The moment Xavi ghosted past Alonso, Arthur felt his stomach tighten.

It wasn't that Alonso had played badly—it was just that Xavi was the sort of player who made good defenders look like they'd slipped on a banana peel. And now, with nothing but open green in front of him, the danger was obvious: if Cannavaro stayed back, Xavi could stroll up to the edge of the box and suddenly have a menu of options—thread a pass, whip a shot, or just toy with Leeds until someone made a mistake.

But if Cannavaro stepped forward to cut him off, Leeds' normally airtight defense would develop a crack wide enough for Barcelona to poke something nasty through.

It was the classic defensive dilemma. Either choice felt wrong, and Arthur knew that against Barcelona, the moment you hesitated, they wrote the ending for you.

Kompany read it too. He and Cannavaro had been patrolling Leeds' back line together for over half a season, and their chemistry had grown past the point of verbal instructions. This was instinct now—if one lunged forward, the other plugged the gap.

Kompany didn't need a second to think. He threw a quick shout to Lahm on the left.

"Slide in! Middle, middle!"

Lahm obeyed instantly, tucking in towards the centre while Kompany began drifting sideways, ready to cover Cannavaro's patch if needed.

But here's the problem: Barcelona's players weren't just technically gifted—they were predators. They didn't just see space; they smelled it, circled it, and pounced.

Ronaldinho, stationed wide on the left, had been under the watchful eye of Alves for most of the game. The Brazilian magician had been smiling to himself, biding his time like a cat pretending to nap while keeping one eye open.

When Xavi skipped past Alonso, Alves' gaze flickered—just for a fraction of a second—towards the ball.

That was all Ronaldinho needed.

He quickened his pace subtly at first, then with a sudden burst of acceleration that caught Alves completely off guard.

"Whoa—" Alves spun to chase, but Ronaldinho was already gone, pulling away with every stride. Alves' instinctive reach for the jersey came up empty, his fingertips brushing nothing but air.

At this level—especially in the Champions League—even half a body's lead could be lethal. Ronaldinho had a full stride.

Xavi spotted him instantly. His passes weren't just accurate; they were timed to arrive like an invitation to dance—always when the recipient was perfectly positioned to step onto the beat.

The ball dropped just inside the penalty area, curling onto Ronaldinho's path like it had been hand-delivered.

The Brazilian's first touch was velvet. The ball stopped exactly where he wanted it, cushioning itself under his foot. But there was no time to shoot—Kompany had charged across like a runaway train and was now closing fast.

Arthur gripped the railing in his technical area. Kompany versus Ronaldinho—now that was a duel worth watching.

Kompany's momentum carried him in hard, his frame braced for the tackle. Ronaldinho didn't blink.

With the outside of his right foot, he nudged the ball to his right, forcing Kompany to shift his weight that way.

Then—before the ball even properly left his boots—he rolled it back across with the inside of his right foot, the change of direction so sudden it was like watching a matador flick his cape.

Kompany tried to adjust, but his weight was already committed. His knees betrayed him. His feet scrambled. And then—almost in slow motion—gravity took over.

The Belgian hit the turf, skidding slightly on the lush Camp Nou grass, leaving Ronaldinho free and grinning.

From the commentary box, Jon's voice rose an octave.

"The bull's tail flick! Ronaldinho just sent Kompany to the shops! Leeds United are in big trouble now!"

Lineker was right there with him.

"He's in the penalty area! Schmeichel's coming off his line—Ronaldinho has to decide right now! Does he close in on goal or aim for the far post?"

Arthur didn't even breathe.

Ronaldinho took one look at the charging Schmeichel—arms spread, frame looming—and made his choice.

A deft caress with the arch of his foot sent the ball spinning away, curling ever so slightly towards the far corner.

Schmeichel dove, but the ball was already past him, sliding out of reach like a soap bar in the shower.

The crowd noise swelled—the kind of roar that came from knowing you were about to see the net ripple.

Thunk!

The ball kissed the inside of the far post and bounced across the line.

The Nou Camp exploded. Red-and-blue flags whipped in the stands, voices merged into a single deafening cheer, and Ronaldinho, arms wide, ran towards the corner flag with that famous, joyful smile—like a man who played football for the sheer fun of humiliating the world's best defenders.

Arthur just stared. The execution, the timing, the composure—it was Barcelona at their cruel, beautiful best.

****

"Oh—oh—oh—oh—OH! What on earth have I just witnessed?!"

The Camp Nou commentator practically swallowed the microphone as he yelled. His voice was now operating at a pitch normally reserved for winning the lottery or discovering your cat can play the piano.

"The perfect link-up between Xavi and Ronaldinho! Barcelona have equalised! Genius pass! Genius dribble! Genius shot! This is Ronaldinho at his finest! Leeds United players—lucky you! You're about to get a front-row seat for a masterclass from football's trickster king!"

As if his commentary was a cue, the home crowd found yet another gear. The cheers were no longer just loud—they were seismic, a rolling wall of noise that made the stadium tremble. The Leeds players could feel it vibrating in their boots, and for a moment, a few of them looked genuinely lost.

It was baffling. They'd done so well moments earlier, forcing Barcelona into dead ends, cutting off passing lanes. But all it took was one slip—a single defensive crack—and the Catalan giants pounced, ruthlessly turning the tiniest error into a dagger through Leeds' defense.

Ronaldinho, beaming with those unmistakable big white teeth, spread his arms wide like a man who'd just landed from a flight and wanted the whole world to know. He jogged toward the corner flag, soaking in the adoration pouring down from the stands.

His teammates swarmed him. Messi, the smallest but quickest of the lot, came flying in like a kid chasing an ice cream truck. He didn't just hug Ronaldinho—he leapt straight onto his back, clinging like a very excited koala. The two of them laughed mid-celebration, the big brother and little brother of Barcelona's attack putting on a show of their own.

In the commentary box, Lineker sighed into his microphone, the sound heavy enough to be picked up over the stadium noise.

"Ah… shame. Barcelona have equalised. And of course, Ronaldinho does it in style—signature bull-tail flick to spin past Kompany, and then that cheeky little finish past Schmeichel. Pure class."

Jon, sitting beside him, wasn't nearly as deflated. His voice was calm, steady, the kind of tone a man uses when dissecting a crime scene.

"You can't defend for ninety minutes and expect to come out alive," he said. "Leeds started well, but they've dropped too deep. They're practically gift-wrapping possession for Barcelona now, and that's exactly what Barca want. They thrive on passing, probing, controlling. Give them that rhythm and it's like giving oxygen to a fire. The longer this goes on, the harder it'll be to stop."

Lineker nodded immediately.

"Exactly. Yes, Leeds have that precious away goal, but look—Barcelona's tails are up now. Equaliser scored, home crowd roaring, confidence restored. If Leeds don't adapt quickly, I'll be honest… this 1–1 might not even survive until half-time."

The noise of the Camp Nou still roared on, but down on the touchline, Arthur was already working. He wasn't one for panicking over a setback, and this—he told himself—was just a setback.

He cupped his hands and bellowed toward the pitch.

"Hey! It's just a goal! Heads up! We've got loads of time left!"

His players looked over, some nodding faintly, but the frustration was still there, hanging like damp air after a storm. None more so than Alonso.

The young midfielder was wearing the guilt on his face. Arthur knew why—most of the damage had started with Alonso's ill-timed gamble to press high, leaving Xavi a free escape route. It wasn't entirely his fault—Barcelona were always going to find openings—but Alonso's own standards were brutal.

Arthur motioned him over to the sideline.

"Alonso! Over here."

The lad jogged over, shoulders low, expression somewhere between apology and self-reproach. Arthur handed him a water bottle.

Alonso took a long sip, staring at the pitch instead of at his manager.

Arthur grinned. "It's fine, Xavi—" he caught himself and corrected with mock sternness, "—I mean Alonso. Everyone makes mistakes. Look at me, I once wore brown shoes with a black suit."

That earned the faintest smile. Arthur kept going.

"We've got plenty of time to put one back. Remember what I told you and Luca before kick-off—stick to their two attacking midfielders like glue. Don't dive in unless you're certain you can win it. They're slippery—one wrong lunge and you're chasing shadows."

Alonso finally looked him in the eye. Arthur's tone was relaxed, no hint of blame. That mattered more than any tactical advice.

The midfielder swilled the last of the water around his mouth and spat it onto the grass, then nodded hard, jaw tightening with determination.

Arthur clapped him on the shoulder.

"Good lad. Now get back out there and make their life miserable."

Alonso jogged back toward his position as the referee prepared to restart play. Leeds' kick-off loomed, and the next few minutes would be telling.

Arthur crossed his arms and squinted toward the far end of the pitch. If Barcelona thought they'd broken Leeds' spirit with that goal, they were about to find out otherwise.