Thorp Arch Training Base

The autumn drizzle had just cleared, leaving the training ground damp and glistening under a pale sky. The grass looked fresh, but the mood on the pitch was anything but.

Arthur stood with his arms folded, staring at the empty training field as though the answers to his problems might be hiding somewhere between the cones and goalposts. Simeone stood to his left, pacing with his usual restless energy, while Rivaldo leaned against a post, his face creased with concern.

Of the three, Arthur looked the least miserable—though even he wore a deep frown. Simeone and Rivaldo, on the other hand, looked like men who had just checked their bank accounts and discovered the money had vanished.

For a long while, no one said a word. The silence stretched, heavy, awkward. You could hear the distant thud of a youth team training session on the other side of the complex, but between these three, it was nothing but grim quiet.

Finally, Rivaldo broke.

"Boss," he said, his voice low but steady, "I think… if it really doesn't work, maybe we should give up the League Cup."

Arthur slowly turned his head toward him, his eyebrows lifting. Rivaldo pressed on, now more urgent.

"I studied our schedule again last night. Before the international break in mid-October, we're playing Chelsea, Liverpool, Roma, and Manchester United. Four monsters in a row. If we try to fight on all fronts, we'll burn out. Compared to what I saw from the lads the other night… I'm worried, boss. Really worried."

Arthur didn't answer immediately. He just stood there, lips pressed tight, his brow furrowed in thought. Because as much as he wanted to dismiss Rivaldo's concerns, the Brazilian was right.

This was the reality Leeds United faced.

And, truth be told, even Arthur hadn't expected it. They'd strengthened their squad in the summer, built a deeper bench, added more weapons. He'd thought they'd be able to rotate more freely, to absorb the chaos of the Premier League schedule. But here they were—already running headfirst into a wall of fatigue and injuries.

The win in Portugal had been sweet. The flight back to England, smooth. But instead of heading straight back to Leeds, they'd gone down to Berkshire to prepare for the Reading match.

Reading. On paper, not exactly terrifying. The team had only one win from six rounds, plus a draw, plus four defeats. Their form was awful. Everyone had thought Leeds would swat them aside like an annoying mosquito.

Arthur himself had believed it. The players seemed fit, their physical levels still high, so he hadn't rotated too heavily. "No need," he'd thought. "We'll manage this."

But football is cruel, and Reading decided that this would be the day they rediscovered their backbone.

The first half had ended 1–1, which was already frustrating. But then the second half turned into a nightmare. First Adriano went down clutching his leg. Then Sneijder followed him off, injured too. Arthur's blood pressure had spiked higher than the Reading floodlights.

And just when he thought at least they'd escape with a draw, the 89th minute arrived. A corner kick. A crowded box. And boom—Reading snatched a winner.

Arthur had clutched the "lore card" in his hand—a special tactical trick he could only use five times a season. His fingers twitched, itching to play it. But in the end, he swallowed his pride. He couldn't waste it here, not against Reading.

And so Leeds United had fallen.

A defeat, and not just any defeat, but one that rattled the league table.

With five wins and two losses, Leeds dropped to 15 points. Arsenal, meanwhile, demolished Derby County 5–0, soaring to 17 points and overtaking them. Manchester United also crept up, beating Chelsea to reach 14 points. In one round, Leeds slid from first to third.

Arthur replayed it all in his head now, every painful second, every missed opportunity.

"Boss," Simeone's gravelly voice pulled him back to reality. His assistant's face was as grim as a funeral. "It's not just the league table. The situation is worse. Next month, when the international break comes, the European players will have to play Euro qualifiers. Those matches aren't like friendlies—intensity's way higher. If they go in already exhausted, we'll see more injuries. Serious ones."

Arthur exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair. He knew Simeone was right. He knew Rivaldo was right. He just hated being cornered by circumstance.

For a long moment, he stood silently, his gaze fixed on the grass. Then, finally, he spoke.

"How's Liverpool's form lately?"

Rivaldo, ever prepared, jumped in instantly. "Not great. After their win against Derby County, they drew two in a row. Both 0–0. Attack looks blunt, rhythm looks off."

Arthur nodded slowly, the pieces clicking into place in his mind. He weighed the League Cup against the league, against Europe, against player health. And then, with a long breath, he made his call.

"Alright. We'll rest the main players against Chelsea in the League Cup. Rotate heavily. Keep our legs fresh for the battles that matter." His voice was calm, but final. "Besides… I think Mourinho will probably do the same. Chelsea won't risk their starters either. He's no fool."

Simeone and Rivaldo exchanged glances, both men visibly relieved. The decision had been made. The burden lightened, even if only slightly.

Arthur, though, still wore his frown. He knew the war ahead was long, brutal, and merciless. And resting his players now was only the first of many tough choices he'd have to make.

******

Elland Road, three days later.

The floodlights glared down on the pitch, illuminating the start of the third round of the 2007–2008 English League Cup. The stadium buzzed with anticipation, but the lineups already told the story.

Arthur had done exactly what he promised at Thorp Arch—heavy rotation. Aside from Torres, every single position was filled with substitutes, youngsters, or benchwarmers eager for a rare chance to shine. Arthur stood with his arms folded on the sideline, a stern look plastered across his face, though deep inside he was whispering to himself, Please, Mourinho, don't take this seriously. Just roll out your benchwarmers too. Be reasonable for once in your life.

But José Mourinho had no interest in being reasonable. Not tonight.

Still smarting from a 2–0 defeat to Manchester United a few days earlier, the Portuguese manager arrived at Elland Road with vengeance in his veins. The team sheet was a gut punch—Drogba, Lampard, Terry, Shevchenko, Ashley Cole, Carvalho… every single one of Chelsea's big guns was there. No mercy, no rotation, no kindness. It was a message.

When the whistle blew, the difference was clear. Chelsea swarmed Leeds' youngsters like hungry lions chasing sheep. Their physicality, their pressing, their composure—it was men against boys.

For a while, Leeds resisted. De Gea pulled off some sharp saves, Hummels tried to stay composed, Silva fought like mad, and the midfield kids chased shadows with everything they had. But eventually, quality told.

In the 38th minute, Chelsea carved them open. Lampard slipped a precise pass into Shevchenko. The Ukrainian leaned his body into Hummels, spun him like a door on rusty hinges, and broke into the box. His shot was sharp, low, and De Gea sprawled left, sticking out his boot to block it brilliantly.

The home fans roared in relief. But their cheers froze in their throats.

The rebound rolled loose—straight into the path of Drogba.

Thiago Silva battled him desperately, tugging and shoving, but Drogba was a mountain. With one arm, he brushed Silva aside as though swatting away an annoying fly. Facing an open net, the Ivorian calmly slotted the ball in.

0–1. Chelsea took the lead. Drogba celebrated with his usual swagger, chest out, arms wide, daring Elland Road to boo him louder.

Arthur grimaced. He'd expected Mourinho to rotate, to play fair. Instead, it felt like he'd walked into a pub for a friendly darts match only to find his opponent had brought a bazooka.

At halftime, Arthur gathered his men in the dressing room. The youngsters sat slumped, sweat dripping, lungs burning. "Listen," Arthur said, pacing back and forth, "we're not out of this. We fight, we run, we push. Reus, you've done your part. Adriano, you're on. Give us some firepower. Keep pushing, lads, because I don't care who they are—we don't roll over for anyone."

The lads roared in agreement, but the truth was obvious: the problem wasn't attack. It was defense.

That truth hit like a sledgehammer just two minutes into the second half.

Chelsea launched a long ball from deep. Ashley Cole bombed down the left, delivering a perfect diagonal pass that arced into Drogba's orbit.

Once again, Drogba bullied Silva with effortless brutality, chesting the ball down and laying it off to Kalou. The Ivorian winger sprinted like a bullet, leaving poor Danny Mills spinning in circles like a lost tourist in central London. Kalou cut inside the box and fired low.

Bang.

2–0. Chelsea doubled their lead, and Elland Road fell silent except for the roar of the away fans.

In the commentary box, Jon could barely contain his excitement. He jumped to his feet, headset rattling as he shouted, "Beautiful! Chelsea are flying! Drogba, Kalou—it's too easy! Gary, don't be depressed, this is just the League Cup! When we saw the lineups, we knew Arthur was waving the white flag."

Gary Lineker, beside him, looked like he'd bitten into a lemon. His face twisted, his voice low and venomous. "Damn FA. This schedule is ridiculous! I swear Arthur didn't want to give up the League Cup. Look at Leeds' run—Chelsea, Roma, Liverpool, Manchester United! Four monsters in a row! The FA are practically sabotaging Leeds."

Jon smirked, leaning into his microphone with a conspiratorial tone. "Maybe, maybe. But think about it, Gary. Has Chelsea ever really struggled with this kind of scheduling? The FA knows how to make life easier for some clubs. You know what I mean. A little… back door here and there. Especially for a certain knighted manager down in Manchester."

Lineker rolled his eyes so hard they nearly fell out of his head. He didn't dare push the topic further—he knew what happened last year when Arthur himself had taken shots at the FA. A fine slapped down quicker than a red card for dissent. And Lineker wasn't the boss of Leeds United—he was just a commentator. His leash was even shorter.

Back on the pitch, the inevitable unfolded. Leeds huffed, puffed, tried to break through, but Mourinho's Chelsea were ruthless, clinical, unforgiving. The final whistle confirmed it: with goals from Drogba and Kalou, Chelsea had triumphed 2–0 at Elland Road.

Arthur stood on the touchline, arms folded tight, jaw set. He hated it, but reality was reality. The League Cup dream was dead—again—crushed under the weight of an impossible schedule.

The fans applauded the youngsters for their effort, but the scoreboard told the story. Chelsea marched on. Leeds United bowed out.

And Arthur, once more, was forced to accept that survival in the Premier League and success in Europe would mean sacrifices—painful, unavoidable sacrifices.