In the 19th round of the Premier League, which wrapped up late last night, Leeds United clinched a crucial home victory against Chelsea. The only goal of the match came just before halftime — a sharp finish by Bale, who once again proved his growing importance in Arthur's side.
But if Bale was the hero in the first half, then the savior in the second was undoubtedly Fabio Cannavaro.
As reported across every newspaper, sports website, and breakfast TV program that morning, the veteran defender had pulled off what some were already calling the defensive play of the season. Just when Drogba's thunderous volley looked destined to crash into an open net and destroy everything Leeds had fought for, Cannavaro somehow sprinted back, launched himself acrobatically, and hooked the ball clear right on the line. It was part miracle, part martial arts move — and all heart.
It was that heroic clearance that preserved the narrow 1-0 scoreline and secured the precious three points. Without it, the match would've ended in a draw — and the mood across Elland Road would have been very different.
Still, not everyone was ready to accept the outcome quietly.
At the post-match press conference, Mourinho didn't hold back. With a tight expression and a voice that sounded polite but simmered with frustration, he publicly questioned Martin Atkinson's judgment on the decisive play. According to Mourinho, Drogba's shot had clearly crossed the line before Cannavaro's acrobatic clearance.
"I saw it. From the bench, it was clear," Mourinho said, narrowing his eyes. "But Atkinson... well, he didn't see it."
That statement drew plenty of attention, but Atkinson didn't stay silent either. In a post-match interview of his own, the referee explained that his assistant had been perfectly positioned.
"The linesman saw it very clearly," Atkinson said calmly. "The shot did not cross the line. Cannavaro got to it just in time, and the clearance came from outside the goal line. There was no reason to award a goal."
It was a rare bit of officiating drama in a match otherwise defined by tactical warfare — and Arthur's Leeds United came out on top.
To Mourinho's credit, he didn't just point fingers. He also took a moment to praise his opponent.
"Arthur is indeed a strong rival," Mourinho admitted during the same press conference. "His tactical setup was very targeted, very clever. We were perhaps a bit unlucky tonight — but I look forward to our rematch when we host them at Stamford Bridge."
The London media gobbled it all up.
Tabloids were already spinning their next headline war: "The Special One vs. The Rising One," "Arthur's Wall Denies Drogba," "Cannavaro: Still King."
Some even dared to print grainy zoomed-in images of the clearance, drawing crooked arrows and using pixelated red lines to try and determine if the ball had crossed — though none had anything conclusive.
Meanwhile, the Premier League table was now even more interesting.
With that win, Leeds United and Chelsea both stood on 42 points — but thanks to a superior goal difference, Arthur's side had climbed into second place. Only Manchester United remained ahead, perched at the top with 47 points.
And in just three days' time, Leeds would travel to Old Trafford.
The buildup had already begun: pundits wondering aloud if Leeds, fueled by their dramatic victory over Chelsea, could topple Manchester United and tighten the title race even further. Could Arthur outmaneuver Ferguson in his own backyard? Would Leeds' hot streak continue? Or would the Red Devils reinforce their lead?
Sky Sports had already lined up a special broadcast.
But while the media churned out predictions and controversies, Arthur had other things on his mind.
After finishing up his press duties at Elland Road, he returned to the dressing room. The players were tired — some visibly exhausted — but their faces were glowing. Three points, a clean sheet, and a night full of headlines. They'd earned their celebration.
Arthur stood in the middle of the room, gave them all a look, and smiled.
"Listen," he said, voice calm but clear. "We leave for Manchester the day after tomorrow. That gives us one day to rest. And today—" he paused, glancing at his watch "—is Christmas."
The room erupted in cheers. Shoes were kicked off, arms thrown around shoulders, a few players nearly slipped on the tiled floor trying to high-five each other.
Even the physio cracked a smile.
"Enjoy it," Arthur added. "You've earned it."
The next morning, England's sports pages were soaked in headlines about the match. Leeds United's victory over Chelsea was front-page news everywhere.
"BALE STRIKES! CANNAVARO SAVES!"
"LEEDS STUN CHELSEA – TITLE RACE ON!"
"CANNAVARO: DEFENDER OR SUPERHERO?"
"BALE'S BOLT AND FABIO'S FLICK KEEP LEEDS IN THE HUNT!"
The Guardian called Arthur's tactical setup "a masterclass in adaptability." The Telegraph ran a glowing profile on Cannavaro, calling him "the wall with legs." Meanwhile, Sky ran endless replays of the goal-line clearance, with former referees analyzing every frame. Their conclusion matched Atkinson's: no goal.
And Arthur?
He wasn't looking for praise, but he wasn't hiding either.
When reporters asked him for his thoughts after the match, he had answered honestly:
"Chelsea is very strong," Arthur said. "Before the match, I spent a lot of time studying Mourinho's tactical thinking. In the end, I did find a defensive weak spot — well, what looks like a weakness, even though it isn't really one. Fortunately, Bale didn't disappoint. He took the chance well and helped us win the game."
And when asked about Cannavaro?
Arthur didn't hesitate.
"My evaluation of Cannavaro? Signing him this summer might be one of the best decisions I've made in my coaching career," he said with a straight face. "His performance tonight proved why he deserved to win the World Footballer of the Year."
There were no more questions after that. Just applause.
And for now — Christmas Day — Arthur and his players had something more important than tactics, press conferences, and rankings.
They had a moment to breathe, to rest, to enjoy the victory — and then prepare for the next battlefield: Old Trafford.
Because the season was far from over.
****
Of course, apart from everything else, there was another reason Arthur had given the team a day off after the Chelsea match—one he hadn't mentioned to the media, the players, or even his assistant coaches. She had been sitting quietly in the VIP box at Elland Road, surrounded by tinted glass and luxury seats, watching the entire ninety minutes unfold with that familiar soft smile—the kind that made his heart stutter no matter how many matches he'd coached.
Shakira.
She'd flown in unannounced two days before the game. Arthur had been at the training ground, yelling at Ribery for overcomplicating a simple passing drill, when his phone buzzed with a message: "Guess who's in town. I want dinner. Tonight."
He hadn't hesitated. He'd handed his whistle to Mascherano with a barked, "You're in charge now," and left the training session mid-drill, leaving half the team baffled and the other half cheering like lunatics.
They hadn't seen each other in over a month. Her world tour, photoshoots, studio sessions—it never stopped. And his calendar wasn't any kinder. But somehow, they always made it work, slipping into each other's lives like puzzle pieces that refused to give up trying to fit.
So when he spotted her in the stands that night, swaddled in a beige coat, hair tucked behind her ear as she leaned forward to watch Bale's shot hit the back of the net—he'd felt something stronger than victory.
He felt home.
That was why, when the final whistle blew and Cannavaro was still being mobbed by teammates like he'd just won the World Cup, Arthur had looked up at the box instead of the bench. He found her through the glass, her hands cupped over her mouth in disbelief after that last-minute clearance. Then her lips curled into a smile, and she pressed one palm gently against the glass—just for him.
He gave the team Christmas off that night not just because they'd earned it, but because he had someone waiting for him too.
And what followed—well, it was everything he'd been craving through all the pressure, sweat, and chaos of the Premier League.
That night, they had no media, no assistants, no formation boards or microphones or cameras. Just the two of them, back at his place, the fireplace flickering while snow started to drift outside the windows of the little cottage Arthur called home. Shakira had kicked off her heels by the door before he'd even finished locking it, and he'd barely had time to hang up her coat before she wrapped her arms around him and whispered, "You smell like victory."
He laughed. "And sweat."
"Mmm, I like it. Smells like you."
She pulled him into the living room before he could answer, lips brushing his like a promise, like a reward.
They didn't talk about tactics or lineups. They talked about nothing and everything—about her next album, about the fans in the stands, about the future, about how hard it was to always be apart and how beautiful it was when they weren't.
They danced to soft music in the dark, barefoot on the wooden floor, just the crackle of the fireplace and the occasional sound of her quiet humming against his chest. They laughed, kissed, and made love like the world had shrunk to just the two of them—no clubs, no stadiums, no pressure.
Arthur forgot about football for one night.
And that night stretched into another.
She stayed for two more days—just two—but every second was precious. They drank coffee curled up on the couch in the mornings, with her legs draped over his and the television muted as pundits shouted about Leeds United's title challenge. She flipped through gossip magazines while he scribbled on his notepad, trying to work out how to contain Cristiano Ronaldo without seeming obsessed.
"You're not even listening to me," she teased, flicking a corner of the page at him.
"I am," he said, without looking up.
"What did I just say?"
"You said this photo of you in Rome makes your neck look weird."
She blinked. "Damn. Okay, maybe you were listening."
He grinned.
And then, just like that, it was time for her to leave.
Madrid was calling. A TV appearance. Two commercials. A recording session. She belonged to the world—always had—and Arthur knew that. It didn't make saying goodbye easier, but it made loving her even more real.
At the airport, she wore a long coat and dark glasses, her usual disguise, but nothing could hide the sadness in her eyes. He wheeled her suitcase through security while fans hovered nearby, whispering and pretending not to stare.
"I wish I could stay for the United match," she said quietly, adjusting the strap on her handbag.
"I wish I could come to Madrid," he replied, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"You'll win," she said. "I can feel it."
"And if we don't?"
"Then you'll win the next one."
He kissed her gently, right there by the glass doors before the departure gate. She pulled back slowly, brushing her nose against his.
"You still owe me a proper vacation," she whispered.
"After the title," he said with a half-smile. "We'll disappear. Somewhere with no phones. Just sun, wine, and you singing to me every night."
"Deal."
And then she was gone.
Arthur stood there for a moment, watching the blinking flight board until her gate was marked 'closed.' He let out a long breath, shoved his hands into his coat pockets, and turned around.
The break was over.
There was no driver waiting—he didn't want to sit in the backseat thinking. Instead, he got in his own car and drove himself straight back to Thorp Arch, the Leeds United training base, where cones, whiteboards, and schedules awaited him like old friends who didn't believe in holidays.
Old Trafford was three days away.
Ronaldo was waiting.
But so was the memory of her touch, her smile, her voice in his ear reminding him what really mattered.
And with that, Arthur stepped into the facility, the cold morning air biting at his cheeks, and got back to work—heart full, mind clear, and ready for war.
****
Although the players were enjoying a rare holiday for Christmas, as the head coach of Leeds United, Arthur didn't have the luxury of lounging around in front of the fireplace sipping mulled wine. No, not even close. While the squad was off somewhere stuffing their faces with turkey or building snowmen with their kids, Arthur was already back at Thorp Arch, sitting in front of the tactical video room like a monk at a shrine—except his religion was football and his holy scripture was 90 minutes of footage from Manchester United's last match.
He sat with his arms folded, the room dark except for the blue glow of the projector screen, his chin resting on one hand as he squinted at the image frozen on screen: Cristiano Ronaldo mid-air, doing that maddening trademark celebration, both arms outstretched like a golden eagle, soaking in the roars at Old Trafford after scoring the third goal.
Arthur stared at it, jaw clenched, eyes twitching slightly.
"Bloody hell," he muttered. "They're on fire."
This was not going to be easy.
He hit rewind and watched the goal again—twice. Then he stood up, walked in a small circle, rubbed his chin, sat back down, and muttered to himself. The kind of muttering that meant his brain was spinning like an overloaded washing machine.
Manchester United were in terrific form. They hadn't had to travel; they were comfortably resting at home while Leeds had just slugged it out against Chelsea. They had an extra day's rest. Arthur knew that mattered. Every hour counted at this level.
Last time, he had used Yaya Touré to outmuscle Carrick and take control of the midfield. It had been the tactical key to beating United. But Arthur knew better than to try the same trick twice. Ferguson might be older, but he wasn't blind—or stupid. That switch had worked once. It wouldn't work again.
Arthur leaned back in the chair and exhaled. "He'll shut down the middle. He has to."
And sure enough...
Three days later, under the grey winter skies of Manchester, the 20th round of the Premier League kicked off at Old Trafford. The air was icy, the stadium was packed, and as the referee blew the whistle, Podolski tapped the ball backward to Modrić, setting things in motion.
From the first whistle, Arthur immediately realized what Ferguson had done.
He'd altered the core.
Gone was Paul Scholes, the metronome of United's midfield. In came Park Ji-sung—relentless, energetic, and built like a greyhound with a jetpack. A pure workhorse. Ferguson clearly wasn't interested in dominating possession from the middle. He was shutting the door tight and reinforcing it with bricks.
As expected, the early plan Arthur had drawn up—attacking through the middle—hit a wall. Park buzzed around like a wasp, and Carrick, freed from too much responsibility, kept things tidy. The middle was a swamp. Leeds couldn't get anywhere near the box through it.
Arthur folded his arms on the sideline and frowned. "Alright then. Plan B."
He ordered a reshuffle. Yaya Touré, who had started in a more advanced role to mimic their last victory, was told to drop deeper again, reclaim his old post next to Xabi Alonso as a defensive midfielder. Modrić, clever and sharp, took over playmaking duties in the middle, drifting wide to link with the wingers and confuse United's shape.
And just like that, the match flipped.
The two sides locked horns, and the battlefield stretched out to the flanks. Wide open, wild, and frantic.
That's when it started.
"Ronaldo and Giggs have switched positions!" Lineker's voice rang from the commentary box, breathless. "Ronaldo's moved to the left, picked up the ball from Carrick—he's charging down the wing now!"
Bale turned, eyes burning, and gave chase.
Ronaldo was fast, but Bale wasn't slow either. In fact, Bale might've been the only player in the league who could match him stride for stride.
Lahm saw the danger too. The little German rocketed across like a missile from fullback to double-team the Portuguese superstar.
"They're trying to squeeze him toward the byline!" Lineker shouted. "Bale and Lahm, both closing in..."
But then—magic.
Ronaldo pulled out a move straight out of a highlight reel. With one light flick of his boot, he poked the ball through the narrow gap between Bale and Lahm.
"Oh my God! Unbelievable!" Lineker almost squealed. "He's nutmegged both of them in one go! Ronaldo's gone around behind them! Bale and Lahm have collided into each other like cartoon characters!"
The crowd at Old Trafford roared in disbelief. Arthur flinched on the touchline, then immediately turned to Cannavaro, who was tracking back with the speed and precision of a Formula 1 car.
"But it doesn't end there! Cannavaro—what a tackle! Absolutely inch-perfect!" Lineker shouted, voice cracking. "That's why he's the Ballon d'Or winner! He shuts down Ronaldo, gets back on his feet, and pings it wide to Ribéry!"
Momentum flipped again, like a tennis match with tanks.
Ribéry burst forward, eyes scanning, hair bouncing, boots flying.
"Leeds United's on the counter! Ribéry's past halfway! But here comes Evra, matching him stride for stride!"
The two Frenchmen sprinted side by side like sprinters in an Olympic final.
Ribéry gritted his teeth and tried to burn past him.
Evra wasn't having it.
They clashed, nudged, fought for space.
And the ball squirted over the line.
Ribéry threw his arms up toward the linesman. "Corner!"
The referee didn't even blink. "Goal kick."
Ribéry looked like he wanted to chew grass.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Lineker panted, "this match is out of control. It's still 0–0, but my God, the pace is terrifying! Leeds started through the middle, but Ferguson shut that down instantly. Since then, it's been all-out warfare on the flanks! Giggs, Ronaldo, Ribéry, Bale—it's like a sprinter showdown out there!"
Arthur stood on the edge of his technical area, arms crossed, watching Van der Sar place the ball for a goal kick. The score was still level. Sweat rolled down the side of his face despite the bitter cold.
He glanced across the pitch.
Ferguson stood there too, motionless. Hands in his coat pockets, chewing gum with the same intensity he'd probably had when he was thirty. Focused. Sharp.
Then—something strange.
As Arthur turned his head slightly, their eyes met across the technical areas.
Two tacticians.
One young. One old.
For a heartbeat, the entire stadium seemed to quiet.
And just like that, both men smiled—at the same time.
No words. Just mutual recognition.
Respect between foxes. War between minds.
The game was far from over.