Arthur had no idea what the English newspapers were saying about the upcoming clash. He'd barely even glanced at a headline since leaving Rome. The truth was, by the time Leeds United's plane touched down in Manchester, he was more concerned about whether his players had gotten any sleep on the flight than about columnists spilling ink about Ferguson's revenge or Leeds' so-called September curse.
The airport was buzzing with the usual chaos. Suitcases rattled on conveyor belts, half-asleep players slouched against trolleys, and Simeone, naturally, was prowling around like a cat who had sniffed out mischief. Sure enough, Diego Simeone appeared beside Arthur with a grin so sly it could have gotten him arrested in three countries. He shoved his phone under Arthur's nose.
"Boss, you've got to see this," Simeone said, his voice dripping with amusement. "After we're back in Leeds, I must find this girl and give her a signed football."
Arthur took the phone, raising an eyebrow. "Knowing you, Diego, this can't be good."
On the screen was a poll launched by a diehard Manchester United supporter. The topic? The upcoming showdown between United and Leeds. Arthur didn't need to guess which way the vote leaned—it was a United fan poll, after all. The numbers were almost comical: nearly seventy percent of voters were convinced Manchester United would steamroll Leeds at Old Trafford.
But Simeone wasn't interested in the numbers. He was pointing at one particular user in the comment section—a striking young woman who was single-handedly taking on hordes of United fans. Whenever someone mocked Leeds, she was right there, firing back with biting sarcasm, colorful language, and, strangely enough, well-wishes for their families.
Arthur scrolled through her replies. "Wishing their kids get into good schools… blessing their mothers' health… Diego, she's roasting them and then handing out fortune cookies."
Simeone was beaming. "Isn't she brilliant? Leeds through and through! I swear, boss, after the match, I'll track her down and hand her a football myself. Personally signed."
Arthur glanced at the girl's profile photo, then smirked. "Diego, even if you find her, I'm not sure she'll want your football."
"What? Why not?" Simeone looked genuinely baffled, as though Arthur had just told him grass wasn't green.
Arthur handed the phone back and tapped the screen. "Here's a tip: next time you see a pretty face on the internet and want to go charging in like Don Juan, check her profile first."
Diego frowned but did as Arthur suggested. He tapped into the fan's homepage, and within a second his eyes widened. The cover photo was unmistakable: Arthur himself, standing at the touchline, one hand buried in his coat pocket, the other pointing with absolute authority, hair tousled by the wind. The caption beneath it read simply: My king.
Simeone's jaw nearly hit the baggage carousel. He turned slowly, as if hoping Arthur wouldn't notice his expression. Arthur, of course, noticed everything and was biting back a laugh.
Diego opened his mouth, probably to make some excuse, when suddenly a booming, cheerful voice cut through the noise behind them.
"Boss! Diego! What a coincidence!"
Both men turned. And there, lugging his carry-on and grinning from ear to ear, was Kasper Schmeichel. The Danish keeper looked like he'd just won the lottery. Behind him, like a marching battalion, came Sir Alex Ferguson and a whole entourage of Manchester United players.
Simeone immediately bounded forward. "Kasper, my friend!" he shouted, hugging Schmeichel like a long-lost brother. "What are you doing here?"
"We just got back from Portugal," Kasper said brightly. "We had our Champions League match away too. Same flights, same airports—it seems fate won't let us avoid each other."
Arthur greeted him with a warm handshake, though he was already bracing himself. Where Kasper went, Ferguson was never far behind. And sure enough, the old Scot came striding over, smile as sharp as ever, ready to disarm the whole airport with that mix of humor and menace only he could pull off.
Before addressing Arthur, Ferguson turned to Schmeichel with mock severity. "Kasper, you keep calling him 'boss.' Tell me, what does that make me then, eh? Don't forget who's actually paying your wages."
Poor Kasper froze like a deer in headlights, color rising to his cheeks. "No, no, gaffer, I didn't mean— I just haven't seen them for a while, you know? Got excited, that's all…"
Ferguson chuckled, clapping the Dane on the shoulder with surprising warmth. "I'm pulling your leg, lad. Relax."
Then he turned to Arthur. The grin softened, the eyes narrowed slightly—there was no mistaking the steel beneath the charm. "Long time no see, Arthur." He extended his hand.
Arthur took it firmly. "Long time no see, Alex."
The handshake was strong, the sort of grip that tested not just your fingers but your nerve. Both men smiled, but beneath the smiles lay an entire history: title races, press room jabs, transfer market tussles. Each was measuring the other, already thinking two steps ahead of Sunday's game.
Simeone, ever perceptive, decided this was not a conversation he needed to overhear. He grabbed Kasper by the arm and muttered something about baggage carts, dragging him off toward the far end of the hall. The last Arthur saw of them was Kasper looking helpless as Diego launched into a monologue about fate, destiny, and loyal women on Twitter.
Arthur stayed where he was, still facing Ferguson. Around them, players from both squads milled about, pretending not to stare but stealing glances anyway. Two generals had just shaken hands in neutral territory, and everyone could feel the weight of it.
*****
After Simeone dragged Schmeichel away toward the luggage belt, the atmosphere shifted. Ferguson's eyes, sharp as a hawk's, wandered past Arthur, settling on the cluster of Leeds United players waiting for their bags on the far side. They were laughing, jostling one another, blissfully unaware that one of football's most legendary managers was studying them like a predator sizing up prey.
Arthur noticed it instantly. Without hesitation, he took two casual sidesteps and planted himself right in Ferguson's line of sight, arms folded, chin slightly raised. "Alex," he said dryly, "what's this then? The transfer window's barely been shut for a month, and already the cash in your pocket is itching again? I swear, I envy you United lads. The results aren't exactly sparkling, but somehow you always manage to keep the money flowing."
The opening sounded innocent enough, but the sting at the end made Ferguson's smile falter. For a brief moment the old Scot froze, his jaw tightening. Then the color in his cheeks darkened like storm clouds rolling in.
"Arthur," Ferguson growled, his voice low but dangerous. "That's a bit much. Go on then—explain. What do you mean by saying Manchester United's results aren't good?"
Arthur smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching with mischief. "Oh, come on, Alex. After grinding for an entire year, you finally bagged third place. That's the very definition of not good." He pursed his lips as if tasting something sour, then added, "And let's not even mention Athens…"
It was as if Arthur had shoved a red-hot poker straight into Ferguson's ribs. Since the defeat to AC Milan in the Champions League final at the Olympic Stadium in May, one phrase had become cursed in Manchester: The King of Third Place. No one dared utter it in front of Ferguson. Reporters tiptoed around it. Even players avoided banter about it at Carrington. Yet here was Arthur, bold as brass, twisting the knife in broad daylight.
Ferguson's whole body stiffened. His face flushed crimson as blood seemed to rocket from his toes straight to the crown of his head. His lips trembled as though he might explode at any second.
"Easy now, easy!" Arthur quickly held up both hands, even reaching out to pat Ferguson's chest in mock concern. "Don't get yourself worked up, Alex. I was joking, honestly! Just a little banter. But in fairness—you were staring at my players like a butcher at a herd of calves. What's that about? You've already pinched Carlos, Dimitar, and Kasper from me. Haven't you had your fill?"
"You cheeky bastard!" Ferguson snapped, eyes bulging at the mention of Tevez. "Pinched? Is that what you call it? Don't talk rubbish—I paid for them! Paid good money! And don't think you've fooled me, either. Look at the lot you sold me—except Kasper, who's at least halfway reliable, the rest are a nightmare. Carlos keeps moaning about going home. Dimitar can't be bothered to run in training—ask him to sprint a few yards and you'd think I'd sentenced him to hard labor! Tell me, Arthur, why did they all play like gods in Leeds but turn into prima donnas the second they pulled on a United shirt? You tell me why I'd be interested in that!"
Arthur laughed so hard he almost doubled over. It was rare anyone dared to complain directly to him about transfers—most managers just stewed in silence. But Ferguson was the one man who could moan to his face without ruining their strange rivalry-friendship.
"Ah, Alex, that's simple," Arthur said, still chuckling. "They thrived with me because they had a proper manager pushing them. Now? Well, maybe the training sessions up north aren't as fiery as they used to be. That's hardly my fault, is it?"
Ferguson's glare could have melted steel. "Not your fault? You little devil. If you hadn't hyped them up so much, I wouldn't have thrown over twenty million at bloody Carlos!"
Arthur pointed both thumbs at himself, feigning innocence. "How's that my fault? I didn't twist your arm! You're the one who waved the chequebook around. Honestly, Alex, if you're that desperate to spend, don't look at me—have a word with your board." He jabbed a finger toward Schmeichel, who was busy joking with a group of Leeds players across the hall. "Look at Kasper! He's thriving, isn't he? Playing out of his skin."
That gave Ferguson a moment's pause. "Uh…" He faltered for just a second before snapping back to form. "Don't try to pull the wool over my eyes, Arthur. I've seen your match tapes. Don't think I haven't noticed. Since the fourth round, Kasper's shoved Van der Sar onto the bench. He's your bloody first-choice now, isn't he? And don't deny it—I've checked the stats. Since he started, you lot haven't lost a single game!"
Arthur's grin widened into a full-on beam. The sparkle in his eye said it all: Ferguson had just admitted how closely he was watching Leeds, how much Leeds worried him. It was the perfect victory in a battle of words.
And yet, beneath the teasing, both men knew the truth. This wasn't just banter, not really. It was reconnaissance. Two managers, two rivals, circling each other like heavyweight fighters before the bell. The luggage carousel clanked on, but all anyone could see in that crowded airport corner was the clash of titans already beginning.