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***
After returning to Leeds, Arthur threw himself straight back into work like a man possessed—or at least like someone who just got booted out of the FA Cup and was still bitter about it. There was no time to sulk. No time for tears. Just time for planning, yelling at training dummies, and furiously sketching tactics on a whiteboard that now looked like the aftermath of a toddler's coloring spree.
The schedule ahead was no joke. Three matches in eight days. On Saturday, Leeds would travel to face Middlesbrough away.
Then, barely enough time to breathe, and they'd be back at Elland Road on Wednesday to face Arsenal in the first leg of the League Cup semi-final. And then on Sunday? Everton. Also at home. Arthur looked at the fixture list and muttered, "Who made this schedule? Dracula?"
More importantly, the Champions League qualification race was heating up like a microwave burrito. Chelsea were still cruising at the top of the league with smug expressions and 21 points of daylight between them and everyone else.
But for the remaining three Champions League spots, it was pure chaos. Leeds were clinging to third like a cat on a windowsill, but Arsenal and Liverpool were breathing down their necks—just one and two points behind.
One bad game, one slip-up, and Arthur's team would be pushed out of the top four faster than a forgotten toaster on eBay.
So yes, Arthur was taking every league game very seriously.
Saturday arrived, and it was time to face Middlesbrough away. The Riverside Stadium crowd was lively, the wind was freezing, and the pitch looked like someone had trimmed it using a lawnmower from 1976. Falcao was still out injured, so Arthur handed the main striker role to Berbatov, who strolled onto the pitch looking like a man more interested in solving a crossword puzzle than playing football.
But the real story of the day? The debut of two of Arthur's newest signings—Rivaldo and Camoranesi. Twitter had laughed when the transfer news broke. "Rivaldo? Isn't he a fossil?" "Camoranesi still plays?" Well, the internet was about to eat its words.
Arthur stuck with his trusty 4-5-1, placing Rivaldo and Camoranesi in midfield alongside the ever-reliable Modric and Alonso. From the opening whistle, it became painfully obvious that Middlesbrough were in trouble.
Leeds weren't just playing football—they were giving a clinic in possession. It was like watching someone try to wrestle a bar of soap in a swimming pool. The ball just wouldn't stay with the home side.
Middlesbrough's defenders were spinning in circles, unsure whether to close down Alonso, tackle Modric, or simply cry. Rivaldo, calm as a monk, picked passes like he was choosing wine at a fancy restaurant.
Within 30 minutes, Leeds had 70% possession, and it felt like Middlesbrough had touched the ball just three times—once from kickoff, once by mistake, and once to boot it into the stands.
The first goal came from a slick bit of play. Rivaldo ghosted past his marker and slid a pass through three defenders straight to Camoranesi, who squared it to Berbatov. The Bulgarian tapped it in like he was swatting a fly. One-nil, Leeds.
A few minutes later, Middlesbrough tried to mount some sort of rebellion, and they actually pulled one back from a scrappy corner. Arthur didn't even flinch. "It's fine," he told his bench. "Let them have hope. It'll hurt more later."
Then came goal number two—again, Rivaldo was involved. This time, a floated pass that Modric brought down like a magician with velcro boots. He turned, spotted Berbatov's run, and threaded the ball through. Berbatov didn't even celebrate after scoring. He just nodded, as if to say, Yes, I am that good.
By the time Rivaldo came off late in the second half, Leeds had already bagged their third. This time it was Camoranesi who broke free down the wing, crossed low and hard, and Berbatov—yes, again—tapped in for his hat-trick.
Arthur stood on the touchline, arms folded, face smug. The scoreboard read 3–1. He turned to his assistant and said, "Remind me again why everyone thought Rivaldo was washed?"
Middlesbrough fans started trickling out with fifteen minutes to go. Leeds kept the ball, toyed with the opposition, and ran the clock down with the kind of possession that made you feel like clapping.
When the final whistle blew, Arthur gave Rivaldo a pat on the back as he walked off the pitch. "Not bad for a fossil," he said with a grin.
The critics had doubted. The fans had questioned. But today, with Rivaldo running the show, Modric pulling the strings, and Berbatov calmly tapping in goals like it was a training drill, Leeds looked like a team that wasn't just fighting for the top four—they were demanding it.
***
Since crashing out of the FA Cup like a sad clown slipping on a banana peel, Arthur had found a sudden, deep, almost spiritual appreciation for the League Cup—a competition he had previously ranked somewhere between "meh" and "I'd rather watch paint dry." But now? Now it was the only shot at silverware left this season. So of course, he was taking it seriously. Dead seriously. Possibly too seriously.
The night before the match against Arsenal, Arthur barely slept. He sat in his office at Elland Road, surrounded by coffee cups and tactical diagrams, mumbling to himself like a caffeine-addled professor. "We go hard at Wenger tomorrow. Full force. No mercy. No prisoners." His assistant nodded, unsure whether Arthur was preparing for a football match or invading Normandy.
But when matchday came and Arthur saw Arsenal's starting lineup, he nearly burst out laughing. Wenger had basically sent out his under-12s. Okay, maybe not that young, but it was close. Not a single star player in sight. Half of them looked like they'd borrowed their big brothers' boots. Arthur blinked at the team sheet and said, "Is this the League Cup or a youth science fair?"
It didn't take long for the relief to kick in. Arthur relaxed, leaning back in his chair in the dugout like a man who just found out his tax audit had been canceled. "Alright lads," he said to his players. "They've clearly chucked this one. Go out there, dominate, and let's wrap this up before halftime."
Easy, right?
Well… not exactly.
Because apparently, Wenger's youth team had no intention of rolling over and playing dead. They ran, tackled, passed, and pressed like their life depended on it. By the 15th minute, Arthur was no longer slouched back. By the 30th, he was standing, arms folded. By the 60th, he was pacing the technical area like a man trying to figure out how to explain to the press why his full-strength squad couldn't break down a bunch of teenagers.
Leeds couldn't get through. Every cross was blocked. Every pass into the box was cut out. Arthur watched Modric get bundled over by some 19-year-old named Kevin who looked like he still got ID'ed at the supermarket.
"Who is that?" Arthur muttered.
"Academy kid," his assistant replied. "Think he's still doing his A-levels."
Arthur swore under his breath. "Wenger's just showing off now."
Still, it was 0–0 in the 69th minute, and Arthur had had enough. He turned to his bench. "Fine. Bring on Vardy. Tell him to cause chaos. Also, get Camoranesi warming up. Time to inject some actual fear."
Just as the subs were about to be made, Leeds won a free kick right outside the box. Modric placed the ball down, looked up, and Arthur yelled, "Please, for the love of all that is holy, just score."
And Modric did. A curling beauty straight into the top corner. The net rippled. The crowd roared. Arthur nearly punched the air but stopped himself in case it messed up his coat sleeve.
1–0. Finally.
But instead of pushing on and scoring more, Leeds kind of... just held on. Arsenal's kids didn't back down. They kept scrapping, pressing, chasing shadows. And Leeds, bafflingly, seemed content with the narrow lead. The match ticked into stoppage time, and Arthur looked at the scoreboard like it had personally offended him.
At full time, it was still 1–0. Victory? Technically. Satisfaction? Not even close.
Arthur stormed down the tunnel with his coat flapping behind him like Batman on a bad day. "One goal! At home! Against a bunch of toddlers!" he shouted, ignoring the reporters. "We've got to go to Highbury next. If Wenger stops being generous and brings out the big guns, we'll be in trouble!"
He knew it. Everyone knew it.
And somewhere in the visiting dugout, Wenger probably knew it too—smiling to himself, arms crossed, already thinking about the second leg.
***
After a few days of well-earned rest—and a lot of Arthur pacing around muttering to himself like a mad scientist—Leeds United were back in action. This time, it was Sunday afternoon at Elland Road, and the visitors were Everton.
And oh, Arthur hadn't forgotten what happened last time. Their first clash of the season at Goodison Park? Leeds got smacked. That loss still stung like a slap from an angry grandmother. This match wasn't just about three points—it was about payback. Revenge. Redemption. And if possible, humiliation.
Luckily for Arthur, he didn't need to do any pre-match pep talk theatrics this time. No war speeches. No dramatic slide shows. The team remembered the loss just as well as he did, and their eyes practically glowed with murderous intent.
But there was a little tactical twist.
Rivaldo, bless him, had played his legs off in back-to-back matches. The poor guy looked like he aged five years during the last game. Arthur glanced at him during training and thought, "Yeah… he needs to lie down for a bit." So out went the 4-5-1, and back came the familiar 4-4-2 setup—with the dynamic duo of Vardy and Džeko leading the line.
A classic combo: one built like a truck, the other built like a caffeine-fueled greyhound.
Ribéry returned to the starting eleven on the left wing, looking like he'd just downed three Red Bulls and was ready to ruin someone's weekend. The rest of the lineup? Pretty much the same as the last match—because if it ain't broke, don't fix it.
Everton, on the other hand, were in a bit of a crisis. Two straight losses. Confidence in the bin. And to make things worse, their midfield maestro Mikel Arteta was out injured. Cue panic. No Arteta meant their midfield looked like a karaoke night without a mic—awkward, directionless, and vaguely tragic.
David Moyes, the grumpy Scotsman and future heir to Ferguson's throne, looked more nervous than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. And as it turned out, he had every reason to be.
From the opening whistle, Leeds pounced. Arthur didn't even sit down. He stood with arms crossed, glaring into the pitch like a general sending his army into battle.
Everton tried to keep possession, but without Arteta pulling the strings, their midfield was about as useful as a chocolate teapot. Yaya Touré, towering and terrifying, absolutely bulldozed them. One-man demolition squad.
Then came the 18th minute.
Gareth Bale received the ball wide on the left, and like clockwork, he darted inside. A quick one-two with Yaya on the edge of the box completely sliced Everton apart. Bale surged into the penalty area, drew the defense like a moth to a flame, then coolly squared the ball back with a reverse pass.
There was Džeko, all six-foot-three of him, standing at the penalty spot like it was his throne. One swing of that sledgehammer of a right foot—BANG. Net bulged. 1–0. Leeds were off.
Before Arthur could even finish fist-pumping, Everton tried to hit back on the right. Poor Hibbert, their full-back, tried to push forward with purpose. And then Lahm came flying in like a German missile. Tackle. Ball won. And then? A gorgeous lobbed pass—no nonsense, no build-up—straight to Džeko.
Džeko, with his back to goal, flicked a perfect header into space.
Yaya Toure stormed in from midfield, took one touch, and BOOM—absolute thunderstrike from 25 yards out. The ball screamed into the top corner like it had a vendetta. 2–0. Arthur turned to the bench, grinning. "Now that's football."
Everton looked like they wanted the ground to swallow them.
By the 33rd minute, Leeds weren't letting up. Ribéry danced down the wing, skinned his man like a professional fruit peeler, and crossed low into the box. Vardy dummied it—intentionally or accidentally, who knows—and the ball rolled to Bale, who made it 3–0 with a clean finish.
Eight minutes later, it got even worse for Everton. Vardy, pressing like a madman, stole the ball off the centre-back, sprinted clear, and unselfishly squared it to Džeko for a simple tap-in. 4–0. And it wasn't even halftime yet.
Arthur looked down the tunnel and muttered, "Moyes is probably in there writing his resignation letter already."
After the break, Everton came out, supposedly fired up. But whatever speech Moyes gave in the dressing room clearly hadn't worked. They still looked shell-shocked, as if they'd spent the break getting scolded by their angry dads.
Arthur, being the generous manager he is, gave Modrić and Alonso some early rest. Surely, surely the game was already over.
But Vardy wasn't done.
Oh no.
In the 62nd minute, he zipped past two defenders like they were traffic cones, then toe-poked one past the keeper—5–0. He celebrated by cupping his ears at the away fans, who responded with a chorus of boos and some very rude hand gestures.
Then, in the 70th, Ribéry sent another teasing cross into the box. Vardy rose like he was ten feet tall and nodded in his second. 6–0.
Ten minutes later, he was clean through again. He rounded the keeper, paused dramatically like he was posing for a movie poster, and slotted it home. Hat-trick complete.
The crowd lost their minds. Arthur nearly did too. "Since his debut!" he shouted, grabbing his assistant. "His first hat-trick! I knew I saw something in that maniac!"
Final score? Leeds United 6, Everton 0.
Absolute annihilation. Humiliation. Revenge served cold, with extra sauce.
Arthur walked off the pitch grinning from ear to ear. "That," he said, "is how you settle old scores."