After smashing the ball into the net, Modric didn't even hesitate. The Croatian maestro spun around and sprinted straight toward the sideline — toward Arthur.
The Leeds manager barely had time to react before Modric leaped into his arms. Arthur caught him mid-run and lifted him high off the ground like a proud father catching his prodigal son. For a moment, under the glaring Old Trafford floodlights, it looked as if Arthur might actually throw him into orbit.
His grin said it all — pure arrogance, pure triumph. That grin could have been seen from the opposite end of Manchester. It was the smile of a man who had just humiliated the great Sir Alex Ferguson on his own pitch.
Behind him, the Leeds bench erupted into chaos. Simeone, Rivaldo, and Ibrahimović came barreling forward, roaring with laughter, the kind of wild, unrestrained joy that could only come from snatching victory in enemy territory.
Ibrahimović was the first to reach them. The big Swede wasted no time. "Come here, little genius!" he shouted — and with one massive hand, he grabbed Modric by the waist and body-slammed him straight into the turf.
"Zlatan!" Arthur barked between laughter, "He just scored the winning goal, not a wrestling title!"
But it was no use. The rest of the bench piled in anyway. Rivaldo dove on top. Simeone followed with his usual battle cry. Within seconds, Modric was buried under a mountain of ecstatic Leeds players, laughing helplessly as boots and arms and sweat tangled together.
On the pitch, the starting eleven came sprinting over to join the madness. Kaka, Torres, Sneijder, even Cannavaro came running from the back, and the whole Leeds squad turned the sideline into a mosh pit.
Arthur stood with his hands on his hips now, grinning like a king surveying his victorious army. His players rolled and shouted and hugged in a heap at his feet, utterly oblivious to the deafening boos that were beginning to rise from the stands.
And then Arthur felt it — that sudden shift in the atmosphere.
The jeers.
The sound of seventy thousand Manchester United fans realizing the inevitable.
He turned.
And there, across the technical area, stood Sir Alex Ferguson — face tight, lips pressed together, eyes locked on him. There was something complicated in the Scotsman's expression — anger, disbelief, maybe even respect — but whatever it was, Arthur didn't flinch.
He just looked straight back, calm and unbothered, and offered a small, knowing smile. A slight nod. Nothing more. But the message was clear: That's my game, old man.
····
On the television replay, the goal unfolded again in slow motion — Torres' dazzling backheel, the ball rolling perfectly into Modric's stride, and that glorious long-range strike slicing through the Manchester sky.
Lineker couldn't contain himself. "That's beautiful — absolutely beautiful!" he exclaimed, his voice trembling with excitement. "And I'm not just talking about Modric's finish — Torres' heel knock! Out of nowhere! Honestly, when I saw him surrounded by three defenders, I thought that was it, Leeds' attack was dead. But look at that — he made something out of nothing!"
Jon chuckled beside him, shaking his head in disbelief. "Manchester United's back line completely fell apart! I still can't believe Ferguson didn't make a single defensive substitution. Look at Ferdinand chasing that pass from Sneijder — the poor guy's running like a tank trying to turn in a parking lot!"
Lineker burst into laughter. "You're being cruel, Jon! Ferdinand actually turned pretty quickly — it's just that Torres was quicker! But if we're pointing fingers here, Park Ji-sung's got a lot to answer for. After Sneijder's pass, he was just… jogging on the right side, nowhere near Modric! He didn't even cross the halfway line! I have no idea why he stuck so close to Sneijder when Modric was completely free!"
Jon smirked knowingly. "Actually, I think I might know. I watched an interview with Ferguson not long ago — he was praising Park Ji-sung to the heavens. Said the Korean was the most disciplined player he'd ever managed."
"Disciplined?" Lineker raised a brow.
"Yeah," Jon grinned. "Meaning he does exactly what Ferguson tells him. If I had to guess, Ferguson probably told him before coming on, 'Mark Sneijder — don't leave his side!' And the poor lad followed that order to the letter. Didn't matter that Modric was about to score — orders are orders! The guy's too obedient for his own good!"
Lineker burst into another fit of laughter. "So much for high discipline! Sometimes you need a little improvisation! Ferguson's probably regretting giving that instruction now!"
····
But jokes aside, everyone watching — fans, commentators, even rival managers — knew one thing: that goal had killed the game.
Like a dagger to the heart, Modric's strike had ended Manchester United's hopes. With less than ten minutes left including stoppage time, it was all but over.
Sure enough, after United restarted play, the fourth official on the sideline raised his board — four minutes of added time.
Four minutes. Not much, but enough for a miracle — or at least, that's what United's supporters wanted to believe. After all, they'd seen Leeds pull off late heroics before — last season's title race was still fresh in everyone's memory. But this time, the roles were reversed.
And Manchester United didn't have a miracle left.
Ronaldo tried, of course. Losing the lead only seemed to ignite him. He darted across the pitch, cutting inside, demanding the ball, trying to make something happen. But Leeds were ready.
Arthur, standing on the touchline, had barked orders the moment the celebration ended. "Adriano stays up top. Everyone else — fall back! We defend this lead with our lives!"
And they did.
Leeds dug in, compact and ruthless, every player chasing, blocking, and tackling as if their careers depended on it. Modric was still running. Cannavaro threw himself in front of every cross. Even Kaka dropped deep, harassing Carrick like a man possessed.
The clock ticked. Eighty-nine minutes. Ninety. Ninety-one.
And then, the final chance. Ronaldo cut inside from the left, lined up his shot, and fired.
Thud!
Neuer dove and caught it clean — no rebound, no drama.
He hugged the ball to his chest, rolled over, and looked at the referee.
Three whistles. Two long, one short.
Full time.
"The game is over!" Lineker's shout was nearly drowned out by the roar of the Leeds fans. "Leeds United have done it! Invincible after September — they've done it again! A 2–1 victory over Manchester United at Old Trafford in the ninth round of the 2007–2008 Premier League! What a win! With these three points, Leeds leapfrog Manchester United into second place!"
As the camera panned across the pitch, the contrast said everything.
Leeds — laughing, hugging, celebrating in front of their traveling fans.
Manchester United — heads bowed, silent, furious.
And in the middle of it all, Arthur, arms spread wide, grinning as if to say: Welcome back to the real world, Old Trafford.
The Theatre of Dreams belonged to Leeds United tonight.
The referee's whistle pierced the roaring air of Old Trafford, slicing through the noise like a dagger through silk.
It was over.
Leeds United had done it again . another victory, another nail in the coffin of those who said Arthur's team couldn't hang with the giants.
The scoreboard blazed: Manchester United 1 – Leeds United 2.
Arthur let the noise wash over him. The away fans were delirious — waving flags, chanting his name, singing off-key versions of "We are Leeds" that could've woken the dead.
On the other side, a sea of red sat stunned, thousands of home fans blinking in disbelief as if trying to process how their team — Sir Alex Ferguson's team — had been picked apart in their own house.
Arthur took a breath, adjusted his coat, and started walking toward Ferguson across the pitch. He didn't strut. Not this time.
A few days ago, at the Manchester airport, he'd made the mistake of teasing Ferguson — something about "young managers bringing new ideas to football." It had nearly given the old man a stroke. Arthur had learned his lesson: never taunt a Scottish legend unless you're ready to be throttled with a chewing gum wrapper.
So today, he went for calm professionalism.
"Sir Alex," he greeted with a polite nod as they met near the halfway line.
"Arthur," Ferguson replied, face still red from frustration but voice steady. The old lion wasn't one to hide behind excuses. They shook hands firmly, then gave that quick managerial half-hug — the kind where both men's shoulders stay stiff and the smiles are mostly for the cameras.
"Congratulations," Ferguson said, though the word came out a little like he was chewing sand. "Your lads were sharper in the second half."
"Thank you, Alex," Arthur replied, sincere but relaxed. "You wanted it too much. If your last substitution had been defensive instead of attacking, we might not have found the space."
That earned him the glare.
Ferguson's eyes narrowed, the same look he gave referees who dared to breathe wrong. Arthur raised his hands quickly. "Hey, no disrespect. I mean it — your side was excellent."
The old Scot let out a gruff chuckle, shaking his head. "Don't blame me for chasing a win, lad. If we were at Elland Road, I bet you'd have thrown every striker you had at me."
Arthur hesitated, then smirked. "Yeah... fair enough."
For a brief second, the two men shared something close to mutual amusement — warriors acknowledging each other after battle. Then, as always, professionalism returned.
They exchanged a few more polite words, the kind reporters love but players never remember. Then Arthur patted Ferguson's arm and said, "Good game, Alex. See you next time."
"Count on it," Ferguson replied.
As Arthur walked away, Ferguson stood quietly for a moment, watching the young manager stride toward his celebrating team. There was a flicker of something in the veteran's expression — not anger, not resentment… just thoughtfulness. Maybe even pride.
He turned back to his players, who looked like someone had canceled Christmas. Ronaldo stood there, hands on hips, jaw tight. Rooney was kicking at imaginary ghosts in the grass. Even Giggs looked like he needed a stiff drink.
"Alright, lads," Ferguson said gruffly, clapping his hands. "Enough sulking. It's one match. We lose, we move on. Next time, we get them back."
He looked around at the circle of red shirts. "Cristiano, Wayne — heads up. You played well. We were just unlucky today. Football gives, football takes. Now off you go. Rest up. We've got a title to win."
It was pure Ferguson — short, sharp, and commanding. Within seconds, the sting of defeat started fading, replaced by determination.
Meanwhile, down the tunnel, Arthur was being swallowed by a tidal wave of noise.
The Leeds United locker room was pure chaos — joyous, messy, glorious chaos.
You could barely hear yourself think over the shouting, singing, and sound of water bottles popping open like champagne corks.
"Boss! BOSS!" Kaka yelled when he spotted him. "Come see this!"
Arthur stepped inside — and immediately got drenched by a rogue spray of isotonic drink.
"Bloody hell!" he sputtered, wiping his face. "You animals trying to drown me?!"
Zlatan roared with laughter. "A baptism, boss! You're one of us now!"
"I was your boss before the orange shower, thank you very much." Arthur grabbed a towel off the bench, shaking his head with a grin. "Alright, calm down before the floor turns into a swimming pool."
But no one was calming down. Neuer was waving a towel over his head like a medieval flag bearer, Mascherano was rhythmically pounding on a locker, and Reus had somehow found a vuvuzela.
Arthur couldn't help but laugh. "You lot act like we've won the Champions League."
"To beat Ferguson at Old Trafford? And reaching top place too!" Adriano shouted, earning a chorus of cheers.
Arthur rolled his eyes, but his grin gave him away. "Fine, fair point. But listen up — before we get arrested for noise pollution, I've got an announcement."
The players quieted slightly. Slightly.
"Allan," Arthur called, motioning to his assistant, who appeared like a man walking into a lion's den — clipboard in hand, nerves of steel.
Arthur crossed his arms dramatically. "Gentlemen, as promised… the double win bonus has been approved."
For a split second, silence. Then — BOOM! The room erupted.
"DOUBLE BONUS?!" shouted Reus.
"LEGEND!" yelled Hummels.
Zlatan just started chanting "AR-THUR! AR-THUR!" like he was leading a cult.
Arthur laughed so hard he had to lean against the wall. "You lot are worse than Wall Street brokers!"
Neuer jumped on a bench and pretended to make it rain with imaginary money. "We're rich, lads! Drinks on me!"
"Save it," Mascherano said dryly. "You're still paying off your car."
That earned another explosion of laughter. Arthur shook his head fondly. "Alright, alright, before you bankrupt yourselves, one more thing."
He paused dramatically, letting their anticipation build.
"The four-day holiday I promised before the game…" He waited a beat. "Let's make it six."
The reaction was instant — chaos, pure unfiltered chaos. It was as if someone had scored a goal in heaven.
"Six days?!" Reus gasped, eyes wide.
"Boss, are you serious?" Kaka asked, almost suspiciously.
"Do I look like I'm joking?" Arthur said with mock offense.
Zlatan stepped forward, grinning like a shark. "Boss, you are a saint. A generous, beautiful, well-dressed saint."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Don't start flattering me, Zlatan. Last time you called me that, you ended up 'borrowing' my watch."
"It was for motivation!" Zlatan protested. "And I returned it!"
"After three months."
"Details," Zlatan shrugged.
Arthur snorted and looked around the room. "Alright, enough. Go enjoy yourselves, but for the love of football, don't make the front page. I don't want to see any of you in sunglasses being chased by reporters."
Laughter rolled again.
For the substitutes — the young lads like Reus, Hummels, and a few academy players — the joy wasn't about the money. They hadn't played enough minutes to qualify for the full bonus. But the six-day break? That was gold.
Reus was already calling his family, shouting, "Mum! I'm coming home! Six whole days!"
Hummels leaned back on the bench with a goofy grin. "I'm sleeping for all six."
Arthur watched them, smiling softly. This — this right here — was what he loved. The camaraderie, the laughter, the small victories that meant everything.
He felt a nudge beside him. Mr. Morgan had joined him, a rare grin on his face. "So, boss, generous mood today?"
Arthur shrugged with a smirk. "They've earned it. Besides, happy players play better."
"Or drink more," Morgan murmured.
Arthur laughed. "Either way, they'll come back smiling. That's what matters."
He took one last look around the jubilant locker room — the clapping, the singing, the brotherhood — and nodded in quiet satisfaction. His team had fought, adapted, and triumphed.
Outside, the reporters were waiting. But for now, Arthur let the moment breathe — letting his players revel in their joy, their victory, their well-deserved holiday.
And he had a pregnant girlfriend at home to twke care of . Before the season ends, his child will be born. He wanted to celebrate it with the Champions League Trophy. He smiled and stepped out.
*****
How did it feel reading the half edited version? xD
Now imagine reading something five times worse 💀 that's what I go through every day