Lineker slid his chair closer to the desk, pulled the laptop in front of him, and cleared his throat with that familiar hint of excitement. His eyes flicked across the screen as the live broadcast rolled on.

"Alright, let's start with Sporting Lisbon's lineup at home," he said, his voice carrying both analysis and just a touch of skepticism. "It looks like Paulo Bento is fully aware that his side is at a disadvantage when it comes to raw power. He's gone with a 3-5-2 formation tonight. Clearly, Sporting are hoping to clog up the midfield with numbers and try to disrupt Leeds United's rhythm in the center of the park."

He began reading off the names with practiced precision.

"In goal, they stick with Stojković. The back three: Tonel, Polga, and Abel Ferreira. In midfield, it's a packed line of five. Their captain and heartbeat, João Moutinho, anchors the middle. On either side of him are Miguel Veloso and Leandro Romagnoli. The two central runners next to them are Rochemback and Marat Izmailov. And up front, they'll rely on their sharp poacher Liedson, paired with the younger Jalo."

Lineker let out a small breath, leaning back slightly after rattling through the names.

Jon smoothly picked up the baton. "And now for Leeds United. After the last round of league fixtures, most of Arthur's regular starters have shaken off fatigue and are ready to go. He's lined them up in his favored 4-3-3 system, the one we've seen him stick to consistently in recent weeks."

The names rolled out in Jon's steady tone. "Between the posts, Manuel Neuer retains his spot. In defense, with Fabio Cannavaro still recovering from a slight knock on international duty, Arthur has gone with youth. Mats Hummels partners the captain, Vincent Kompany, in the heart of defense. On the flanks, the full-backs are Philipp Lahm and Sun Jihai. The midfield three sees Javier Mascherano in his usual role as holding midfielder, sitting just behind Kaká and Ricardo Rodríguez. And in the forward line—well, it's formidable. Zlatan Ibrahimović leads through the middle, with Marco Reus on his left and Adriano on the right."

Jon paused briefly, then added with a hint of admiration, "Gary, looking at Arthur's lineup, there's no doubt he's here for business. Leeds United are taking this seriously. They want to set the tone for their Champions League campaign right here in Lisbon."

Lineker nodded emphatically. "Exactly. Leeds have been in fine form this season. Yes, there was that slip-up earlier this month, but they corrected course quickly. Arthur's side isn't about to play cautiously here. Against Sporting, who are clearly weaker on paper, Leeds will go all out for the win."

····

While the pundits discussed lineups, down on the pitch the traditional pre-match rituals were in full swing. The referee gathered both captains at the center circle for the coin toss.

Vincent Kompany, tall and calm in the yellow Leeds kit, faced João Moutinho, who wore the green and white stripes with pride. The coin flicked into the air, clinked down into the referee's palm, and after a glance he nodded. Kompany had won the toss.

He didn't hesitate with his choice. Considering the cauldron around him, he picked the goal on the north side of the stadium.

There was logic behind it. Everyone in football knew the south stand was the beating heart of Sporting Lisbon—the gathering of their most ferocious ultras. From the very first whistle, those fans would hurl everything—songs, chants, abuse, "encouragements"—at the poor visiting goalkeeper stationed in front of them. It wasn't just noise; it was a weapon designed to rattle nerves and force mistakes.

Kompany, ever thoughtful, glanced back at his own goalkeeper. Neuer might have been supremely talented, but he was also a showman. The German loved to play to the crowd, and sometimes his confidence bordered on recklessness. Kompany wasn't about to risk him getting too hyped up in the opening stages. Better to keep Neuer as far away from the ultras as possible until Leeds had settled into the match.

So north goal it was. Moutinho, by default, claimed kickoff.

····

The rituals finished, the two teams jogged back to their halves. The stadium's roar swelled as anticipation reached fever pitch. Players adjusted armbands, tugged at shorts, exchanged glances with teammates.

Referee Peter Fröjdfeldt from Sweden, calm and precise, stepped to the center circle. He checked both goalkeepers, glanced at his assistants, then lowered his eyes to the watch strapped to his wrist. A few seconds ticked by. Then came the shrill blast of the whistle.

The Champions League had officially begun in Lisbon.

"Here we go, ladies and gentlemen!" Lineker's voice burst with energy on the broadcast. "We're underway in Group Stage action. Sporting Lisbon against Leeds United, live from the Estádio José Alvalade!"

Jon followed smoothly. "The home side in their classic green-and-white hoops, Leeds United in their striking yellow away strip. Sporting with the kickoff. Jalo taps the ball backward into midfield, straight to Moutinho, and the match is on!"

The noise inside the stadium erupted even louder. Fifty thousand voices, banners whipping through the air, and on the pitch twenty-two players locked in the first steps of a European duel.

*****

The whistle had barely faded when Sporting Lisbon charged forward with all the fury of a team that smelled blood.

Bento's plan was simple—almost too simple. Arthur's been running his mouth before the game, he thought. If he's that arrogant, surely his players must have caught the disease too.

So why not? Sporting's raw strength couldn't match Leeds United's man for man. But with 50,000 fans roaring behind them, and with the hope that Leeds might underestimate them, Bento's instructions were clear: throw everything at them in the first half. Run them ragged, nick an early goal, and then park the bus with the crowd at your back. A scrappy 1–0, three points secured, and headlines across Portugal singing their praises.

Only, there was one little problem—Leeds weren't here to play along.

The opening wave came quickly. The ball zipped through Moutinho's feet in midfield, a neat one-two exchange, before being slipped forward into the stride of Liedson, Sporting's wiry striker, just outside the penalty area.

He received it with his back to goal, body angled cleverly, using Kompany's presence to spin some space. Two, maybe three yards. Enough to turn, maybe to slip a shot, or dart into the box. That was the plan.

Except Kompany had other ideas.

Two or three yards meant nothing to the Belgian captain. Liedson barely nudged the ball to his left, body coiling to swivel, when—bang! It felt like he'd run straight into a wall made of steel and muscle.

"Oi!" Liedson grunted, jolted off balance. But before he could even think of passing out of danger, there it was—the long, tree-trunk leg of Kompany stabbing cleanly in. One perfectly timed poke, and the ball was gone, stripped right from under his boots.

The Alvalade roared in frustration. Liedson flung his arms out in disbelief.

And just like that, Leeds turned defense into attack.

The loose ball skidded straight into the path of Mascherano, who had tracked back deep like a hawk waiting for the scraps. He didn't hesitate for a heartbeat. A quick swivel, his eyes already scanning, and he spotted the man. Kaká. Always Kaká.

The pass zipped forward, crisp and low.

Kaká didn't even break stride. He angled his body half-open, cushioned the ball with the softest of touches on his left, and then he was off—long strides, head high, eating up grass down the right channel.

"Here comes Kaká!" Jon's voice rose over the broadcast.

Sporting's defense scrambled. Tonel, the central defender, saw the danger instantly and hurtled across, determined to cut off the Brazilian's inside lane. Anything but that. Let him go wide, let him cross—but don't let him cut in on that right boot.

Kaká read it, too. He adjusted, veering wider, dragging Tonel with him like a kite tugged by the wind. The crowd gasped as his pace carried him all the way to the byline.

Then, at the last possible heartbeat, Kaká threw in another burst, the kind that turned legs to jelly. He darted past Tonel by half a step and, with one graceful swing of his right foot, whipped the ball across goal.

It was a rocket of a cross—low, fast, wicked.

The green-and-white shirts panicked. Polga lunged, boot outstretched. Missed. Stojković flung a glove, desperate. Nothing. The ball skimmed through the six-yard box like a bullet train.

At the back post, Marco Reus came charging in. The chance was there—if he could just match Kaká's lightning tempo.

But no. He was half a second late, a yard short. The ball flashed past his boots, his desperate slide catching nothing but turf, and it sailed harmlessly out of play beyond the far sideline.

A collective groan echoed around the stadium, the home fans relieved, the traveling Leeds supporters clutching their heads.

"Ohhhh, that was close!" Lineker bellowed on commentary. "Kaká with a blistering run and a devilish ball across the face of goal, but Reus just couldn't quite keep up with the Brazilian's pace!"

Jon chuckled beside him. "That's the danger, Gary. Leeds can soak up an attack in their own box one second, and in the blink of an eye they're carving you open at the other end. Sporting need to be very, very careful."

On the touchline, Bento was already barking at his players to reset. Meanwhile, Arthur, arms folded calmly, allowed himself the tiniest grin. His so-called arrogance? It was nothing more than confidence—and already, Sporting were learning just how justified it was.