"Bloody hell! Treacherous little Spaniard!"

Arthur stood frozen for a split second on the sideline, watching the ball roll oh-so-casually into the back of his own net, as if it had all the time in the world. His jaw clenched, his face twisted in disbelief, and then—BAM!—he grabbed the nearest water bottle from in front of the Leeds United bench and launched it toward the turf like a missile.

The plastic bottle flew end-over-end like a pathetic boomerang and landed with a soft thud, rolling onto the grass in an anticlimactic flop. Not that it made him feel any better.

On the other side, Arsène Wenger looked like he'd just been handed a bottle of fine French wine and told taxes had been abolished—arms spread, eyes sparkling, bouncing down the touchline with an enthusiasm completely inappropriate for a man in a grey zip-up cardigan. Arthur glared at him, trying to burn a hole through the man's smug celebration.

He had known. He had seen it coming.

He knew Fabregas dropping deeper was easing Arsenal's buildup and dragging Leeds' press further up the pitch. He knewthat midfield triangle was dangerous. But still… he'd gambled. He'd wanted the second goal. One more goal to kill it off, bury Arsenal, and let the lads coast home like conquering heroes.

Instead, he'd left his backline dangling out like washing on a windy day, and now Fabregas had sliced them open with a pass straight from the devil's playbook.

Arthur checked his watch. About twenty-five minutes left.

Still time to fix this mess.

He spun around to the bench, snapping his fingers. "Wesley! Fernando! Get up. Start warming up. Fast!"

Sneijder and Torres, who'd been lounging with the other substitutes like sunbathers without the sun, sprang to life. They peeled off their training vests and began jogging up and down the sideline like racehorses sniffing the track.

As the Arsenal players continued their goal celebrations—Van Persie grinning like he'd just robbed a bank without a mask—Arthur spotted Modric jogging over to grab a quick drink near the sideline.

"Luka!" Arthur beckoned him over with a quick jerk of the head.

Modric leaned in, wiping sweat off his face as Arthur rattled off orders rapid-fire.

"Tell Yaya to drop deeper. I want him as the lone defensive midfielder. You and Wesley will sit just ahead in the middle, double pivot. Also—get Gareth to shift out to the left wing. Tell everyone to drop back. No more high pressing. We're done chasing shadows up there. Once Wesley and Fernando are on, we switch to a 4-3-3."

"Got it," said Modric with a nod, his expression turning serious. He turned on his heel and darted back onto the pitch, relaying the message to his teammates one by one like a battlefield runner.

From the commentary box above, Eddie Gray was already shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He let out a deep breath through his nose.

"Well, that's the score level again," he muttered, unable to hide his disappointment. "It's one-all now, and that means Leeds United's fate is back in Manchester United's hands. Unless they pull out a winner today, they'll have to hope Sir Alex's lot slip up elsewhere."

He looked over at his co-commentator, Norman Hunter, who was studying the tactical changes with a deep frown carved into his weathered face.

"We can see Arthur making some adjustments here," Eddie continued, "Sneijder and Torres coming on. Alonso and Ribery making way. Looks like he's shifting to a proper front three now."

Norman narrowed his eyes, watching Bale move into the left-wing position. "Yeah, Gareth's definitely pulled wide now. But..." he paused, the concern leaking into his voice, "...what Arthur really needs to sort out is that pressure line. It's been too high all game. That goal was written in bold letters on the wall."

Eddie chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. "Come on, Norman. You said it yourself before kickoff: 'Trust Arthur. He's prepared. He's got a plan.' You really think he doesn't see what's happening out there?"

Norman gave him a sideways look, one brow arching like a disbelieving hawk.

What the hell kind of logic was that?

Just because he could spot the problem didn't mean he wanted to hear it echoed back at him with the subtlety of a foghorn. The look he gave Eddie practically said, Mate, if you're trying to cheer me up, you're failing.

Eddie didn't seem to notice. He just carried on in his jolly, I'm-on-the-radio voice. "Don't worry, Norman. Even you spotted the problem. Arthur's no fool. He'll fix it."

Norman rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't roll out of his head.

Even you spotted it? Really? Was that supposed to be reassuring?

Back on the touchline, Arthur crossed his arms, watching the players reshuffle like chess pieces. The new formation was taking shape. Modric had delivered the orders, and now it was all about execution.

He could feel the tension crackling in the air like static.

The crowd at Elland Road, who had been roaring moments ago, were now holding their collective breath. The Arsenal fans were chanting louder, sensing momentum shifting in their favor, while the Leeds supporters had gone quiet, unsure whether to fear or believe.

Arthur took a deep breath. The clock was ticking. Still plenty of time to turn this around.

But one thing was for sure—he'd underestimated that smug little genius in the number 4 shirt.

Fabregas.

The sneaky bastard had reeled them in like a fisherman playing with his catch.

Well, not again.

Arthur narrowed his eyes, already thinking three moves ahead.

This wasn't over.

****

The referee's whistle echoed crisply through the Emirates, signaling the restart of the match. Fernando Torres, fresh-legged and fired up, tapped the ball forward at the center circle, and the second half resumed with a new sense of urgency.

As the players settled into their new tactical shapes, the momentum shifted once again. The scoreboard might have been level, but the rhythm of the game had changed.

Leeds United had dropped their pressing line, finally letting go of the relentless high-pressure defense that had suffocated Arsenal earlier. Now, Fabregas—damn him—was playing with more freedom. Arthur could see it clearly: the Spaniard no longer had two Leeds players breathing down his neck every time he touched the ball. Instead, he moved gracefully through the back half, occasionally shadowed by Modric or Sneijder if he dared venture too close to the center circle, but otherwise unbothered.

With that space, Arsenal began to piece together a few half-decent attacks down the middle. Nothing dangerous yet, but enough to irritate Arthur, who was already simmering from the equalizer. Still, Leeds' defense remained organized, cutting out the final passes just outside the penalty area. Every clearance or interception bought them a little more time, and the clock kept ticking.

Meanwhile, Leeds United had shifted gears. With the injection of Sneijder and Torres, and Ribery and Alonso withdrawn, the midfield had been reorganized. Now they targeted the wings.

Arthur's new instructions were working their way into the match: Modric and Sneijder rarely looked for direct central progression anymore. Instead, they patiently linked up with the wide men, seeking gaps along the flanks—trying to pull Arsenal's defensive line out of shape. Sometimes it was Gareth Bale tearing down the left; other times it was a quick combination on the right that forced Arsenal to scramble. It wasn't glamorous, but it was methodical.

The crowd was on its feet more often now. Passes zipped across the turf. Tackles flew in. With over 60,000 fans roaring around them, the match had fully transformed into a chessboard on fire.

Eddie Gray, watching nervously from the broadcast booth, sounded like a man walking a tightrope.

"The situation is a bit tense now," he muttered. "Norman, I feel that Leeds United is a bit slow to break the situation."

Norman Hunter nodded beside him, his gaze locked on the field, brow furrowed. "You're right. Arsenal's not chasing the title anymore—they know it. But they've still got enough quality to cling to fourth place. A draw today? They'd take it gladly. Now it depends on what Arthur's going to do next."

Down on the touchline, Arthur was thinking the same thing. He paced a few steps in front of the dugout, arms crossed, chewing the inside of his cheek. Arsenal weren't pushovers—not now, not ever. And the moment Leeds let up even slightly, they pounced. The earlier equalizer had been a gut punch, but not a knockout blow.

Now, the game was back to a stalemate, and Arthur knew it would take something special to break it open again.

He glanced over at Modric—still under the influence of the [Peak Beckham Experience Card], and still Arthur's best shot at unlocking Arsenal's defense.

If they couldn't pass through them, they'd have to bend around them. Find an opening. Force a foul. Something. Anything.

Then came the 79th minute.

Leeds had just survived another Arsenal raid. Walcott had chased Kolo Touré all the way to the edge of their own box before peeling away, and now the ball was back with Leeds, slowly building from the back.

Arsenal's retreat was rapid and disciplined. Walcott lingered just high enough to pressure Touré, but the rest of the red shirts hustled back to set up a compact double line. Within seconds, the final third was a red sea. Arsenal had parked their midfield in front of the box like sentries, and behind them, Gallas and Kolo Toure stood ready to swat away anything ambitious.

As Leeds United pushed the ball across midfield, it became clear: Arsenal weren't going to chase shadows. They were set. Leeds would have to unlock them.

The ball went from Sneijder to Modric, to Sneijder again, then to Bale, and back again. It was as if they were circling a locked door, trying to find the keyhole.

But then the ball came to Modric once more.

Arthur's eyes narrowed.

Modric paused just a heartbeat longer than usual. His gaze swept across the field like a radar. And then—there. Something sparked in his expression.

Far on the left, barely visible to most, a flash of white streaked forward. A hand rose—subtly, slyly—pointing toward open grass behind Arsenal's line. Just a twitch of a signal. A hidden gesture.

Arthur saw it.

Modric saw it.

So he nudged the ball forward, adjusted his balance, and struck.

He dug his left boot into the turf, and with his right foot, clipped the underside of the ball with surgical precision. The pass sliced through the air with a curling spin, drifting high and long—arching behind Arsenal's defensive line and toward the far post like a missile with a secret target.

"Modric passed the ball directly!?" Eddie Gray exclaimed, his voice full of disbelief.

From the press box, the pass looked like madness. The penalty area was already flooded with defenders. Kolo Toure was there. Gallas was there. No white shirts were in position.

The entire stadium seemed to collectively furrow its brow.

What was Modric thinking?

Arthur wasn't confused. Neither was Wenger.

On both sidelines, two managers had noticed the same thing.

They saw the run.

They saw the danger.

And they shouted—nearly in sync.

"Watch out to the left!"

"Support the left!"

Two different sentences sounded almost at the same time.