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After that ruthless thrashing of West Brom, Arthur barely had time to kick back before the first round of the 2005-2006 UEFA Champions League group stage came crashing onto the calendar. The buzz around Elland Road was electric, and Arthur could feel the anticipation in the air. This wasn't just any league—this was the big stage. The grand theatre of European football.
Despite his second chance at life, Arthur couldn't quite remember the finer details of this particular Champions League season. He was certain Barcelona ended up as champions, but who they played in the final? That bit was a complete blur. He scratched his head, annoyed at his own memory. He used to stay up until ungodly hours watching those matches, even if it meant showing up to work the next day looking like a zombie. His boss used to glare at him like he'd just dragged himself out of a grave, muttering something about "professionalism" and "not looking like you fought a raccoon." But Arthur couldn't help it—Champions League nights were sacred.
Now, he wasn't just watching it on TV; he was in it. He was living it. The stakes were real, the tension was real, and best of all, he wouldn't have to explain to his boss why he looked like he hadn't slept in a week. He was the boss. He grinned at that thought, lounging back in his office chair as the Champions League group draws popped up on the screen.
Arthur analyzed the groups like a man scoping out his competition in a poker game. Arsenal had been tossed into Group A, alongside Ajax and two other sides he barely blinked at. Ajax might be a threat, sure, but with Wenger at the helm, Arthur figured they'd be fine. "Wenger always finds a way," he muttered, nodding like he'd just uncovered a deep universal truth.
Manchester United ended up in Group D with Villarreal, Benfica, and Lille. On paper, United should stroll through the group, but Arthur knew better than to count his chickens before they hatched. "Fergie won't let them bottle it…well, not usually," he chuckled, remembering some of the hairdryer treatments the Scotsman was famous for. He could almost hear the shouting echoing across the dressing rooms.
And then there was the real laugh of the draw: Chelsea and Liverpool shoved together in Group G. Arthur nearly spat out his coffee. He imagined the two clubs side-eyeing each other the entire campaign like awkward roommates forced to share a flat. Their competition? Real Betis and Anderlecht. Nothing too scary. He figured both English clubs would likely stroll through without much fuss. He leaned back, stretching his legs out and chuckling to himself. "Betis and Anderlecht? That's like putting a hamster in a boxing ring."
The first round of matches came and went, and Arthur paid close attention. Chelsea and Liverpool handled their business easily on Wednesday. No surprises there. But Thursday brought a twist that Arthur hadn't seen coming. Arsenal cruised comfortably to victory at home, but Manchester United? They stumbled to a draw against Villarreal. Arthur nearly choked on his tea when he saw the scoreline. "Well, well, well," he snickered, glancing at the television as Ferguson's face appeared on the screen, stormier than a thundercloud. "Looks like the hairdryer's coming out tonight."
He pictured the scene vividly: Ferguson, eyes blazing, face redder than a stop sign, marching into the dressing room. The poor United players probably bracing themselves like they were about to face a firing squad. Arthur couldn't help but laugh. He'd seen that look before—a few times, actually—and it never ended well for anyone involved. "Hope they brought earplugs," he mused.
With the Champions League matchweek wrapped up, the attention swung back to the domestic grind. Leeds United was gearing up for yet another three-games-a-week stretch, a schedule that could make even the fittest squad wheeze for breath. Arthur, of course, looked unfazed. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, watching the fixtures pop up on his computer screen.
"Three matches in seven days, huh?" he murmured to himself, a grin creeping onto his face. "Well, if it's chaos they want, it's chaos they'll get."
The staff watched him from the hallway, whispering among themselves. They'd learned to recognize that look—Arthur wasn't just confident; he was plotting. And when Arthur started plotting, things got...well, interesting.
This Sunday, Leeds United were set to face Middlesbrough at home in the 7th round of the league. Arthur glanced at the fixture list pinned to his office wall, shaking his head like he'd just seen the bill for a five-course dinner he didn't remember ordering.
"Three games in seven days... who's running the FA, a sadist?" he grumbled, slumping back in his chair. Middlesbrough on Sunday, then Bournemouth from League One in the League Cup on Tuesday, and finally, a trip to Goodison Park to face Everton that very Saturday. It was like someone had spun a wheel of misfortune and landed on "Arthur's Headache."
With only 21 players in his first-team squad, Arthur was already scratching his head about squad rotation. Other clubs seemed to have squads big enough to form their own marching bands, while Arthur was out here juggling his starting eleven like a circus act. He tapped his desk and muttered, "January transfer window… You better be good to me."
By Sunday afternoon, Elland Road was back to its buzzing, chaotic best. For nearly a month, it had been eerily quiet, almost like the place had gone into hibernation. Now, the shouts of Ere Geddie and the roars of over 20,000 Leeds fans filled the stadium, shaking the walls and probably scaring off any pigeons that had been freeloading in the rafters.
On the pitch, Leeds United didn't disappoint. They brushed past Middlesbrough 2-0 with the kind of ease that made it look like a warm-up drill. The fans were delighted, the players strolled off with wide grins, and Arthur allowed himself a moment to breathe. "Not bad, not bad at all," he muttered, nodding approvingly.
But, of course, football has this nasty habit of smacking you back to reality just when you think you've got things under control. That reality check came on Tuesday night during the League Cup clash against Bournemouth.
Now, Bournemouth wasn't exactly a powerhouse. They were a League One side, and Arthur had squinted at their lineup like he was reading the ingredients off a tin of soup—no one particularly scary. He figured he'd send out the strongest lineup, crush them by halftime, and make some leisurely substitutions. In his head, it was all going to plan: blitz them early, 3-0 up by the break, and then have his players swapping stories on the bench while sipping on energy drinks.
And for the first 40 minutes, it went just like that. Leeds United scored three goals with the kind of swagger that would make you think they were playing a bunch of accountants on their lunch break. Arthur was practically lounging on the sidelines, hands in his pockets, looking like a man who'd just found a fiver in his coat.
Then, everything went spectacularly wrong.
First, Modric—the little midfield maestro—got caught in a challenge that left him crumpled on the grass. Arthur's grin vanished faster than a free pint at happy hour. The team doctor jogged over, checked him out, and then gave Arthur the universal gesture for "You're screwed." Substitution required. Arthur gritted his teeth. "Alright, one down…not ideal, but we move."
Barely ten minutes later, Ribery hit the deck after a nasty tangle near the touchline. He clutched his ankle, and Arthur's heart dropped straight into his boots. The team doctor shook his head again, and Arthur's hands flew up in disbelief. "Are you serious? What are they serving in the water today?!"
And just when he thought it couldn't possibly get worse, Bale suddenly stopped mid-sprint and sat right down on the pitch like he'd just decided he'd had enough. No collision, no tackle—just plonked himself right down. Arthur stared in disbelief, his jaw practically on the grass. The team doctor jogged out for the third time, glanced at Bale, and then looked back at Arthur with a solemn shake of the head. This time, he added a hand gesture that Arthur interpreted as "Get the stretcher, and maybe a prayer."
By the time the half-time whistle blew, Leeds were up 3-0, but Arthur was practically vibrating with frustration. His joy from the goals had evaporated like morning fog. He stomped back to the dressing room, slamming the door behind him and staring at the ceiling as if hoping it would collapse and put him out of his misery. Three players—three crucial players—all out before halftime. He didn't need a medical degree to know that was bad.
Leeds United still went on to win, but it felt more like a hollow victory. Arthur's stomach churned with unease. As the final whistle blew and the fans cheered, he could only think about the state of his squad. His worst fears were confirmed even before he left Elland Road. He got a call from Allen, who didn't even bother with small talk.
"Modric and Ribery—three to four weeks out. Bale's got a calf strain…four to five weeks minimum."
Arthur closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and muttered to himself, "Brilliant…just brilliant."
January couldn't come fast enough.
Injuries, Arthur thought bitterly, were like bad luck with a vengeance. If it started, it just wouldn't stop. His squad already looked like it had been through a battle zone after the Bournemouth match. But when Leeds United travelled to Goodison Park to face Everton, the universe decided it wasn't done kicking him while he was down.
The match began evenly enough. Leeds United traded blows with Everton, holding their own in the first half. Arthur, arms crossed on the sidelines, actually felt a flicker of hope. "Alright, maybe we can survive this one without any more calamities," he murmured, knocking on the wooden edge of the dugout just in case.
That hope was promptly stomped out with the enthusiasm of a stampede. Kompany went down first—his leg buckling awkwardly during a challenge. Arthur watched in horror as the big Belgian signaled to the bench, his face twisted in pain. Arthur clenched his fists and muttered, "Of course. Why not? I was getting used to having centre-backs."
Barely ten minutes later, Lahm collapsed like someone had cut his strings. No tackle, no collision—just dropped. Arthur's hands shot to his head, eyes wide. "Is this… is this some kind of sick joke?" he yelled towards the sky, as if expecting a divine explanation. The medical team jogged out yet again, making their third trip in two matches. Arthur watched them with a look that bordered on disbelief. He half-expected them to set up a tent on the pitch at this rate.
With two more key players out, Leeds United started to look like they were running through quicksand. Up until the 70th minute, they'd managed to keep things even, but fatigue spread through the squad like a virus. Everton smelled blood. Their midfield surged forward, stretching Leeds' patchwork defense like it was held together with chewing gum and hope.
By the time the clock ticked to the 80th minute, Arthur saw the first signs of cramping. One by one, his players began hobbling, stretching, and wincing, like an overworked marathon team hitting a collective wall. It would've been almost funny if it wasn't happening to him. "If one more guy pulls up lame, I'm putting the kit man on," Arthur muttered under his breath.
Everton struck with merciless efficiency. Arteta found the back of the net first, slotting it past the exhausted Leeds defense. Arthur barely had time to scream his frustration before Osman added another. 2-0. Leeds United's unbeaten run in the Premier League came to a screeching halt, and Arthur stared at the scoreboard like it had personally insulted him.
When the final whistle blew, Arthur looked like a man who'd just watched his house get flattened by a runaway bus. He shook hands out of habit but barely registered the faces.
The long walk back to the dressing room was accompanied by the uncomfortable silence of disappointment. The players limped behind him, some leaning on each other for support. It was like a scene out of a war movie.
On the bus ride back to Leeds, the mood was as grim as expected. Not a single joke, not even the usual banter between the back-row troublemakers. Arthur sat by the window, the dull hum of the engine filling the silence. He glanced at his system interface on his phone, scrolling through the squad statuses.
Where there had once been green bars and cheerful icons, now there were orange and red symbols littered across the screen like a virtual minefield. The state of the entire team had gone from "Positive" to "Normal"—which really meant "Mildly Depressed." Arthur sighed, closing the app. "Well, at least it's not 'Catastrophic'...yet."
When the team returned to Leeds, Arthur didn't waste time. He gathered everyone at the training ground and announced a two-day break. "Go home, put your feet up, eat some vegetables—hell, do yoga if you have to. Just… rest." The players blinked in disbelief, then burst into scattered applause. Arthur even cracked a smile.
But rest wasn't on the cards for Arthur himself. He took a half-day off—enough time to nap and wolf down some leftover pizza—then dragged himself back to Thorp Arch. His office was a mess of whiteboards, tactical sheets, and coffee-stained notepads. He plopped down at his desk, eyes bleary but focused. He needed plans—tactical adjustments, formations that didn't require half his squad to be made of glass.
Five key injuries in two matches. Even if there were no more setbacks, Arthur was looking at just 16 first-team playersfor the coming fixtures. He rubbed his temples. If the injuries kept stacking up, he might have to start looking at the youth team. He scribbled down a few names—half out of hope, half out of desperation.
Suddenly, the office door creaked open. Arthur didn't look up at first, too busy scribbling.
"Boss, here's the medical report for the injured players, and the latest scout report you asked for."
The voice was crisp, professional, and startling enough to make him look up. He blinked in surprise as his new secretary stepped into the room, her arms full of folders and a knowing smirk on her face.
Arthur leaned back in his chair and sighed, glancing at the pile of reports like they were hand-delivered bundles of misery. "Go on, hit me with it. How bad is it?"
The woman just raised an eyebrow and handed him the stack. "Let's just say…you might want to have a drink before you read it."
Arthur chuckled bitterly. "I might want the whole bottle."