Fabregas had drifted back toward the edge of the penalty area, instinctively covering space as Arsenal attempted to reset. But the moment he glanced up and saw Lehmann still dawdling with the ball at his feet, alarm bells went off in his head.

Here we go again...

He didn't care that Lehmann was old enough to be his uncle, didn't care that the German had the captain's armband on, didn't care that they were teammates in front of a packed stadium.

He just shouted.

"Jens! Kick the ball out!"

The tone wasn't a request. It was more of an order—tinged with frustration and disbelief that, in a game like this, Lehmann was still playing his little ego games.

Lehmann's head turned slightly, his icy blue eyes narrowing as he glanced at Ibrahimović charging toward him—still four or five meters away. He clearly didn't appreciate being told what to do by a kid still in his early twenties. But reality set in. This wasn't the time to be stubborn, not with Ibrahimović barreling down like a freight train.

With an audible grunt and a flick of his leg, Lehmann launched the ball toward the front line with a booming kick.

It was the right call. But that didn't mean he liked it.

As soon as the ball left his foot, Lehmann clicked his tongue in visible irritation, like someone forced to follow instructions from a GPS he didn't trust. He took a couple of steps forward and, just to make sure nobody thought he was rolling over for the younger generation, shouted after Fabregas.

"Boy, kick your own ball properly! I don't need you to command me!"

The volume of that complaint? Not subtle.

Fabregas, already turning back toward midfield with his two center-backs flanking him, didn't respond. But he definitely heard it. So did Gallas and Kolo Touré. The three of them shared the briefest of looks—but when Fabregas didn't bite, neither did they. Arsenal had enough problems without turning the first five minutes of the match into a soap opera.

But someone else had heard it too.

Zlatan Ibrahimović.

He hadn't moved far since Lehmann launched the ball, and now he stood there, blinking in disbelief.

What the hell was that?

Was Arsenal always this... dysfunctional?

The Swede's expression was somewhere between bemused and bewildered. He stared at Lehmann, who still looked mildly offended by the very concept of teamwork, and then his gaze drifted to the armband on the German's bicep.

This guy's the captain? Seriously?

Ibrahimović had seen some things in football. But this was rich. He thought of that big bald guy in a white Leeds kit—yes, Yaya Touré—who was always shouting encouragement, clapping his teammates on the back, yelling "Get stuck in!" even when someone miscontrolled a pass. Now that was a presence.

Compared to that, Lehmann looked like someone who'd been forced to babysit a bunch of kids and wasn't shy about reminding them of it.

With a small, amused shake of his head, Ibrahimović chuckled under his breath and jogged back into position, the ghost of a grin curling on his lips. No sense wasting energy on someone who was already busy fighting his own team.

On the touchline, Arsenal manager Arsène Wenger had noticed something wasn't right. He hadn't heard what Lehmann had shouted, but he didn't need subtitles to read body language. The veteran keeper's movements, the slight edge to his voice, the grimace as he barked his complaint—it was all too familiar.

After so many years working with Lehmann, the Frenchman didn't need audio. He already knew.

Damn it, Jens.

Wenger rubbed his temples, his glasses sliding slightly as he muttered to himself. Of all the days to have a captain start bickering in public…

Should've just given the armband to Gilberto. Should've done it weeks ago.

But now was hardly the time for regrets. The game was rolling, the midfield was heating up, and Leeds United weren't in a charitable mood.

On the Leeds bench, Arthur was oblivious to the entire scene. He wasn't watching the spat, nor was he listening for raised voices on the pitch. He had his head down, eyes fixed on the small magnetic tactical board resting on his lap. His fingers moved pieces quickly, looking for patterns, for tiny gaps in Arsenal's formation that Leeds could exploit.

A furrow had formed between his brows. He was focused—intensely focused.

That's when Simeone, sitting right beside him, elbowed him excitedly.

"Boss! Boss!"

Arthur didn't even look up at first.

"Huh?" he mumbled distractedly, still half-lost in the overlapping arrows and movement diagrams.

But Simeone wasn't letting this go.

"Arsenal looks like they're having some internal conflict!" he said, his voice tinged with excitement, like a schoolboy overhearing gossip. "Zlatan was right next to it—he must've heard it. We should ask him what happened!"

Arthur finally looked up, frowning.

"Internal conflict?" he repeated blankly, glancing toward the pitch. The game had already shifted into the midfield, players clashing for possession with the kind of frenzy only Leeds games delivered. He saw no punches, no arguments, no red cards. "What conflict? I didn't see anyone fight."

Simeone leaned in, his voice dropping slightly, though his eyes were practically sparkling.

"It wasn't a fight-fight," he explained. "But I saw Lehmann and Fabregas have a little spat—Zlatan was standing right next to them."

Arthur's eyebrows rose slightly.

Now that was interesting.

The name "Lehmann" was all he needed to hear. The German keeper had a reputation longer than a bus queue. He'd gone after Kahn during national team duty, badmouthed Almunia during press conferences, and once even yelled at a striker for stepping on his toe. No one was safe—not opponents, not teammates, not even fans if they clapped wrong.

"Oh, it was Lehmann?" Arthur said, sitting upright. "Then yeah, that tracks." He cracked a grin. "Big-mouth Lehmann at it again."

Simeone nodded eagerly.

Arthur was already shifting gears in his head. This wasn't just an entertaining tidbit—this was a potential pressure point. If there was tension in Arsenal's defense, especially between the keeper and his midfielders, that could become a crack they could widen.

"Alright," Arthur said, slapping his hand on his thigh with purpose. "Next time the ball goes out of play, get Zlatan over here. I want to know exactly what he heard."

Simeone gave a thumbs-up like a man on a secret mission.

Arthur leaned forward, eyes now locked on the field again—but this time, not just looking at tactics. Now, he was watching Arsenal's body language, their little gestures, the tone of their movements.

If there really was something going on beneath the surface…

He was going to find it.

And Leeds would exploit it.

****

Not long after, during a brief pause in play—when Gilberto fouled Modrić in midfield and the referee blew his whistle—Arthur finally got the full story from Ibrahimović.

The Swede leaned in and quickly explained everything that had happened, from Lehmann's poor touches to the tension building at the back. Arthur listened carefully, eyes narrowing as he processed the information. Then, after just a few seconds of thought, he issued a new order.

"Zlatan, get back out there and tell the boys to push harder—up top. We press them as high as possible. I want every Arsenal defender looking over their shoulder. Force them to pass it back to Lehmann. Every time."

Ibrahimović nodded.

"And you…" Arthur added with a mischievous grin, "as soon as Lehmann gets the ball, don't give him a second. Charge him. Press him hard. If he makes one mistake—just one—we're in."

The orders were clear.

Back on the field, Leeds United began to adjust immediately. The players, already aggressive, now played like hounds off the leash. They surged forward together, cutting off Arsenal's angles and shadowing every red shirt. Suddenly, Clichy, Toure, and Djourou found themselves boxed in, pressured from both sides, and forced into rushed passes.

Up in the commentary booth, the broadcasters took notice.

"The game has been going on for 18 minutes, and the score is still 0–0," came the voice of the commentator. "The two teams have been fighting fiercely in midfield. It seems like both managers are thinking alike today!"

"Yes," his co-commentator replied. "Leeds started with that high press, but Arsenal adapted quickly, recycling possession in their own half. Still, there's been a shift—Leeds United's intensity has gone up. Alonso's stepping higher, and there's more urgency in the pressing."

As if to underline the point, Dani Alves darted across the halfway line and flew straight at Rosický, cutting off his passing lanes before he could blink.

"Here it comes again!" the commentator called out, nearly rising from his seat. "Rosický just received the ball—and look at Alves! He's all over him!"

"What the—? Are you crazy?" Rosický muttered aloud, caught completely off guard.

Before the Czech midfielder could settle the ball, Alves was already breathing down his neck—literally. The Brazilian wasn't just applying pressure with his feet; he was making himself a nuisance in every way possible. His hands kept tugging, pushing, jabbing. His feet poked at the ball like a mosquito with cleats.

Rosický, knowing he couldn't turn or shake him off, sighed and passed the ball backward to Clichy.

That was exactly what Modrić had been waiting for.

Having moved up from the defensive midfield to a more advanced position, Modrić didn't hesitate for a second. The moment Rosický released the ball, he pivoted and sprinted toward Clichy, forcing him into another rushed decision.

Clichy glanced up and saw nothing but blue shirts closing in. He didn't think twice—just turned on his heel and passed the ball back to Lehmann, who had already stepped forward to meet it.

From Arsenal's point of view, this had become routine.

They'd grown used to Leeds United's suffocating front line. The pattern was clear: get pressed, pass back to Lehmann, watch him boot the ball toward midfield, reset, repeat.

But—this time was different.

This time, something broke the rhythm.

Lehmann, clearly tired of being a glorified long-ball merchant, decided to show off his footwork.

Instead of clearing it immediately, he made a bold decision. He waited.

He watched Ibrahimović charging toward him and, with a faint smirk, prepared to fake him out.

Lehmann lifted his right leg like he was about to hoof it forward—but then pulled the leg back at the last moment, barely tapping the ball to his left instead. A cheeky little nudge, just enough to slip the ball past Zlatan.

"Haha! Idiot! Fell for it!" Lehmann thought smugly, chest puffing out slightly.

He had done it. He had sent the arrogant Swede flying past like a freight train on the wrong track. Zlatan had even turned his head mid-sprint to avoid getting kicked—he saw the whole thing.

Lehmann grinned and prepared to take another step forward, confident he'd now have the time and space to pass the ball properly.

But—

Out of nowhere, a long leg shot out in front of him. An impossibly long leg, like it had been fired from a cannon.

It intercepted the ball perfectly, separating it from Lehmann's foot before he could react.

Lehmann's eyes widened in horror.

And there, standing in front of him, was Zlatan Ibrahimović—again.

His face was lit up with triumph, his eyes sparkling with arrogance, and that trademark smirk—the kind that made defenders nervous and goalkeepers furious—stretched across his face.

It was too late. Lehmann had been caught.

Completely.

"Scheiße…" Lehmann muttered, closing his eyes, already picturing Wenger's fury, the headlines, the boos from the crowd.

Trapped behind the Swede and left completely helpless, he could only watch as Ibrahimović calmly controlled the ball, then flicked it with his left foot before pushing it into the empty net with his right.

The entire stadium groaned.

0–1.

In the 19th minute of play, Arsenal—at home—had fallen behind to Leeds United.

And Arthur, on the sideline, was already walking back to the bench, hands behind his back, whistling a merry little tune.