The clock ticked into the 65th minute, and the rhythm of the game had reached that strange, dangerous point where one side was pushing relentlessly, and the other was lurking like a snake in the grass, waiting for that one slip.

Leeds United were the ones pressing, swarming forward with intent, their passes zipping neatly through midfield. The move looked promising: Sneijder, freshly introduced for Yaya Touré, drifted into the half-space just outside Sheffield United's penalty area. The Dutchman had that usual swagger — socks rolled down, chest puffed out, as if he'd already visualized his name lighting up the scoreboard.

But just as he leaned into a touch, ready to orchestrate the killer ball, disaster struck.

Swipe!

Matt Kilgallon slid in like a thief in the night, poking the ball clean off Sneijder's boots. The tackle was sharp, perfectly timed, and Sneijder's hopeful attack ended before it even began.

"Ah, that's sloppy from Wesley! He should've done better there!" Gary Lineker exclaimed in the studio, his voice a mix of excitement and mild disbelief.

Kilgallon wasted no time admiring his handiwork. He popped back up, lifted his head, and spotted a target. Richards was hovering near the center circle, poised like a sprinter waiting for the gun. Kilgallon launched the ball long and direct, bypassing Leeds' midfield entirely.

The camera cut sharply to the Leeds backline, and the air seemed to tense up.

Cannavaro, the experienced general, had been positioned deepest. But he misjudged the trajectory. Instead of stepping forward to meet the ball, he hesitated half a beat — just enough for Richards to pounce.

Richards cushioned it down smoothly on his chest, spun in one motion, and took off. You could almost hear the collective groan of the Leeds fans in the stands.

Arthur, standing rigid in his technical area, muttered under his breath. "Bloody hell, Fabio. That was schoolboy stuff…"

Richards only needed a quick glance to assess the chaos unfolding. To his delight, his teammate Quinn was already charging upfield, tearing past the halfway line with all the subtlety of a freight train. Richards didn't think twice — he sprayed the ball wide left, then sprinted straight through the middle, heading like an arrow toward the Leeds penalty area.

The counterattack was on.

Lineker's voice went up an octave: "It's dangerous! Sheffield United have broken through! A lightning counter, sparked from nothing!"

Jon, now speaking at double speed, piled on: "Quinn has the ball! He's absolutely flying down the left flank — look at him go! Lahm should've been there to stop him, but he's still tracking back desperately!"

The broadcast camera zoomed in on Lahm, who looked like a man late for the last train of the night, sprinting with all his might. The German full-back was quick, no doubt, but his starting position had been too advanced. By the time he clawed back the yards, Quinn had already built enough of a lead to swing his foot.

Quinn's delivery was clever — far cleverer than most expected. He didn't whip it straight to Richards, who was making himself available near the front post. Instead, he paused just long enough to lift his head and scan. Richards had Kompany and Cannavaro breathing down his neck.

So Quinn switched targets.

He angled the ball beautifully across the face of goal, aiming for the far post.

Arthur, on the touchline, instantly sensed the danger. His stomach dropped.

"Oh no… oh no, don't you dare."

Because streaking in, completely unnoticed, was Stead.

The striker had timed his run to perfection, ghosting in from the far side. Both Cannavaro and Kompany had eyes only for Richards, completely oblivious to the predator lurking behind them.

"Back post! Back post!" Arthur screamed, jabbing his finger toward the spot. But it was too late.

Up in the studio, Lineker let out a sharp gasp: "Oh, this is trouble! Stead is unmarked — nobody's picked him up!"

Jon piled in frantically: "This could be the moment! Leeds have completely lost track of him — look at the space he has!"

The Elland Road crowd held its breath.

Inside the six-yard box, Schmeichel was shifting across his goal line, his eyes locked on Richards. Every bit of his body language screamed anticipation of a near-post strike. His weight leaned ever so slightly to the right, gloves primed.

But Stead had other ideas.

Instead of bringing the ball down, instead of pausing to steady himself, he hurled his entire body forward like a missile. His timing was immaculate. His forehead crashed into the ball with the kind of commitment that made defenders wince.

A diving header.

The ball flew low and hard to Schmeichel's left — the opposite side to where the keeper had gambled. Schmeichel threw out a despairing arm, but it was futile.

The net bulged.

"GOAL!!!" Lineker roared. "Sheffield United have turned it around! Stead with a sensational diving header! 2–1 to Sheffield United!"

The camera cut to Arthur, who had both hands clamped on his head, staring blankly at the pitch. His lips moved silently, as if trying to compute how his defense had just collapsed like that.

Behind him, Simeone paced furiously, kicking an imaginary bottle. "Bloody amateurs! Nobody tracks the back post anymore?!"

On the pitch, Sheffield United's players erupted. Stead wheeled away, pumping his fists, before calling Quinn and Richards over. The three hugged like brothers who'd just robbed a bank together. They sprinted to the corner flag, grinning ear to ear.

Then, cheekily, they gestured toward the Leeds fans packed behind the goal. Arms wide, cupping their ears, beckoning for more noise.

The home supporters, already shell-shocked, answered with a storm of boos. A few empty water bottles sailed down, but most fans had long since run out of ammunition. All they could do was scream their frustration, their throats raw with anger.

Arthur, standing there with his arms folded tight across his chest, muttered through clenched teeth:

"Right. If that's how they want to play it, fine. But they've just poked the bear."

*****

Elland Road was buzzing, every chant and roar from the Leeds faithful shaking the very rafters, but in a single moment the stadium's collective heartbeat was silenced.

"A beautiful cross! Quinn is looking for the back post!" Jon's voice climbed as though he already feared what was coming. His eyes tracked the ball as it arced into the box, dangerously precise, the kind of delivery that made defenders' stomachs turn. "Stead has rushed over—he's there! He's in the air!"

Everything slowed. For a heartbeat, you could almost hear Stead's boots leaving the turf, his entire body hanging like a giant banner in midair. Schmeichel threw himself across, arms outstretched, mouth wide in a desperate yell. But it was too late.

"Stead has jumped to the top! Schmeichel has no way! Sheffield United have actually overtaken the score at Elland Road!!!" Jon's voice cracked with the intensity of the moment, the roar of Sheffield's tiny travelling contingent drowned under stunned silence.

The ball smacked the back of the net. Leeds hearts sank with it.

Lineker didn't even bother with analysis. He just dropped his head, hands gripping the desk, and groaned:

"Ah—ah—" It wasn't commentary, it was pain. He had seen the danger the second Quinn wound up that cross. By the time Stead connected, Lineker already knew. "Ahh…" he sighed again, words failing him completely, as though the noise itself was mourning.

Jon, at least, kept his composure, though his face betrayed sympathy. "Sheffield United have taken the lead away from home, and on the other field, the score is still one–nil! It can be said that Leeds United have sunk into the abyss at this moment. If these two scores remain unchanged, Leeds will hand the Premier League trophy to Manchester United!"

The camera cut to Arthur on the touchline. His arms were folded, lips pursed, eyes flickering only briefly at the scoreboard before they snapped back to the pitch. The stadium might have been cracking under despair, but Arthur looked like a man sipping tea in a storm—calm, infuriatingly calm.

Then his voice broke the spell. "Fernando! Marco!" he barked, clapping his hands sharply, his voice almost startling Simeone beside him. "Five minutes—go warm up!"

The words rang with urgency, like a fire alarm. Simeone, who had been standing almost numbly after the goal, turned, startled. He glanced at his boss, half-wondering if Arthur had finally lost his poker face. But no—Arthur had already strode back toward the bench, pointing at Marco Reus and Fernando Torres.

The two substitutes sprang up like schoolboys who'd been caught daydreaming. Reus shoved his training bib over his head, and Torres cracked his knuckles with a grin, muttering something about Sheffield "having no idea what's coming." Within seconds, the pair were jogging down the touchline, stretching their legs, shaking off the weight of disappointment that still hung heavy in the stadium air.

Simeone finally found his voice. He tugged Arthur's sleeve and muttered, "Boss, there are only twenty minutes left." His voice was quieter now, almost worried, the fiery spark he'd shown at halftime dimmed by the scoreboard.

Arthur didn't even blink. "I know." He said it with such flat certainty that it was as if he'd been told the weather. Then his tone lifted, firm, unshaken. "Aren't there still twenty minutes, Diego? Twenty minutes is a lifetime in football. We still have a chance!"

The words hit Simeone harder than expected. For a moment, he wanted to believe. But the doubt lingered. He leaned closer, lowering his voice again. "Should I call Vincent over? His head doesn't look right today. If they score again…" He hesitated. "…we might have no hope."

Arthur turned his gaze toward the pitch. Kompany stood near the halfway line, shoulders slumped, eyes glued to the turf. He looked like a man waiting for judgment. Simeone's words weren't wrong—Vincent's head had dropped the moment the goal went in.

But Arthur shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "That one can't be blamed on him. When we press that high, we expect risks. It was the whole team's gamble, not his mistake."

Then Arthur suddenly cupped his hands around his mouth, stepping right to the edge of the technical area, and bellowed loud enough for half of Elland Road to hear:

"What are you doing?! The game is not over yet! Why are you standing there like it is?!" His voice sliced through the gloom like a whip crack. "Heads up! Play the game!"

He clapped loudly, twice, the sharp sound echoing toward the players. Then, pointedly, he turned toward Kompany and clapped again, nodding at him with a small, deliberate smile.

The players, bunched in their own half as Sheffield celebrated, all turned. They expected fury, maybe a rant about blowing the title. But instead they saw Arthur, calm-faced, not a hint of despair. His expression said one thing: I believe in you, so believe in yourselves.

Kompany, in particular, felt the weight lift from his shoulders. He'd braced for the inevitable scolding—he even avoided Arthur's gaze at first. But when his eyes finally met his coach's, all he saw was encouragement. Pure, unshaken trust.

That single look ignited something in him. Vincent clapped his own hands furiously, shouting toward his teammates: "The boss is right! The game is not over yet!" His voice boomed across the pitch, defiance replacing doubt.

Then he roared again, louder, as though to the entire stadium: "Everyone! There are more than twenty minutes left! We're not giving this title away—let's keep the trophy here at Elland Road!!!"

The crowd, still stunned from conceding, stirred again. The energy began to flicker back, chants slowly rising, hope rekindling because their captain and their coach refused to accept defeat.

And just like that, Leeds were alive again.