing to Accrington?"
"You wanna play Champions League? With what, your FIFA Ultimate Team?"
"This is what happens when you let someone with zero Premier League experience run a team. Stick to ping pong."
"Even if they get into Europe, they'll be the embarrassment of the league. Enjoy Thursday nights on Channel 5."
One particularly passionate fan wrote:
"I've supported Leeds for 20 years. I've seen us relegated, promoted, docked points, and sold for spare parts. But this is the first time I've ever felt nervous after winning a game. Because our manager thinks he's some genius philosopher-coach hybrid. No. He's just winging it."
Arthur raised an eyebrow at that one.
"Twenty years and this is what makes you nervous?" he muttered. "I sent out a backup squad, not an open letter to war."
But to be fair, some fans did try to inject a little logic into the chaos.
"He clearly rotated for Old Trafford. What did you expect, Deisler to play every game until his legs fall off?"
"It's one point away from home. Charlton parked the bus like it was rush hour. Relax."
But those posts were quickly buried under more abuse.
"Let him rest the whole team. Ferguson's going to cook him either way."
"Arthur thinks resting players means you beat United. Can someone please explain football to him?"
"You want to rotate? Rotate back to the Championship."
"Manchester United are going to slap Leeds so hard they'll wake up in League One."
And then came the infamous comment from "CarlTheRed98":
"United will win by at least 3. If they don't, I'll eat this comment upside down."
Arthur stared at that one for a while.
"What does that even mean?"
James leaned over. "I think it's a threat. Or a promise. Hard to tell."
Arthur pushed his laptop shut and stood up. "Alright. That's enough morning motivation. Time to prepare for Old Trafford."
James followed him out of the room. "Do you want to make a statement to the media?"
"No," Arthur said without looking back. "Let them talk. I'm more interested in shutting them up."
"But they're saying you'll lose by three."
"Then we'd better lose by two or less," Arthur deadpanned.
As they walked down the corridor of the training facility, James muttered, "At least no one's set a countdown clock to your sacking yet."
Arthur laughed. "Don't give them ideas."
***
Arthur returned to the Thorp Arch training ground and didn't bother glancing at his phone. If the media wanted to throw a tantrum, they could do it without his help. He had bigger problems than some internet trolls with cartoon profile pictures and too much free time.
At the end of the morning session, Allen walked over, arms crossed and expression half-serious.
"Online's gone nuclear again," Allen said. "They're basically saying we're going to get flattened at Old Trafford. Want to put out a statement?"
Arthur squinted into the sun. "Yeah. Tell them we'll try not to get flattened too hard."
Allen blinked. "That's... not what I meant."
Arthur shrugged. "Let them talk. It's football. People forget everything the moment you win again."
Allen paused. "But what if you don't win?"
"Then at least we'll lose in silence."
Despite the noise outside, Arthur's mind was already on Manchester United. He had no illusions. Leeds might have shocked Chelsea, but United wasn't some half-awake giant. Ferguson's side was a well-oiled football machine. Arthur could see that clearly—not just with his eyes, but with his little secret weapon: the system.
While others looked at highlight reels and stats, Arthur had player ratings coded straight into his vision. And what he saw wasn't comforting.
Manchester United's squad was stacked.
Ferguson mostly ran a classic 4-4-2, and it was brutally effective. Up front, Van Nistelrooy and Rooney. One cold-blooded finisher, one bulldog in boots. According to the system, Van Nistelrooy was rated S+, Rooney A+. That basically meant: "please defend them with everything including kitchen furniture."
But that wasn't all.
Tevez, freshly transferred from Leeds, was an optional third striker. Ferguson probably hadn't bought him just to be a bench warmer. He was the kind of guy who'd scored from outside the box just because he didn't like passing.
Arthur scratched his chin. "He knows our defense better than we do. Great."
In midfield, Paul Scholes ran the show behind the strikers. Ginger head, volcanic shots. Arthur still had mental scars from watching him smash volleys from thirty yards like it was nothing.
To Scholes' left was Ryan Giggs—32 now, no longer lightning, but still smarter than most defenders twice his age. The man could put a cross on a five-pence coin while ordering a cup of tea.
On the right, Cristiano Ronaldo. A younger version, sure. The hairstyle was still questionable, and he sometimes tried five stepovers too many, but his potential was obvious. The system tagged him with a sharp A rating and a warning: "Do not let him cut inside."
"That's very specific," Arthur mumbled. "Guess we'll double-mark him and pray."
At the base of midfield was Roy Keane. 34 years old, permanently angry, and ready to break someone in half if needed. Arthur remembered that Keane left United later in the season after clashing with Ferguson. But whether he'd still start this weekend was unclear.
Arthur had a guess: "Ferguson probably sends out Park Ji-sung instead."
If Keane was the club's angry dad, Park was the family vacuum cleaner. He'd run nonstop, clean up messes, and somehow cover three players by himself. Against a newly promoted team like Leeds? Yeah, Ferguson might go with energy over drama.
At the back, things weren't much better.
Ferdinand and Sylvestre handled central defense. Ferdinand was a calm, elegant wall. Sylvestre looked clumsy, but Arthur's system said he still clocked in at A-level. Apparently, he tripped over his own feet in training but cleared everything in matches. Go figure.
Fullbacks? Gary Neville on the right, O'Shea on the left. O'Shea was basically a Swiss Army knife. He could probably play as a linesman if Ferguson asked.
And then, guarding the net—Van der Sar. The Dutch octopus. He'd just joined from Fulham and already looked like he'd been playing at Old Trafford for ten years.
Arthur scanned the overall system ratings again. The lowest starter on United's sheet was Sylvestre. And he was still rated A.
Meanwhile, Leeds had a few A-minus guys, one or two Bs, and a midfield that still occasionally passed to the wrong teammate because they hadn't memorized each other's names yet.
"Yeah," Arthur said to himself. "This is going to be fun."
He wasn't panicking. Not exactly. But even with tactics, motivation, and maybe a good old-fashioned Ferguson hairdryer to hope for... the odds were not in Leeds' favor.
Still, Arthur wasn't the type to raise a white flag.
"Let them write the headlines," he muttered, turning back to the pitch. "Let's see how loud they are if we steal a point."
Or better—three. But he didn't say that part out loud. Didn't want to jinx it.
Not yet.
Arthur sat at his desk in Thorp Arch, sipping a lukewarm coffee that had long since lost its appeal. His mind was elsewhere, sorting through the mess of his upcoming decisions. Manchester United. Old Trafford. The game everyone had marked down as a certain loss for Leeds United, and Arthur was starting to wonder if they might actually be right.
At first, he'd thought about just conceding the Manchester United match. No, he wasn't going to wave a white flag—he wasn't that kind of manager—but he did consider focusing on the other two games: Charlton and Sunderland. He could take the six points from those and let United have their win. At least that would be safer. Easier. It was a sound plan, really, and who would blame him for prioritizing the more winnable matches?
But then, Arthur thought about the message it would send. It would be like going up to his players, giving them a big hug, and saying, "Sorry, lads, we're not good enough." After all, he had set a goal this season. He'd raised that ridiculous banner of "Champions League football" and now had to stick to it, whether the media was roasting him or not. It wasn't just about the points or the matchups—it was about believing in something bigger than just surviving. If he backed off now, even before the game, the confidence of his players would take a hit. The fans would turn on him, and he'd look like a fraud.
Arthur wasn't a fraud.
So after much pondering and rethinking, Arthur made a decision that had the potential to make or break his career: he was going to take on Manchester United, and he was going to do it his way.
There was no way he could just stroll in there with the usual tactics and hope for the best. No, this required something special. Something that might actually surprise Ferguson and his well-oiled machine.
He needed to create something that would give Leeds a fighting chance.
And that's when it hit him.
He would go with a 3-5-2 formation. Simple, right? Well, as simple as sending three brave souls to stand between Manchester United's marauding forwards and his own keeper. But that's the idea—if Arthur was going to do this, he wasn't going to half-ass it. He'd give it everything, even if it meant spending the entire afternoon going through Manchester United's tactics, player habits, and past matches like some obsessive football scientist.
Arthur didn't just watch tapes and call it a day, though. No, he dug into the actual mechanics of how United played, combing through every detail. Their wing play was relentless, almost obsessive. Giggs on one side. Ronaldo on the other. They were the engines that powered Manchester United's attack. If those two were kept quiet, United lost most of their punch.
He made a mental note of this. All the games United had lost involved either one of those two wingers being contained or shut down completely. It wasn't rocket science—if you stifled their width, you'd reduce their threats. Scholes? He was more of a terminator than an architect, blasting long shots or sweeping in late to finish things off. Keane? A human wrecking ball with no real attacking threat unless you counted his ability to break legs. Park Ji-sung? A tireless worker but never the creative spark.
Arthur's eyes lit up. He wasn't dealing with a perfect team here. He had a chance.
With the 3-5-2, his plan was to set up a defense that could quickly shift into a five-man line whenever United got the ball to one of their wide men. Once Ronaldo or Giggs received possession, the two central midfielders—let's call them the "non-terrible" midfielders—would fall back to help the defense. Leeds wouldn't just sit back and hope for the best. No, they'd overwhelm those wings with numbers, suffocating any chance of crossing or creating dangerous runs into the box.
Arthur would need the defensive midfielders—especially the ones who were good at running—and his center-backs to work together, offering support and stealing the ball whenever possible. It was risky, sure. But what was the point of playing safe now? He needed his players to believe that they could shut down one of the best teams in the league, and this was the way to do it.
He spent the rest of the afternoon tweaking it, running through the movements and the responsibilities of each player, making sure they knew exactly what they had to do. He felt a little bit like a mad scientist, except his lab was a pitch and his experiment was an all-or-nothing gamble against one of the best teams in Europe.
By the time he was done, Arthur was tired, but there was that fire in his chest. This wasn't about surviving the season anymore. This wasn't about hoping for a draw. This was about giving Leeds United a fighting chance to actually make the impossible possible. To defy expectations. To show the world they were more than just a newly promoted team.
As he headed home, Arthur took one last look at the notes he'd scribbled out. In his mind, he had one message for his team: Let's make them remember this match.
The next day, as he stood before his players, Arthur laid out the plan in clear, simple terms. It wasn't about skill or luck—it was about getting into the heads of the Manchester United players and showing them they couldn't just waltz into Old Trafford expecting an easy win.
He looked at his team, all wide-eyed and full of anticipation. "We're going to make them uncomfortable. If Ronaldo and Giggs want to play, we're going to make them work for it. They don't get a free ride."
And for once, his players actually looked like they believed it. No one mentioned the odds, no one talked about how crazy it all sounded. They just nodded and got to work, knowing that, for the first time in a long while, their manager wasn't just throwing them into the fire. He was handing them the tools to fight back.
"Let's go," Arthur said, grinning. "It's our turn to make some noise."