After giving the players a well-earned day off—mainly so they could rest their legs and Arthur could yell into a pillow in private—the squad reconvened on Wednesday morning, bags packed, mood steady, and destination clear: London. Arthur led the group himself, making sure no one forgot anything critical. Like shin pads. Or tactical awareness.
They were heading to Upton Park for an away clash against West Ham, and Arthur had no plans of messing around. No "B-team experiment," no "let's try the youth," and certainly no "they're only West Ham." He rolled out the main force. This wasn't the time for surprises—unless it was Bale launching another missile into the top corner.
That night, under the cold London lights and in front of a lively East End crowd, Leeds United handled their business. It wasn't flashy, but it was efficient. A clean, sharp 2–0 win. Job done. Three points in the bag. Nobody got hurt. Arthur even managed a smile—barely.
With that, the Premier League officially reached its halfway point. The season was now at the midline. The standings painted a clear picture, and Leeds were finally starting to write themselves into the plot.
Chelsea sat comfortably at the top of the table, arms folded like a smug school prefect. 17 wins, 1 draw, 1 loss, 52 points—basically a machine. They were already crowned the "Half-Season Champions," which wasn't a real thing, but hey, it looked nice in headlines.
Right behind them was Manchester United, who were probably still nursing their wounds from a recent 1–0 loss to Chelsea at Old Trafford. United had 12 wins, 5 draws, 2 losses, and 41 points. Close, but still ten points adrift of Mourinho's army.
Then came the surprise packages.
Tottenham, somehow playing like they'd discovered football for the first time, were third with 40 points. And then, drumroll, in fourth—yes, fourth—stood Arthur's Leeds United. They'd clawed their way up with sheer grit and a beautiful five-game winning streak, now sitting proudly on 32 points.
It was tight below them. Arsenal and Liverpool were breathing down Leeds' necks with 30 points each. Arsenal edged ahead into fifth on goal difference, with Liverpool lurking just behind in sixth. Both had found their form recently and, like sharks smelling blood, were waiting for any Leeds slip-up.
Over on the player stats leaderboard, Arthur's transfer business was finally paying dividends.
In the Golden Boot race, Falcao was right up there—trailing only Thierry Henry and Ruud van Nistelrooy—with 11 goals. The Colombian had been lethal, scoring headers, volleys, tap-ins, and probably one with his hip at some point. Meanwhile, Sebastian Deisler, despite knowing he was leaving soon, was still putting in top-class shifts. With 5 goals to his name, he sat ninth on the scorer chart—more than most midfielders could dream of.
But it was on the assist leaderboard where Deisler truly stood out. He wasn't just leading—he was miles ahead. Seven assists, spraying passes like a German sniper with a football, threading the needle from the wings, the center, anywhere. Second place? Lampard, with four. A whole three behind.
Arthur watched these numbers roll in and nodded quietly. He didn't need to shout or gloat.
The table, the stats, and the results were doing all the talking for him.
And the second half of the season was just beginning.
***
In recent days, newspapers, sports websites, and every bored pundit with a social media account had something to say about the Premier League's mid-season drama. The internet was practically foaming at the mouth with "halfway report cards," transfer predictions, and enough hot takes to cook breakfast.
And, of course, topping the charts of discussion was none other than Chelsea. The Blues were flying. Mourinho's first full season had turned into something of a footballing dictatorship—efficient, relentless, and with all the warmth of a steel-toed boot. With 17 wins out of 19 and a spot in the Champions League last sixteen, Chelsea weren't just leading the league—they were smothering it.
Mourinho had already made one thing clear: he wasn't here to collect silver participation medals. Earlier in the month, he'd openly binned off the League Cup like it was leftover pizza, telling the press he'd rather win the FA Cup if he had to choose between domestic trophies. Brutally honest. Very Mourinho.
And now, with Roman Abramovich's bottomless wallet humming in the background, everyone expected Chelsea to dip into the winter transfer market for more reinforcements. As if they needed it. With the way things were going, people were already whispering about the treble—Premier League, Champions League, and FA Cup. The holy grail of English football dominance.
But while Chelsea's dominance was expected, what shocked everyone was who came second in the media's spotlight.
Not Manchester United. Not Arsenal. Not Liverpool or even high-flying Tottenham.
Nope—it was Leeds United.
Arthur's Leeds. The club that only just clawed its way into the top four after the 18th round.
People couldn't stop talking about them. Was it the insane comeback against Manchester City? Was it Falcao's goal count? Was it Arthur's habit of scowling on the touchline like someone had just insulted his haircut? Nobody knew for sure—but the media loved it.
Suddenly, everyone had an opinion about Leeds United.
Some called them the underdog story of the season. Others said they were riding a wave that would crash before spring. A few thought Arthur was some kind of mad genius. A few others thought he was just mad.
Either way, Leeds were back in the conversation. And Arthur, whether he liked it or not, was smack in the middle of it.
Arthur didn't waste a single brain cell on the critics. Let them moan. Let them write angry columns with dramatic headlines. He had his plan, and he wasn't about to ditch it just because a few people in ties got the sniffles over his top-four ambitions.
Of course, not all the voices were negative. Leeds United still had their believers, especially the legendary Norman Hunter—a club icon with a heart the size of Yorkshire and a tackle that could dent steel. The day before Leeds' clash with Chelsea, Norman fired back at the critics with a glorious piece in the Yorkshire Post that read less like journalism and more like a verbal body slam.
"The appearance of Arthur guarantees the stability of the entire Leeds United team," he declared with the fiery confidence of a man who once kicked George Best into the advertising boards. "There is no doubt about this. No rebuttal is accepted!"
Norman was just getting warmed up.
"All those who criticize Arthur Morgan are people who've clearly never seen him run a training session or command a game. The man doesn't just coach—he conducts the match like a bloody orchestra. I've seen a lot of managers in my time, and in terms of on-the-spot tactical brilliance, Arthur's right up there with Ferguson and Wenger. That's not flattery—that's fact. You could see it last time they went head-to-head. Anyone who says otherwise either wasn't watching or was watching with their eyes closed."
Then came Norman's favourite bit—throwing shade at the armchair psychologists who thought pressure was some kind of medieval torture device.
"Some people say Arthur puts too much pressure on his players. I'd like to ask those people—what do you think football is, a tea party? Should we hand out juice boxes at halftime? Name me one competitive sport where pressure doesn't exist. Go on, I'll wait. Pressure is the game. If a player can't handle it, they're in the wrong profession."
And as for the whole "injury crisis" thing everyone kept harping on about?
"I'm not worried. Leeds aren't selling anyone this winter. Not that I've heard, anyway. And knowing Arthur, he's probably already got reinforcements lined up. The man's transfers so far have been spot on. Every single one of them has delivered. So yeah, I'm excited for the winter window. If past performance is anything to go by, we're in for another round of brilliant signings."
Arthur read this article on the team bus, somewhere between checking the GPS to make sure they weren't lost in London traffic and wondering why the air conditioning only had two settings: freezing or sauna. He smiled faintly as he scrolled through Norman's impassioned defense, half amused, half touched.
He appreciated the old man standing up for him. Really, he did.
But deep down, he also sighed and muttered quietly to himself, "Sorry, Norman... I'm about to disappoint you."
Because, unfortunately, the plan for tomorrow's transfer window?
It started with selling players.
Still, Arthur had a quiet confidence. Once Norman saw the new signings, he'd come right back with another article—maybe even one with the headline: Arthur Did It Again.
***
Since this match was an away trip to Stamford Bridge, naturally, all eyes turned to the two managers who had been making headlines for months—and who clearly didn't like each other much. It was Mourinho vs. Arthur. Again. The press couldn't get enough of it. They swarmed like vultures the second Chelsea's press room opened, cameras flashing, microphones out, the whole circus in full swing.
And of course, Mourinho did what Mourinho always does—he made it all about him. Loud, smug, and full of vinegar, he told anyone with a notebook that Chelsea would beat Leeds United this time, no question about it. "Revenge," he said dramatically, as if Arthur had stolen his dog or parked in his driveway. "This time we win. Home match. No surprises."
Meanwhile, Arthur? Arthur was missing.
Not literally. He hadn't vanished into a fog or anything. He was just... avoiding people.
After the Leeds squad arrived in London the day before the game, Arthur shut himself inside his hotel room like a hermit with a tactical board. Reporters who had memorized his usual pre-match routine—especially his habit of taking an evening walk near the hotel—staked out the pavement like weird football paparazzi. They waited. Cameras ready. Notebooks open. Nothing.
He didn't come out.
Some of them probably cried a little. One guy even tried pretending to be a pizza delivery man just to get a quote. No luck.
It wasn't until matchday that Arthur finally showed his face. As the Leeds United bus pulled up outside Stamford Bridge, he stepped off calmly in his navy coat, flanked by his staff, and was immediately ambushed by reporters who had been practically foaming at the mouth for 24 hours.
Arthur, unfazed, stopped for half a second, looked at the microphones like they were pigeons begging for bread, and said dryly, "We'll go all out. We're here to fight for a win." Then he walked off straight into the tunnel, not giving anyone a second glance.
It sounded convincing… until the starting lineups were released.
Chelsea fans, journalists, and just about every confused Leeds supporter checking their phones did a double take. Because "going all out," according to Arthur, apparently meant "resting most of the team."
Except for Chiellini and Deisler, the rest of the starting eleven looked like the substitutes' bench had been dragged onto the pitch by accident. It was like Arthur had looked at Mourinho's full-strength lineup and said, "Nah, let's just annoy him instead."
Predictably, the match didn't go well.
Leeds United's backup squad tried hard—really, they did—but against a ruthless Chelsea side pumped up by Mourinho's thirst for vengeance and the Stamford Bridge crowd baying for blood, it wasn't close. Chelsea dominated possession, pinned Leeds back, and eventually rolled over them with a clean 3–0 win.
Arthur didn't throw a tantrum. He didn't even blink. He just folded his arms on the sideline and watched, calm as ever, like a man who already had something else in mind.