**** Officialy 100 chapters for this . A bit more actually as Merged some short chapters into one and cut out a chinese bit chapter . Let me know your thoughts on the story.
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The mood between the two locker rooms couldn't have been more different. One side looked like a crime scene; the other like a birthday party.
Inside Bolton's dressing room, Sam Allardyce was having what could only be described as a tactical meltdown.
"Can you keep a close eye on him? Can you? Huh? ANSWER ME!" he barked, pointing furiously at the tactics board as if it had personally betrayed him.
A couple of defenders flinched in their seats. One poor lad blinked like a deer in headlights, silently cursing whatever football god had invented man-marking.
Allardyce turned around, red-faced and breathing like he'd just run a marathon. "What are you thinking out there?! I set up a 5–4–1 for a reason! FIVE defenders! That's one more than four! So how, HOW, does Alonso get a free shot from the edge of the box like he's at a picnic?!"
The room stayed silent. Even the sound of someone adjusting a shin pad seemed disrespectful. No one dared look up.
This wasn't just a normal hairdryer moment—it was a full-on industrial leaf blower. The plan had been clear: park the bus, throw the keys away, maybe bore Leeds into a penalty shootout. But now they were already 2–0 down. The 'bus' had burst into flames by minute 31.
Allardyce ran his hand through his hair, staring hopelessly at the whiteboard. He was drawing arrows and scribbles so fast, it looked more like abstract art than a football strategy. Occasionally, he muttered something under his breath about "spacing" and "closing down," but really, it was the sound of a man watching his plan crumble.
Behind him, the players sat in awkward silence. Some were trying to nod thoughtfully, others just kept their eyes glued to their boots. Nobody was brave enough to breathe too loudly, let alone speak. The whole team looked like a classroom of naughty schoolkids after the headmaster had walked in and caught them cheating.
Meanwhile, inside the Leeds United locker room, it was a different universe entirely.
The players were relaxed, chatting, sipping water, even cracking jokes. Ribery was trying to balance an orange on his head. Falcao was reenacting his goal celebration like a proud dad showing baby pictures. And Alonso? He was still grinning like he'd just been knighted.
Everything felt calm, controlled—like a cruise ship sailing smoothly toward the semi-finals.
But Arthur, Leeds' young manager, wasn't going to let them get too comfortable. He clapped his hands sharply, cutting through the light chatter.
"Alright lads, eyes on me."
Everyone turned. Ribery's orange fell off his head and rolled under a bench.
Arthur gave a small smile. "First of all—great work. Seriously. That was a brilliant first half. Especially you two—Luca, Xavi. The way you executed that midfield rotation was exactly what I wanted. Spot on."
Alonso gave a small nod. Modric smiled politely, while Milner, sitting behind them, leaned in and gave them each a slap on the shoulder like a proud big brother.
"But," Arthur continued, his voice getting sharper, "we're not done. This is only halftime. I know we're two goals up, but don't think for a second that Bolton are going to just give up. Trust me—they're going to come out swinging."
He began pacing slowly in front of the whiteboard, calm but deliberate.
"They'll push forward. Desperate teams do. That means we need to stay switched on. No strolling. No slacking. Run hard, fight for every ball, and when they get stretched—because they will—we punish them."
The room was quiet now, focused. Arthur stopped pacing and looked straight at James and Maicon.
"You two—on the flanks. When their full-backs push up, you push up faster. I want width. I want space. I want crosses. If we score one more within the first 20 minutes, it's game over."
Maicon nodded with a grin. James gave a thumbs-up.
Arthur gave a small chuckle. "And don't get lazy just because they start panicking. We keep pressing, we keep passing, we keep making their lives miserable."
The players nodded. Ribery, now lying across three seats, sat up. Falcao cracked his knuckles.
Alonso glanced at Modric and whispered, "Bet you five quid their centre-back loses his head and slides into you by the 55th minute."
Modric smirked. "You're on."
Arthur clapped his hands again. "Alright boys—forty-five minutes left. Let's finish this properly."
They stood, buzzing with energy. No panic, no pressure—just a team ready to finish the job.
While Bolton stewed in their misery next door, Leeds were already halfway to the semi-finals in their minds. Now, they just had to make it real.
***
After a quick gulp of water, a few deep breaths, and a handful of oranges that mysteriously vanished from the Leeds bench (Ribery, probably), the players from both sides returned to the pitch for the second half.
Leeds United didn't bother changing anything—why would they? Everything was going smoothly. Arthur stood calmly on the touchline, arms folded, giving off the vibe of a man who'd just nailed his weekly shopping list on the first try. He glanced at the Bolton bench, curious to see if Sam Allardyce had the courage to go full kamikaze with a three-striker formation.
Turns out, Big Sam hadn't completely lost his marbles. He'd only sent out one more striker and switched things up to a 4-4-2, their more traditional setup. Arthur raised an eyebrow and gave a subtle nod, like a poker player who had just seen his opponent bet timidly.
"Alright," Arthur muttered under his breath, "not brave enough for three. Thought so."
Truth be told, he'd already considered this possibility during the break. The thought of Allardyce throwing on three strikers had crossed his mind—briefly. But the fact that the Bolton boss stuck with just two up front confirmed Arthur's suspicion: Allardyce was terrified of Leeds United's counterattack. And with good reason.
Still, whatever hairdryer treatment Big Sam delivered in that boiling cauldron of a locker room must've hit a few nerves. Bolton came out swinging, running hard, pressing higher, and looking… well, more like an actual football team. Their forwards started buzzing around like angry wasps, and the midfield pushed up with more purpose, trying to shove Leeds United's back line into panic mode.
But Arthur's halftime speech had stuck in his players' heads like a catchy tune. They were ready. The midfield stayed compact, the defenders sharp and snappy. Every time Bolton surged forward, there was a Leeds player there to poke the ball away, block the shot, or intercept the pass like it was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
Alonso and Modric were like chess grandmasters patrolling the edge of the penalty box—calm, cold, and just a little bit smug. They cruised from side to side, cutting off passing lanes like they had a cheat code activated.
Bolton's attacks, for all their dramatic build-up, ended up looking a bit like overcooked spaghetti—messy, limp, and easily cleared. Every booming cross or hopeful long ball found its way to Piqué's forehead or Maicon's boot. It was all sizzle, no steak.
Still, for a few minutes, the Leeds fans had their hearts in their mouths. The team was getting pushed back, and the Bolton faithful dared to dream. But then—boom. A turnover. And Leeds sprang forward on the counter like a pack of caffeinated greyhounds.
The tension flipped in an instant. Suddenly it was Leeds United racing forward, Ribery tearing down the wing like he'd just stolen someone's wallet, Modric threading passes with surgical precision, and James sprinting into space like a man trying to catch the last bus home.
The crowd at Elland Road went from nervous silence to wild roars in seconds. They weren't just watching football—they were watching their team ride the chaos like pros. Every interception, every swift counter drew thunderous applause. The fans stood up, waved scarves, and belted out chants that made the concrete vibrate.
And Arthur? He just stood on the sideline, hands in his coat pockets, looking like he'd planned the whole thing from the start.
As the second half wore on, Bolton's legs began to betray them. All that frantic running, all that furious pressing—it was starting to backfire. One by one, their players looked like their lungs had filed a formal complaint. They were puffing and panting, chests heaving like broken vacuum cleaners. The high-intensity chase was admirable at first… until it started looking like they were trying to defend while wading through molasses.
Meanwhile, Arthur's men? Cool as cucumbers. Leeds United had followed his halftime instructions like soldiers on a mission. Every time they got the ball, full-backs Lahm and Maicon weren't just holding their line—they were charging forward like they'd been unleashed from a cage. These weren't cautious defenders anymore; they were secret agents doubling as wingers.
And during one of these attacking transitions, something clicked. Lahm and Maicon both noticed the same thing—and it was exactly what Arthur had predicted in the dressing room.
Every time either Modric or Alonso so much as breathed near the ball, Bolton would panic. Three, sometimes even four midfielders would swarm the poor playmaker like kids at a school lunch table fighting over the last slice of pizza. The idea, clearly, was to stop Leeds United from building attacks through their maestros.
But here's the kicker: that kind of frantic overcommitting came with a cost.
The Bolton players didn't seem to notice the trap. They were too busy charging like headless chickens, desperate to win the ball and maybe—just maybe—get a goal back. Their brains were yelling "GO FOR IT!" while their legs quietly whispered, "We're dying."
Then came the 57th minute.
Leeds had a goal kick. Schmeichel stood over the ball with the casual confidence of someone choosing a movie on a lazy Sunday. No rush. No panic. But instead of launching it long like usual, he calmly rolled it out to Piqué at the back.
Now, Bolton had been pressing early in the game—but at this point, their idea of "pressing" was more like "mild jogging while regretting life choices." No one closed Piqué down, so he sauntered forward and passed the ball to Modric.
That's when the alarm bells rang for Bolton.
Three midfielders sprinted forward like they'd been electrocuted, aiming to smother Modric before he could do something magical. But Modric? He didn't even bother taking a touch. Just calmly rolled it back to Piqué like he was passing the salt across the dinner table.
And Bolton fell for it. Again.
They immediately shifted focus to Alonso, assuming the play would rotate to him next—just like it always did. Their entire midfield shape skewed to the right. Problem was, Piqué had other plans.
With the calm demeanor of a man deciding between red or white wine, Piqué looked up and suddenly smashed a pinpoint pass diagonally across the field—straight to the left flank.
By the time Bolton realized what was happening, it was too late.
Lahm was already sprinting down the touchline, eating up the green like a man late for his own wedding. The Bolton full-back ahead of him looked horrified, as if he'd just spotted a lion charging his way. Lahm didn't slow down. He took the pass in stride, kept his balance, and scanned the pitch.
Two defenders rushed toward him in panic. But Lahm, being Lahm, didn't blink. He just nudged the ball forward with the outside of his foot, saw Berbatov lurking like a patient assassin, and slipped a perfect little pass into his path.
"Berbatov!!!" Eddie Gray roared from the commentary box, nearly knocking over his water bottle. The Bulgarian had been dangerous all game, but kept getting denied by a keeper having the game of his life. He'd been knocking at the door—loudly. This time, though, the door wasn't just open—it was wide open with a welcome mat.
There was no one near him. Falcao and Ribery had dragged half the defense into the Bermuda Triangle, leaving Berbatov standing in acres of space with only the goalkeeper to beat.
He didn't say a word. Just adjusted his body slightly, shifted his weight, and took the shot before the defender could slide in.
The ball zipped across the grass with all the elegance of a ballroom dancer, then kissed the inside of the post and rolled in.
A split-second later, Eddie Gray's voice exploded across the stadium.
"Oh oh oh oh~~~~A clever shot, a beautiful goal! Berbatov finally scored his first goal of the day!"
Leeds United players mobbed the Bulgarian, who raised a finger to the sky with that classic half-smirk of his. No theatrics. Just business.
"And let's congratulate Leeds United," Eddie continued, "they are already leading 3–0!"
The fans erupted, roaring with laughter and joy. Some couldn't believe how easy that goal had looked. Others just stood there clapping and grinning like proud parents at a school recital.
Arthur didn't celebrate wildly. He just turned calmly to his bench and nodded.
Right on schedule.