Regret? Seriously?

Arthur blinked a few times in disbelief and stared at Rivaldo like he'd just announced he regretted winning the lottery.

The man had it all—Ballon d'Or, Champions League, World Cup. You name it, Rivaldo had won it. Club level? Check. National team? Check. Personal honors? Triple check.

And now, here he was, sitting on the bench beside Arthur during training, casually dropping, "Boss, I've still got regrets about my career."

Arthur couldn't help himself. His eyebrows shot up, and he spun around to face him fully.

"Hold on—you have regrets?" Arthur said, dramatically gesturing to the rest of the squad who were jogging through drills on the pitch. "You've won more silverware than the rest of this team combined! Champions League, La Liga, Copa América, a damn World Cup! What could you possibly regret?"

Rivaldo scratched his chin awkwardly and gave an innocent shrug.

Arthur leaned in, still looking at him like he'd just confessed he wanted to become a plumber now.

"No seriously, tell me. What could possibly be left on your bucket list? Premier League title? Because I'm not sure we're getting that this season unless the rest of the top six collectively fall into a black hole."

Rivaldo chuckled softly, shook his head, and waved his hands in protest.

"No, no, boss. It's not like that!" he said quickly. "It's not some trophy or title. It's just…" He paused, his voice dipping into something more thoughtful. "I want to start one more match at Camp Nou. Just once. That's all."

Arthur stared at him. Blankly.

"...Huh?"

What was this? Some kind of elaborate joke?

"You want… to start at Camp Nou? Rivaldo, mate, you practically lived there!" Arthur said, squinting. "You were in Barcelona for years! The pitch should have your permanent footprint etched into it. There should be a seat in the locker room with your name on it. Don't tell me you've never started there!"

Rivaldo didn't laugh. In fact, his eyes dropped to the grass, his tone turning a little more serious.

"Boss, do you know why I left Barcelona back then?"

Arthur's ears perked up like a gossip-loving raccoon who'd just heard the words family drama. He leaned in unconsciously, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, fully invested.

"Wait, wait, are we about to spill the tea here? Rivaldo, don't tease me like this. Don't start if you're not ready to go full Netflix documentary."

Rivaldo gave a helpless chuckle. "Come on, boss, it's nothing that dramatic. Well… sort of. There were only two reasons. You probably already know one of them—the fallout with Van Gaal."

Arthur raised a finger. "Yeah, that bit I've heard. Internet says you preferred playing centrally, and Van Gaal shoved you out wide on the left like a naughty schoolkid being exiled to the corner."

Rivaldo nodded slowly, his expression unreadable.

"That's the version out there, yeah. But the other reason… was the fans. And the club itself."

Arthur tilted his head. This part wasn't so commonly known.

Rivaldo took a breath, his voice growing steadier as he spoke. "In 2002, after we won the World Cup with Brazil, I came back to Barcelona full of pride. You know? I'd just helped my country win the biggest tournament in the world. I thought the fans would be happy too."

He paused.

"But instead, what I heard were boos. Whispers. Fans saying I gave everything for Brazil, but not enough for Barça. That I was lazy for the club, saving myself for international games."

Arthur blinked. "Wait, what? You were injured that season, weren't you?"

"Exactly!" Rivaldo said, his voice picking up steam. He even stood up slightly off the bench before catching himself. "I struggled with injuries the entire year. I was in pain, but I still pushed myself, still managed to score over ten goals despite playing fewer matches. In fact, that hat trick at the end of the season? That got Barcelona into the Champions League qualifiers!"

Arthur nodded, remembering the footage—Rivaldo scoring a stunning bicycle kick in the dying minutes of the final league game. It had gone viral again recently when Leeds fans posted it as part of his highlight reel.

"But it didn't matter," Rivaldo continued. "The fans didn't see the effort. They just saw a player who didn't run enough or didn't smile the way they wanted. And the club? They were even worse."

Arthur's expression darkened slightly. "What did they do?"

"After Van Gaal came back, management approached me. They didn't even pretend to back me. They just… offered to terminate my contract. Like that." He snapped his fingers. "No thanks, no ceremony, nothing. Just, 'See you, Rivaldo.'"

Arthur looked down, chewing on the inside of his cheek. That was cold—even by big club standards.

Rivaldo smiled bitterly. "So when I say I want to start one more time at Camp Nou… it's not because I haven't played there. It's because I want to walk out onto that pitch, wearing a shirt where I feel truly supported, and just… play. Not as someone they want gone. Not as someone they criticize no matter what he does. But as someone who loves the game."

Arthur didn't speak right away.

He looked at Rivaldo, and saw that behind the smile and the jokes and the trophies, there was still a fire in there. A need for closure. Maybe even peace.

****

After hearing Rivaldo's long rant, Arthur let out a deep, theatrical sigh. One of those exaggerated, head-tilted-back, borderline Shakespearean sighs.

He got it—he really did. He understood where all of Rivaldo's bitterness was coming from. But if he was being totally honest with himself, he couldn't put all the blame on the Barcelona fans. Not entirely.

Because the thing about Rivaldo… well, he wasn't like most of the fun-loving, samba-dancing Brazilians Arthur had come across in the game.

Rivaldo was serious.

Too serious, sometimes.

He was probably the only Brazilian Arthur had ever seen who treated football interviews like job evaluations. Celebrated goals like a man filling out tax forms. The guy rarely smiled. Unless Leeds United had just won a title or someone handed him a puppy, he always wore a face like he'd just been handed a parking ticket.

Arthur had noticed it early on, ever since Rivaldo joined Leeds. One time, their team interpreter Allen had sat through an entire Rivaldo interview—every dry, robotic minute of it—and afterward pulled Arthur aside, looking genuinely concerned.

"Boss," Allen whispered. "Is Rivaldo alright? He looked like he was attending a funeral on live TV."

Arthur had laughed back then, but now it kind of made sense. Rivaldo wasn't moody—he was just intensely focused. He wasn't trying to alienate fans or the press. He just… didn't care about what they thought. He was from South America, raised in hardship, and forged into steel by struggle. His whole life had been about survival, not showmanship.

And, frankly, Arthur respected that. Still, he decided to offer some friendly advice.

He reached out and clapped Rivaldo on the shoulder. "Ferreira," he said warmly, "you know, smiling once in a while won't kill you. Fans love a smile. Even the media might stop describing you as a footballing Terminator."

But Rivaldo simply shook his head. "No, boss. This is who I am. I've come too far to start pretending now. My seriousness—it's not a flaw. It's what got me here."

Arthur couldn't argue with that. Rivaldo had a point. And truthfully, since arriving at Leeds United, Rivaldo seemed a lot lighter. Maybe not happy-go-lucky, but definitely more at peace.

Leeds United wasn't Barcelona. No one here cared if he looked grumpy in interviews. What they cared about was goals. Assists. Performances. As long as he delivered on the pitch, the Elland Road crowd would cheer him until their throats gave out. Here, appreciation wasn't about charisma. It was about commitment.

Rivaldo smiled—barely, just a hint at the corner of his mouth—and looked Arthur in the eye.

"Boss," he said, "you still haven't told me… can I start in the game at Camp Nou?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "What's your fitness level looking like?"

"I should be able to play most of the game," Rivaldo said confidently, his tone firm but respectful.

Arthur scratched his chin, pretending to ponder, even though the decision was basically already made. "Alright," he said slowly, drawing it out, "I'll think about it…"

—

February 21st, 2007 – UEFA Champions League, Round of 16, First Leg

Arthur and Simeone were camped out in their hotel room in Barcelona, sitting shoulder to shoulder like two lads bunking together at a training camp.

The team had arrived earlier that morning, and now the managers were locked in for a night of tactical recon. No beer, no poker, just football. They had one TV, and two Premier League giants—Manchester United and Arsenal—were also in action tonight.

But Arthur, ever the strategist, bypassed the familiar for the intriguing. He switched the channel to Real Madrid vs. Bayern Munich.

"These two might be our quarterfinal opponents," Arthur explained, remote in hand like it was a sword. "Better to get an early look."

"Know your enemy," Simeone grunted, nodding approvingly. "Sun Tzu would be proud."

Arthur smirked. "Sun who?"

The match had barely kicked off when it exploded into life. In the 10th minute, Raul—yes, that Raul—threaded his way through Bayern's defense after a silky pass from Van Nistelrooy. With his usual ice-cold composure, he rounded Kahn like he was just walking past a mailbox, and tapped it into the net.

1–0 to Real Madrid.

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Well, that was smooth."

"Too smooth," Simeone muttered. "Defenders were watching like tourists."

Thirteen minutes later, Bayern answered back. They earned a free-kick just outside the final third. Lucio, towering and impossible to miss, surged into the box like a wrecking ball. The delivery was perfect, and Lucio executed a textbook look-back-at-the-moon header, guiding it beautifully into the net.

1–1. Game on.

Arthur was impressed. "That's a proper away goal. Could be huge."

But Real Madrid weren't done—not by a long shot.

In the 27th minute, Raul struck again, latching onto a rebound like a hawk swooping on prey. And then, just six minutes later, Van Nistelrooy made it 3–1, finishing off a slick move with a typical Ruud-like clinical finish. Sharp, ruthless, and without a hint of wasted motion.

Arthur was already scribbling notes. "Madrid's forward line is scary," he muttered. "They'll punish any lapse in concentration."

Simeone didn't reply. He was too busy scowling at Bayern's defense.

Then came the long silence.

The kind of deadlock that only happens when both teams are either exhausted or tactically canceling each other out. Chances dried up. The rhythm slowed. The match became a midfield chess game, each side waiting for the other to blink.

It wasn't until the 87th minute that Bayern made one last push.

Van Bommel, lurking just outside the penalty area, suddenly pulled the trigger. His shot was a rocket—low, hard, and skimming the turf like a heat-seeking missile. Casillas barely had time to react.

3–2. Bayern clawed one back.

That goal lit up the room like fireworks.

"Now that could change things," Arthur said, pointing at the screen.

Simeone nodded. "Two away goals? They'll be happy with that."

In the end, the scoreboard didn't lie: Real Madrid 3, Bayern Munich 2.

Arthur leaned back, arms folded. "Not a bad result for either side. Madrid got the win, but Bayern's away goals will be dangerous in the second leg."

He glanced over at Simeone, who was already deep in thought. They both knew the scoreline might shift the tides of the quarterfinal draw.

If Leeds United could get past Barcelona—if—then this was the kind of opponent they'd have to outwit next.

Arthur smirked to himself.

"Well," he muttered, "on to Camp Nou we go."