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Things were not going to be calm in Leeds today.
Arthur showed up at Thorp Arch early in the morning, ready to run another training session with his players. But as soon as he stepped onto the pitch, he saw that the entire training ground was already surrounded.
Fans, journalists, photographers—every single one of them looked like they hadn't blinked since sunrise. Some were pressed up against the fences. Others had climbed halfway up the trees nearby for a better view. The camera flashes were so frequent that Arthur felt like he was at a red carpet event instead of a second-tier football club's training session.
And then there were the banners.
One particularly bold fan was standing just outside the gate, holding up a cardboard sign that read:
"Arthur OUT!"
Another had gone for extra flair and written,
"Amateurs can't coach pros!"
Someone else didn't even bother writing a message—he just drew a stick figure of a man falling into a dustbin. Arthur squinted. Was that supposed to be him?
He wasn't offended. If anything, he kind of respected the creativity.
After all, from the fans' point of view, he was a random nobody. No coaching badges, no playing career, no experience. Just a young club owner who had suddenly announced he was taking over the manager's seat. Honestly, if he had been on the outside looking in, he probably would've booed himself too.
And yet, Arthur stayed calm. He didn't storm out and yell at the cameras or chase off the hecklers. He just got on with training.
Some people say women are the most unpredictable creatures on Earth. Arthur now strongly disagreed.
Because if there was one group that could outdo anyone in mood swings, it was the media.
Just a few days ago, those same reporters had been full of praise. "Leeds United's young visionary owner!" they wrote. "Arthur, the brave new hope for Elland Road!"
Now?
Now the headlines were full of disasters. "Leeds United in Crisis: Owner Appoints Himself!" "Club in Meltdown!" "Arthur's Ego Destroys Club Legacy!"
One paper even compared him to a manager in a pub league who bought a team in Football Manager and thought it made him Guardiola. Arthur nearly choked on his tea when he saw that one.
Some of the stories were so ridiculous he seriously considered getting a lawyer just to sue for stupidity. But he didn't have time for that. Between running the club and running training sessions, he barely had time to eat lunch. Most of the nonsense he heard came secondhand from Allen, his assistant, who'd whisper, "Another newspaper's slagging you off again," like it was gossip from school.
Arthur would just laugh it off. "Let them talk. If we win, they'll all shut up."
At 11:30 sharp, morning training wrapped up. The players filed into the dressing room, chatting among themselves, pulling off their training kits, and reaching for water bottles.
A few minutes later, Arthur walked in holding his trusty blue clipboard.
The moment the players saw him, the room fell silent like someone had pressed mute on a remote. They all knew what was coming—it was time to announce the starting lineup.
Arthur walked over to the whiteboard, dragged it into the center of the room, and pulled the cap off a marker. In one swift motion, he drew 11 circles. The formation was simple: 4-2-3-1.
He turned around, looked at the players, and gave them a small grin.
"This is what we're playing tonight," he said. "We've trained for it, we've practiced it, and tonight we put it to the test. I want to see how well it works in a real match."
Sneijder and Viduka exchanged a glance.
They'd spent half the morning betting on which formation Arthur would go with. Viduka had guessed a 4-4-2. "Classic English," he'd said. Sneijder had gone with a 4-3-3, insisting that any decent team needed control in midfield.
Neither of them had guessed 4-2-3-1.
In fact, both had been slightly confused during training all week. Arthur had tried several setups: 3-5-2, 4-4-2, even a chaotic-looking 3-4-3 for about ten minutes before giving up on it entirely because one of the defenders got dizzy and fell over.
But now Arthur had made his decision. This was it. No more guessing.
"Tonight," Arthur said, pointing at the board, "we play with high intensity. Press hard, win the ball back fast, and get forward quickly. We're not here to park the bus. We're here to make them panic every time they touch the ball."
Some players nodded. Others blinked, trying to remember what a 4-2-3-1 actually looked like in action.
Arthur didn't care. He wasn't here to give a TED Talk. He just needed eleven guys to run their legs off and stick to the plan.
He looked around the room. No speeches, no drama, no fireworks. Just football.
"Let's get ready," he said simply. "Tonight, we make them notice us."
And with that, Arthur put down the marker, stepped aside, and let the players absorb the plan.
Viduka sat on the bench in the locker room, arms crossed, watching Arthur with a puzzled look.
In his mind, there was no way Arthur would go with anything fancy. The old formation—the one they'd used in the first half of the season—was reliable. Solid at the back, quick on the counter, and most importantly, easy to follow. That setup had worked just fine. They'd picked up points, avoided disasters, and no one had needed to sprint like a lunatic.
So Viduka thought, surely, Arthur would stick to that. Why mess with something that wasn't broken?
But Sneijder, sitting a few spots down, had a completely different theory.
He didn't see Arthur as the conservative type at all. In fact, from what he'd seen over the past few training sessions, Arthur looked like the kind of coach who had watched too much high-pressing football on TV and decided he wanted to copy it without worrying about little things like player stamina or reality.
They hadn't practiced defensive setups at all. No sitting deep. No waiting for the opponent to make a mistake.
Instead, Arthur had just kept yelling one thing during training:
"Run!"
"Close them down faster!"
"Push higher!"
"Don't wait, press!"
"Why are you walking? Run!"
At one point, Sneijder half expected Arthur to hand out treadmills.
And of course, Sneijder had another reason to want this new system. A very personal reason.
Because just yesterday, Arthur had taken him aside and said, "In the 4-2-3-1, you're the core. You control the rhythm. The whole team moves around you. You're the brains and the engine."
Sneijder had almost cried on the spot. Finally! A coach who understood him! A coach who knew that all Sneijder ever wanted in life was to boss the midfield and yell at others for not passing quickly enough.
So when Arthur stepped up to the whiteboard and drew 4-2-3-1 with his marker, Sneijder's heart did a happy little dance.
Viduka, on the other hand, let out a quiet sigh and shook his head. "We're gonna be running for 90 minutes, aren't we?"
After drawing the formation, Arthur didn't waste any time. He read out the starting eleven—same lineup he'd planned yesterday—gave them all a quick nod, and waved a hand.
"That's it. Go get ready."
Then he walked out, leaving the players to deal with the reality of what was coming.
****
At 7 o'clock sharp, Bates had just finished stuffing himself with steak and potatoes and was now slumped comfortably on his expensive leather sofa. A thick cigar dangled from the corner of his mouth, the smoke curling lazily around his face like he was the villain in a bad movie.
In front of him, the TV was showing live footage of Elland Road. The big game between Leeds United and Wolves was just thirty minutes away. On the screen, Arthur was pacing the sidelines like a high school teacher trying to get students to line up properly, barking out instructions as the Leeds players warmed up.
Bates narrowed his eyes at the screen, clearly unimpressed.
He was in a foul mood. Ever since morning, West Brom's official website had turned into a digital war zone. Furious fans were flooding the comments section, demanding that he resign. Even the front of the club's offices had been swarmed by angry supporters waving signs and chanting like it was a protest rally.
When Bates finished work, he didn't even bother using the main entrance. He snuck out the back like a burglar.
Now, with his pride battered and his ego bruised, he was looking for one thing: someone else to suffer more than him.
And who better than Arthur?
He leaned back and puffed on his cigar, muttering, "Let's see how you handle this mess."
As far as Bates was concerned, there was no way Leeds could win tonight. Arthur had thrown together a starting eleven that looked like it had been picked by lottery. Half the players hadn't even played in the first half of the season.
"Good luck with that," Bates chuckled.
The thought of Arthur being humiliated tomorrow in the headlines—possibly worse than him—put a small, wicked smile on his face.
Finally, something to look forward to.
****
At the same time, inside the Leeds United locker room, Arthur stood in front of his squad, arms folded, jaw tight. He wasn't smiling, joking, or giving one of those calm, fatherly pep talks. Nope. Today, he was fuming.
The reason? The pre-match press conference had been a complete joke. Or rather, the press had treated him like the joke.
Not one journalist—not one—believed Leeds had even a remote chance of beating Wolves tonight. That alone would've been irritating enough.
But then, one brave (or brainless) reporter had stood up and asked the most ridiculous question of the night:
"Mr. Arthur, how many goals can Leeds lose by today and still consider it a success?"
Arthur's face had turned into stone and almost wanted hit that idiot.
Allen, his ever-loyal assistant, had leaned in to whisper something reassuring, but Arthur cut him off. "Remember that guy," he muttered. "Blacklist him. I don't want to see his face at another press conference. I don't care if it's a Champions League final—we're locking him out."
Now, just before kickoff, Arthur was still stewing. It didn't help that during warm-ups, a few fans in the stands decided to give him a good old-fashioned Yorkshire welcome—with some light verbal abuse. One fan held up a sign that read, 'Nice tie, shame about the tactics!' Another shouted, "You're not a coach, you're a consultant in a tracksuit!"
And those were the nice ones.
Even the usually loyal diehards in the South Stand were giving him that look. You know the look. The "we-don't-trust-you-but-we'll-watch-you-fail-for-entertainment" stare.
So now Arthur was holding it all in—the press, the fans, the pressure—and he needed a release. But instead of throwing a chair or kicking over a Gatorade cooler, he decided on something more productive: firing up the players.
He clapped his hands hard—once. The locker room, which had been full of quiet gear-checking and nervous shoelace-tying, instantly went silent. All eyes turned toward him.
Arthur stepped forward, his face serious. Then he took a slow breath and began, voice calm but firm:
"Boys, since the day I put on this ridiculous tracksuit and took over as head coach, not one person believed in me. Not the media. Not some of the fans. Hell, probably not even some of you in this room."
He paused, letting that hang in the air. A few players glanced at each other, but no one spoke.
"But that's okay," Arthur continued. "Because back when this season started, no one believed Leeds could top the table at the halfway point either. And yet… here we are."
Now, his voice began to rise—not dramatically, but with controlled, grounded fire.
"This week, you lot have trained harder than ever. You've done things that would make other teams cry. You've run until your legs felt like mashed potatoes. You've drilled tactics that other clubs haven't even thought of using. And you know what? We've got something our opponents don't."
He pointed at the whiteboard. Then at his own chest. Then at each player, one by one.
"Tactics they haven't seen. Fitness they can't match. Spirit they can't copy."
The room was heating up. Shoulders straightened. Heads nodded. A few players sat forward, eyes locked on Arthur like he was explaining how to rob a bank and get away with it.
Arthur leaned in slightly, scanning the room, making sure they were all with him.
"So for the next 90 minutes, I want one thing."
He paused, eyes narrowing.
"Go out there, and completely, absolutely, and unapologetically flatten them."
The locker room was silent again—but now the air felt heavier, like something big was about to happen.
"Let those smug journalists eat their own headlines tomorrow," Arthur snapped. "Let the fans who've been sneering at you realize they've backed the wrong horse by doubting this team. And let Wolves wish they had stayed on the coach."
A beat. Then the final punchline, delivered not as a shout, but as an order.
"Take what I taught you, and today—right now—we start smashing our way through the Championship."
With that, Arthur turned without another word, yanked the door open, and walked out.
The players didn't cheer. They didn't clap. They just stood up, every single one of them, in perfect sync, like something had clicked.
They were ready.