When Ronaldo's one-on-one effort flew off target and the collective sigh from the stands faded, the pace of the game finally began to cool. Both sides seemed to have burned through all their fireworks for the half — the midfield tightened, tackles became cleaner, and neither could carve out any clear opportunities again.
For the first time all evening, the match settled into something resembling calm. The referee barely had to lift his whistle. No reckless fouls, no stoppages beyond the routine ones, just pure, unrelenting football.
After two minutes of added time, the referee raised the whistle to his lips and blew for halftime. The Old Trafford roar rolled into applause, a sound that carried both relief and anticipation. The scoreboard remained untouched — Manchester United 0, Leeds United 0 — but no one in the stands could complain about the entertainment.
Lineker, who'd spent the entire half half-standing out of his commentary chair, let out an exhausted sigh as if he'd just played the forty-five minutes himself. "Alright… the first half is finally over," he said, flopping back into his seat. "I swear, that was the most intense forty-five minutes of football I've seen this entire season! There wasn't a single dull second! From the first whistle, both teams went at each other like two bulls in a narrow alley — no hesitation, no testing waters, just straight-up war!"
He laughed, wiping the sweat off his brow with a tissue. "But good lord, my heart nearly gave out when Manchester United had those two one-on-ones! I think my blood pressure just joined the Premier League table."
Jon, sitting beside him, chuckled. "That's what happens when two managers know each other this well. Arthur and Ferguson aren't just rivals — they're practically old drinking buddies who can read each other like a book. They both knew exactly what the other would do, so there was no feeling-out period. Straight to the jugular from minute one."
He leaned back, adjusting his headset. "Honestly, this game isn't about the pre-match tactics at all. Both teams came prepared for each other. The real battle is happening in real time — it's all about on-the-spot command. Whoever spots the opponent's weakness first, whoever dares to take that extra risk, will walk away with all three points."
Lineker grinned. "And if neither side spots a weakness?"
Jon smirked. "Then Arsenal gets to sit at home and laugh while these two tear each other apart for a draw."
Laughter filled the commentary booth, cutting through the tension that had hung heavy since kickoff.
Meanwhile, down in the concrete tunnels beneath the roaring stands, the two locker rooms were living in two very different kinds of silence.
In the Manchester United dressing room, the air smelled of sweat, grass, and faint adrenaline. Ferguson strode in briskly, his sharp eyes sweeping over his players like a general inspecting his troops after a fierce skirmish. Then, unexpectedly, his expression softened.
"Alright, lads," he said, voice deep and gravelly. "First half — well done."
All eyes turned toward him. No hairdryer, no fiery tirade — that alone shocked half the squad.
He looked first at Kasper Schmeichel, who was still tugging at his gloves, trying to catch his breath after pulling off several huge saves. "Kasper," Ferguson began, his tone carrying genuine warmth, "bloody brilliant out there. If it weren't for you, we'd be two down right now."
The young goalkeeper blinked, then scratched the back of his head, a shy grin creeping across his face. "Ah, I was just lucky, boss," he said humbly. "Most of those shots came from my old teammates. Guess I still remember how they like to shoot."
Ferguson chuckled — a rare sound in this room. "Don't sell yourself short, son. Luck doesn't dive the right way three times in forty-five minutes." He took a step closer, his voice firming. "And remember, lad — you've got the Schmeichel name. When you stand in goal, you're not just a keeper. You're a bloody wall. Be proud of it. Be fierce."
Kasper straightened instantly. "Yes, boss!"
Ferguson gave a satisfied nod before his eyes drifted to the corner, where Cristiano Ronaldo sat on the bench, staring down at the floor, lost in thought. The Portuguese star's normally confident shoulders were slumped, his towel draped loosely around his neck.
"Cristiano," Ferguson called suddenly.
Ronaldo looked up, startled, eyes wide. He was bracing himself for the storm. He knew he'd wasted chances — three golden ones, in fact. Every step back toward the dressing room, he'd been waiting for the inevitable explosion.
But instead of fury, he was met with something far more disarming.
"You did well," Ferguson said simply.
Ronaldo blinked. "...What?"
The boss's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Don't look so shocked, son. I'm serious." He folded his arms, pacing a little. "When we were under pressure, Kasper kept us in it. But up front, you kept their back line terrified. You didn't give them a moment's rest. That's how you turn a storm in your favor — by forcing them to fear you."
He stopped pacing and met Ronaldo's eyes. "You heard what I told you before the match. You're the key to our attack. You've got the pace, the trickery, the confidence — everything to crack them open. And you didn't disappoint me out there."
Ronaldo stared at him, speechless.
"Now," Ferguson continued, softer but no less firm, "forget the missed chances. They're gone. Dust in the wind. You think I've never had a striker waste chances before? Rooney's done it. Giggs has done it. Hell, even Cantona did it once or twice." A few players laughed quietly. "What matters is how you respond. The second half's coming — and Leeds' defense won't hold if you keep hammering at them like that. Keep your head, lad. Your goal's coming."
That last sentence hit Ronaldo like a lightning bolt.
This was not the Ferguson he expected — not the roaring disciplinarian, but the mentor who believed in him when no one else did. In front of the whole squad, Ferguson had just called him the most important piece of United's attack.
Ronaldo felt something tighten in his chest — a fire that began in his gut and climbed all the way to his throat. The frustration from the missed chances evaporated. His jaw set, his eyes sharpened, and a familiar swagger crept back into his posture.
"Yes, boss," he said quietly, voice low but full of conviction. "I won't let you down."
Ferguson smiled, the faintest glint of pride in his eyes. "That's what I like to hear."
Around the room, Rooney gave Ronaldo a playful nudge. "Better get your shooting boots on, mate. Can't have Lineker calling you out again."
The Portuguese star smirked, flashing a bit of his trademark arrogance back. "Don't worry, I'll make him eat his words soon enough."
The whole locker room burst into laughter, the heavy atmosphere dissolving instantly. Even Giggs joined in with a chuckle, while Scholes muttered, "As long as you don't hit me with one of those shots again."
*****
And in the away team's locker room, the mood was tense but buzzing with that strange cocktail of relief and hunger that comes after a hard-fought first half. Arthur stood in front of the whiteboard, arms crossed, watching his players wipe sweat off their faces and gulp down water. The sound of Velcro straps, heavy breathing, and the occasional laugh filled the room. It smelled like effort — that familiar mix of sweat, grass, and ambition.
Like Ferguson across the hall, Arthur was reviewing everything in his mind. But his tone was different. He wasn't chewing anyone out yet — not fully, anyway.
"Alright," he began, voice calm but sharp enough to slice through the noise. "Overall, you played the first half well. You followed the plan, pressed hard, controlled the rhythm." He gave a short nod, letting that small bit of praise hang in the air for a moment. Then, his eyes narrowed slightly, and his next words hit like a jab. "But on the front line—Zlatan, Frank—you two wasted too many damn chances."
A few players chuckled under their breath, trying to gauge whether Arthur was joking. Zlatan, of course, wasn't going to sit there quietly. The Swede leaned back on the bench, raised his hand with mock innocence, and said dramatically, "Boss, you can't blame us for that! It's all because of Casper. The man's a fox between the posts! He knows every trick we've got — too familiar with our shooting habits!"
The room broke into a few snickers. Even Frank Lampard tried to hide a grin behind his water bottle.
Arthur turned his head slowly toward Zlatan, rolling his eyes so hard it looked like they might get stuck. "Zlatan, are you stupid?" he snapped, half amused and half exasperated. "Yes, Casper knows your habits. But don't you know his? You've trained with the guy for years! You should know what kind of shots he's good at stopping, and what kind make him look like a Sunday League keeper!"
The room erupted in laughter, and Zlatan blinked, caught off guard. "Uh…" he muttered, scratching the back of his head with an awkward smile. "That's… true. Boss, if you didn't remind me, I wouldn't have thought of that."
Arthur shook his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Don't talk to me about useless things, Zlatan," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "You want to score? Then start using that oversized ego of yours for something productive — like remembering your opponent's weak spots!"
That line sent the locker room into another burst of laughter, even making Cannavaro chuckle from his corner. The mood lightened, but Arthur wasn't done. His tone shifted again — less playful now, more commanding.
"Listen up," he said, his voice cutting clean through the noise. "Second half — we keep the same intensity. Keep pressing them. They're nervous, and they know it. Don't give them a second to breathe." He looked toward the defenders, his eyes locking on Kompany and Cannavaro. "And one more thing — keep your eyes on Cristiano. I told you before kickoff: he's in ridiculous form this season. He's become the engine of their attack. If you give him an inch, he'll turn it into a highway."
The defenders nodded firmly, faces set.
"If you can't stop him cleanly," Arthur continued, pacing in front of the whiteboard, "then fine. Foul him. But make sure it's outside the danger zone — no stupid penalties, no cards you can avoid. Got it?"
"Got it!" came a unified chorus.
Arthur clapped his hands together. "Good. And Kaka," he said, turning to the Brazilian playmaker, "tighten your passes near the box. Their midfield is reading your feet like an open book. Next time you see Carrick charging in, fake him, move it sideways, make them chase shadows. We need rhythm, not chaos."
Kaka nodded with a determined grin.
Arthur gave one last look around the room — players tying boots, stretching, refilling bottles, slapping each other's shoulders — and smiled faintly. He could feel the energy building again, that pre-second-half hum that always gave him goosebumps. "Alright, lads. Let's get out there and finish this properly. Keep your heads sharp, your passes crisp, and for God's sake, put the ball in the damn net."
Zlatan raised his fist, laughing. "You'll get your goals, boss! This time I'll make Casper look like he's wearing oven mitts!"
Arthur smirked. "You'd better. Or I'm sending you to train with the reserves for a week."
The room exploded with laughter as the whistle blew outside, signaling the end of halftime.
····
Fifteen minutes later, as the cameras cut back to Old Trafford, the noise from the stands roared through the broadcast like thunder. Lineker's voice returned with professional excitement.
"Alright, folks, welcome back! The fifteen-minute break has passed, and both teams are stepping back onto the pitch! It looks like neither manager made any changes during halftime — no substitutions, same lineups!"
Jon added quickly, "That's right! Arthur's Leeds United and Ferguson's Manchester United both sticking to their first-half setups. Clearly, both managers are confident in their plans — it's a battle of wills now. Let's see how they approach this second half."
Lineker chuckled. "If the first forty-five minutes were anything to go by, the next forty-five could be absolute fireworks! So buckle up, everyone — the second half is about to begin at Old Trafford!"
And as the whistle finally blew, the stadium came alive once more — red and white surging back into motion, tension stretching across the pitch like an electric wire ready to snap.