The players had wrapped up their warm-ups, the turf was getting one last sprinkle from the sprinklers, and the crowd at Elland Road was roaring louder by the second. Tension, excitement, and the scent of overpriced stadium sausages filled the December air.
Arthur, dressed sharply in his black team coat with the Leeds United crest stitched proudly over the heart, found Mourinho just off the pitch and extended a hand. The Portuguese manager gave him that classic smirk—the kind that looked like he knew a secret you didn't—and shook his hand. Brief, cordial, no drama. For now.
Then Arthur turned, following his players into the tunnel, the noise of the stadium still echoing behind them like a low thunderstorm. He stepped into the locker room last and gave the door a good solid push.
"Bang!"
The door shut behind him, cutting off the roar of the fans. Suddenly, there was quiet. Calm before the storm.
Inside the locker room, the players were getting into their zone—lacing boots, adjusting tape, stretching, or just sitting in silence. The air was thick with focus. A bit of muscle balm. And a hint of nerves.
Arthur didn't say a word at first. He grabbed a folding chair from the corner, dragged it right into the middle of the room with a screech across the floor, and sat down slowly like a professor preparing to deliver a final lecture before exams.
One by one, the players started noticing him sitting there like a football Gandalf waiting to deliver prophecy. Toure stopped stretching. Mascherano leaned back. Torres took out one earbud.
Arthur looked at his watch—17 minutes till kick-off.
Then he looked up, eyes gleaming.
"Alright, gentlemen," he said, smiling like a man who knew the answers to the test, "we've got seventeen minutes before we go out there and ruin Christmas for a bunch of fancy boys from London."
A couple chuckles bounced around the room.
Arthur leaned forward, voice lifting a notch.
"You know where we are in the standings. You know what we need. Nothing short of a win tonight keeps us in the title race. Manchester United already handled their business. If we don't get 3 points tonight, we're just another team trying to finish top four."
He stood up now, eyes sharp and voice rising.
"Yes, we lost the last game. Why? Because we played three bloody games in six days like we're robots, not footballers. You were exhausted. I was exhausted. Hell, I nearly yelled at my dog for barking too loud last week. That's how tired I was."
A few players laughed, including Ibrahimovic, who was cracking his knuckles like he was already imagining Drogba's face on the ball.
Arthur walked a slow circle as he talked, catching the gaze of each player one by one.
"But tonight," he continued, voice firm, "you're rested. You've had a week to get your legs back. Your lungs are full. Your fire is back. And this? This is Elland Road. This is our bloody house. Let's make sure Chelsea feels it."
He raised his arms like a preacher in a stadium-sized church.
"I want ninety minutes of hell for them! For Drogba, for Lampard, for Mourinho's smug little coat! No easy balls, no cheap runs, no second chances! Makelele should be drowning in white shirts, and if Robben cuts inside, someone better introduce him to the grass!"
Now the energy in the room was rising like water in a kettle. Mascherano was nodding with fire in his eyes. Lahm had that quiet, focused stare. Even young Bale looked like he'd chew through the stadium wall to get to kickoff.
Arthur jabbed a finger toward the door.
"We get three points tonight. Then you go home. You drink hot chocolate, you kiss your wives or girlfriends or whatever trouble you've gotten yourselves into, and you enjoy Christmas knowing we're still in the damn fight."
Then he bellowed:
"Any questions?!"
"NO, COACH!!!" the room roared back.
"Good," Arthur grinned. "Now get out there and remind them why no one likes playing Leeds!"
The locker room exploded in shouting and slaps on backs as the players began marching toward the tunnel like a Viking war band.
Meanwhile, in the Chelsea dressing room across the hallway, the atmosphere was... let's say less poetic.
"Defense. Defense. Defense," Mourinho was muttering like a man reciting a cursed spell. "Hold the line. Hold the midfield. When in doubt, give the damn ball to Didier or Arjen."
His voice was low and flat. The players nodded, but you could feel the tension.
Mourinho paused and flicked a glance toward Shevchenko, who was sitting quietly, staring down at his boots as if they were hiding the answers to life. The Ukrainian hadn't fit into the system, and everyone knew it—but he was starting again tonight, whether he liked it or not.
Mourinho went back to barking instructions.
"Don't forget what we trained. Their right side is their weak point. We blow up that wing. Feed Robben. Keep pressing Mills. Eventually, something breaks."
The Chelsea players were calm, serious, nodding in rhythm like soldiers before deployment.
Ten minutes later, the tunnel filled with noise and heat as both teams lined up.
The Leeds boys looked fired up. Arthur's speech had lit a fire under them. Ibrahimovic, standing just a few feet from Drogba, was staring like a man ready to duel at dawn. He looked like he'd punch someone just to warm up.
Drogba caught his eye, smiled faintly, and cracked his knuckles in response.
The cameras started rolling. Flashbulbs popped. The fans roared louder as the players emerged.
The last match before Christmas. The last clash of the Premier League's first half. And from the looks on every player's face, this wasn't just a game—it was war.
And Arthur? He stood behind his squad, arms crossed, eyes burning with pride, purpose, and one very simple thought.
Let's ruin Mourinho's Christmas.
****
As the players finished the walkout routine and headed to their positions on the pitch, the tension was thick enough to butter a scone with. Cannavaro and John Terry, the two captains, stood face to face at the halfway line like a pair of medieval generals preparing for battle. The referee approached with a coin, and the three of them huddled like schoolboys sharing secrets in the playground—except these secrets involved aerial duels and the potential loss of a few teeth.
The camera zoomed in on their hands during the coin toss—Terry's fist clenched like he was gripping a brick, and Cannavaro's knuckles bulging with enough intensity to crack walnuts. From the way their veins popped, you could already guess this match was going to be less football and more hand-to-hand combat with cleats.
After the formalities, the players moved into position. Chelsea took their spots in their half, all deep blues and hard stares. Leeds United lined up across from them, the white shirts gleaming under the floodlights of Elland Road like knights in shining polyester.
Drogba and Shevchenko stepped into the center circle and stood like twin statues next to the ball, Drogba giving it a slight tap with his toe as if asking it politely to behave tonight. Arthur watched from the sideline, arms folded, nodding to himself. His coat was zipped up tight, but underneath that calm exterior, he was buzzing.
The referee looked at his watch.
And then—
PHEEEEEEP!!!
The whistle screamed, and the stadium roared to life like someone had hit the big red button labeled pandemonium.
Elland Road erupted into a frenzy, 50,000 voices exploding into chants, horns, and pure, unfiltered football chaos. Christmas Eve or not, this was war.
Chelsea had the kickoff, and they went for it immediately. No passing back, no easing in. This was Mourinho's idea of holiday cheer: score first, park the bus, hand out no gifts. Drogba tapped the ball, and Shevchenko spun around and launched it wide left like he was trying to shoot a flare to Robben.
Robben had already taken off down the wing the moment the ref blew his whistle, sprinting like a gingerbread man being hunted by wolves. The ball sailed toward him—clean delivery, good pace.
He trapped it effortlessly. Smooth as butter.
But as he looked up, his happy Christmas surprise arrived early: double-marking.
Mills was right in front of him, teeth gritted like a dad who just stepped on a LEGO. And coming in from the side was Xabi Alonso, with that cool, calculating look of a man who already knows what's for dinner and how to intercept your meal.
Arthur, watching from the touchline, nodded with satisfaction. The plan was working.
Mourinho had clearly targeted Leeds' right side. And why wouldn't he? With Maicon benched, Mills was considered the weak link on paper. Robben starting today wasn't a coincidence either—the man had been warming benches the last few games. But now, here he was, in prime position to slice through Leeds' flank like it was a Christmas turkey.
Arthur had smelled the plan from a mile away.
So, during warm-ups, he'd pulled Alonso and Mascherano aside. No long speech. Just a simple instruction: if Robben touches the ball, dogpile him.
And here it was.
Robben paused for just a second, scanning his options. His teammates were still jogging up the pitch, not yet in position to help. But he was Robben, damn it. He didn't need help. He dipped his shoulder and went for the gap between Alonso and Mills, planning one of those patented inside dribbles that usually ended with goalkeepers crying into their gloves.
Except this time, Alonso didn't play along.
The moment Robben nudged the ball through, Alonso poked a foot in like a man snatching the last parking spot on Christmas Eve. Clean. Sharp. Gone.
The ball popped forward straight into the path of Mills. Robben hadn't even blinked before the counter was on.
And Mills—bless him—didn't try anything fancy. No touches, no turns, no silly ideas. He booted it like he was kicking his tax bill into the sun.
The ball rocketed into Chelsea's half, and just as it landed, Fernando Torres was already there, shoulder-to-shoulder with Ashley Cole like two stags fighting for territory.
Torres leaned in. Cole leaned back. Neither gave an inch.
The ball bounced between them awkwardly, spinning and skipping on the frosty grass. For a moment, it looked like Cole might take control, but Torres jabbed his foot in, spun, and came away with it like a pickpocket in a crowded market.
Arthur, still on the sideline, clenched his fists with a grin. "That's it! That's how we break 'em!" he muttered to no one in particular.
Now the momentum had swung. In just a few seconds, Chelsea had gone from confident kickoff to scrambling defense. Their high press had collapsed like a flan in the oven.