Arthur, comfortably settled in Leeds and oblivious to the chaos he'd stirred up in Madrid, had no idea that Calderon was practically foaming at the mouth, ready to wave the white flag and come crawling back for negotiations.
Why?
Because Arthur was too busy preparing for the battle of the weekend: Leeds United vs. Chelsea — a proper Premier League heavyweight clash with enough drama potential to outshine a royal scandal. And, for the first time this season, Arthur would be going head-to-head with José Mourinho.
If football matches were chessboards, this one had all the queens and knights lined up. The press had already dubbed it The Clash of the Cults — not because of the teams, but because of the two headline managers who could start a war over who gets the last biscuit in a press conference.
The week leading up to the match had been pure mayhem. Journalists hovered like seagulls outside both Thorp Arch and Chelsea's Cobham training grounds, squawking for quotes.
Everyone — fans, pundits, armchair analysts — wanted a taste of the verbal fireworks. After all, when it came to talking smack, Arthur and Mourinho were the undisputed heavyweights.
But this time… silence.
Eerie silence.
Neither Arthur nor Mourinho had been seen near a microphone all week.
No snide jabs. No sarcastic interviews. Not even a vague, passive-aggressive tweet.
To make things weirder, they hadn't even poked their heads out of the training grounds. It was as if both men had entered stealth mode. The media, accustomed to pre-match headline feuds, were now pacing nervously like junkies waiting for a fix.
Then, finally — hope.
Late Friday afternoon, someone managed to spot Mourinho's car leaving the Cobham grounds.
It was as if Bigfoot had strolled through a shopping mall.
A flurry of cameras clicked, and a reporter dashed forward, microphone in hand, breathlessly asking, "José, any thoughts on tomorrow's match against Leeds?"
Mourinho, sunglasses on and face as blank as a poker table, simply rolled down the window and asked, "Has Arthur said anything?"
The reporter blinked. "Er, no—"
"Good."
Roll.
Window.
Up.
And off he drove, leaving behind a group of stunned media personnel and a cloud of disbelief.
Now, if anyone was still wondering whether something was brewing behind the scenes, Lineker — that reliable voice of footballing sense — took to Twitter.
"Most of the 19th round is over. United bounced back and took all three points at Villa Park. Congrats to Sir Alex for the winter title. But let's be honest, the entire country is watching Leeds vs. Chelsea tomorrow night.
Fascinating that Arthur and Mourinho — the league's two biggest windbags (said with affection) — haven't uttered a word all week. No quotes, no spats, nothing. My guess? They're both holed up in their offices binge-watching match tapes like it's Game of Thrones. Saturday's going to be a cracker."
Lineker, unknowingly, was spot on.
While the rest of Leeds had gone home — players freshly showered and already posting filtered Instagram stories of sushi dinners and Netflix binges — Arthur sat alone in his dimly lit office, eyes glued to his laptop.
Chelsea. Again.
Their transitions. Their overlapping full-backs. Drogba's movement. Lampard's late runs. And Mourinho's smug little smirk when the camera cut to the sidelines.
Arthur leaned back and rubbed his face. He had a headache. Maybe it was the fifth time watching their win over Arsenal. Or maybe it was the fact that Mourinho's defense looked like a brick wall sponsored by Lego.
He'd already watched clips of their last ten games. Paused. Rewound. Took notes like he was studying for the world's most important GCSE. He was even timing how long Makelele held the ball before laying it off.
Earlier that day, Julian had popped his head in and invited him out for dinner.
"Come on, man," Julian had pleaded. "You've watched that match so many times, you could probably recite Mourinho's half-time talk word for word."
But Arthur waved him off. "Chelsea's midfield presses like a panini grill. I need to find a way through. Go eat. Bring me back something if they've got chicken wings."
So now here he was. Alone. Quiet. Laser-focused.
Earlier, he'd called Shakira — she was in LA for some PR shoot. The call had been brief and flirtatious, the kind of sweet check-in that gave him just enough energy to keep going but also reminded him he wasn't entirely human spreadsheets and tactics.
"Don't forget to blink, genius," she'd said before hanging up. "And win tomorrow. I want bragging rights at lunch."
"Deal," he'd smiled.
Now back at Thorp Arch, Arthur scrubbed through yet another Chelsea sequence. Their build-up play was meticulous. Boring if you weren't paying attention, but devastating if you gave them an inch. He replayed one particularly nasty counterattack that ended with Drogba smashing a half-volley into the net like he was punishing the ball for existing.
"Jesus, you're built like a tank and move like a Ferrari," Arthur muttered to himself, jotting down a note:
"Man-mark Drogba? Trap wide. Force central."
Then he opened another tab, rewinding to their set-piece routines.
That was Mourinho's secret sauce: details. Corners, free kicks, long throws — they all had structure. Timing. Choreography.
Arthur cracked his knuckles and smirked. "Alright, José. Let's dance."
Because come Saturday night, the mind games would end, and it would be all about execution.
And Arthur? He had a few surprises of his own.
*****
To be perfectly honest, Arthur wasn't feeling very optimistic.
Sure, the match is a big one, but unlike the last time he prepared for Manchester United, he just couldn't find any glaring weaknesses in Chelsea's setup.
He stared at his screen, watching yet another game replay for what felt like the ninth time today, hoping for Mourinho to make a mistake somewhere, anywhere — a misstep, a tactical error, a moment of hubris. Nothing. Chelsea's squad looked like a machine — cold, efficient, and annoyingly well-oiled.
If there was any weak link at all, it was probably Shevchenko.
Fifty million euros of Ukrainian firepower, and the man still looked like he was trying to decode Mourinho's playbook mid-match. Shevchenko's talent was unquestionable, but he just didn't fit in. Still, that didn't mean Arthur could sleep easy. Because standing next to Shevchenko on that frontline was Didier Drogba — and Drogba wasn't just in form. He was in beast mode.
Arthur had seen enough of Drogba this season to know that the Ivorian wasn't just bullying defenders — he was traumatizing them. One look, one shrug of those tree-trunk shoulders, and most center-backs were already backing up.
But for Arthur, Chelsea's real danger wasn't up front. It was behind them.
Through eighteen rounds of Premier League football, Chelsea had conceded only eleven goals — and that was withoutPetr Čech, who had been out with a skull fracture since October. That was one more goal than league-leaders Manchester United, sure — but United had the benefit of pinning their opponents down like a lion sitting on a balloon. Their best defense was relentless offense.
Chelsea, on the other hand? They defended like a Roman fortress.
Ashley Cole, John Terry, Ricardo Carvalho, and Paulo Ferreira — that was the back four Mourinho trusted, week in, week out. And somehow, they held firm. Calm, disciplined, ruthless. In front of them stood the eternal wall himself: Claude Makelele. And flanking him? Essien and Lampard, two midfielders who could cover the ground like border collies and shoot like snipers. Sometimes Ballack joined the chaos too, because why not?
Arthur leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples.
He had watched enough clips to know the script: the opponent would try to build an attack, maybe even get into Chelsea's half, and then — snap. A quick challenge, a smart interception, and suddenly the ball was moving forward like a heat-seeking missile. Two passes later, Drogba had it at his feet, and then it was a matter of how hard he felt like embarrassing the poor soul marking him.
Arthur exhaled and closed his laptop with a soft clack. The screen went black, but the problems remained.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for a moment, mentally tracing Mourinho's possible setup for the match. There weren't many surprises to expect. Mourinho was nothing if not consistent, especially in the big games.
Leeds United had shown sparks of brilliance this season, but Arthur knew his squad wasn't invincible. And of all the vulnerabilities they had, the most obvious one — the one Mourinho would circle in red — was on the right.
Danny Mills.
The veteran full-back had been solid on his day, but those days were beginning to feel more like distant relatives. Pace was no longer his friend. And if Arthur could see that, Mourinho definitely could.
If he were José, Arthur thought, he'd send wave after wave down that left flank, hoping to catch Mills off guard. And he had the perfect weapons to do it: Robben and Shevchenko.
Arthur's eyes snapped open. That was it. He spun in his chair, grabbed a pen, and began sketching Mourinho's probable formation on a blank notepad.
4-3-3.
Up top: Drogba in the center, with Robben and Shevchenko flanking him. A trident sharp enough to pierce any back line.
Midfield? A diamond. Makelele the anchor, Essien buzzing box-to-box, Lampard crashing forward like a truck with no brakes. Ballack could float, adjust, plug holes, and offer a deadly shot from distance.
The back four were predictable. Terry and Carvalho in the middle — no surprises there. Ashley Cole marauding on the left. Ferreira on the right. With Čech out, veteran Carlo Cudicini would take the gloves. Solid, if less intimidating.
Arthur studied the names on his page, his pen tapping rhythmically on the desk. After a long pause, he circled one name: Paulo Ferreira.
There. That was it.
Chelsea's weakest link — not a broken link, but definitely the softest. Compared to Ashley Cole on the left, Ferreira was more conservative, less explosive, and most importantly: not very fast.
Arthur's mind went into overdrive.
"What if we switched it up?" he murmured to himself. "What if Bale and Ribery swapped sides?"
It was risky. But calculated.
Bale, with his terrifying speed, could overlap down the left and keep Ferreira pinned. Ribery, always unpredictable, would keep Chelsea's midfield honest. Lahm could push forward too, giving Leeds a genuine numerical edge in that corridor. It wouldn't be easy — it never was against Chelsea — but at least it was something.
Arthur leaned back again, a faint smile creeping across his face. It wasn't a silver bullet. But it was a start.
He stood, ready to grab a late dinner and get some actual food into his system. His stomach had been complaining since he skipped lunch, but he'd been too deep in Chelsea's tactical minefield to notice.
Just as he stepped out from behind his desk, the office door burst open with a bang.
Arthur nearly jumped out of his socks.
In came Allen, breathing heavily, his phone pressed to his ear. He quickly slapped a hand over the receiver and whispered, voice filled with urgency and excitement:
"Boss — Calderon's on the line again…"