AC Milan right now was not yet the half-retirement community it would one day become, where aging legends came to collect their last paychecks and occasionally kick a ball. No — this Milan was still sharp, still dangerous, and still very much a threat.

Ancelotti and Galliani, staring at the league table, had clearly realised they weren't going to catch the Scudetto this season. But the Champions League? Oh, that was still on the table. And when you're Milan, with all that history and ego, you don't just play in Europe — you expect to win in Europe. For a team dripping in big-match swagger, the quarterfinals weren't a burden; they were the stage they lived for.

Still, the draw had not been kind. The upcoming tie promised to be a knife fight in a phone booth — brutal, tense, and decided on the smallest margins.

Luckily for Arthur and Leeds United, that was a worry for next month. The immediate focus was still on the Premier League grind.

Arthur, ever the optimist (and occasional beggar to the football gods), had spent the international break praying like a man about to sit a surprise maths exam — please, please, let his internationals come back in one piece. And for once, the universe listened.

By some miracle, every player returned with all their limbs still attached. Not a single man limped through the door with his leg in plaster or an ice pack taped to his thigh. Sure, they'd burned through some energy running around for their countries, but with a whole week until the next league match — at home, no less — Arthur could breathe. They'd have time to recharge.

It was Thursday afternoon, training done and dusted. Arthur, feeling pleased with the day's work, strolled back to his office to grab his things and head home. But the moment he pushed the door open, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out and saw the caller ID.

Marcus Anderson.

Arthur raised his eyebrows. That was rare. Very rare.

Marcus was one of those dream investors — the kind that put money in but never told you what to do with it. No meddling, no "I watched a documentary about 4-4-2s and now I'm an expert." He left all that to his son, Julian, who, as a small shareholder, was supposed to pass messages along. The old man only popped up when there was something worth hearing.

In fact, since they'd last met in Germany, Arthur hadn't spoken to him directly at all. And Julian, for his part, had been far less of a party animal since getting a legitimate role at the club. Arthur liked to think that was Marcus's influence — or maybe just the reality of having to turn up to work before lunchtime.

Still, a personal call from Marcus meant one thing: this wasn't small talk.

Arthur answered immediately.

"Uncle Marcus! It's late over there, isn't it? Shouldn't you be asleep by now?"

It was just after four in Leeds, which put it well past midnight where Marcus was.

On the other end, the old man chuckled.

"Sleep? I don't sleep as much as I used to. Comes with age. Besides, there's always something to sort out — can't switch my brain off."

Arthur grinned, picturing Marcus pacing around his study with a glass of something expensive in hand.

"Busy as always. I've just wrapped up training here and was heading to the office to grab my stuff. What's up? Julian hasn't gotten himself into trouble again, has he?"

Marcus snorted, clearly amused.

"Ha! No, for once it's nothing to do with that little rascal. In fact, I should be thanking you. Since you gave him a proper job, he's been far more… civilised. Almost respectable. Who'd have thought?"

Arthur laughed.

"I told you — give a man responsibilities and eventually he grows into them. Sometimes. So, what's the real reason for the call? You don't ring me in the middle of the night just to chat about Julian's reform."

****

Arthur leaned back in his office chair, phone pressed to his ear, eyebrows raised as Mr. Anderson's voice came through with an oddly formal throat-clearing.

"It's a good thing, Arthur," Anderson began, his tone suddenly all business. "You need to start planning Leeds United's summer schedule. The matter we discussed last time is basically finalized."

Arthur perked up instantly, his curiosity switching on like a light bulb. "Wait—are you talking about the Saudi Arabian tour thing?"

"Yes," Anderson replied with a nod Arthur could practically hear through the line. "I've already smoothed over all the necessary… connections." He let that hang in the air with the smug satisfaction of someone who'd just navigated three layers of bureaucracy with nothing but charm, coffee, and a few well-timed phone calls.

"The team's had a great season," Anderson went on. "Your, ah… unique background doesn't hurt either. I even had people dig through a few big football forums in the Middle East. Leeds United has actually built up a surprisingly solid fanbase there."

Arthur's grin widened. In his mind's eye, he could already see it — a steady stream of sponsorship money trickling (no, pouring) into the club's account. "That's brilliant!" he said quickly. "When exactly are we talking? What dates?"

Anderson hummed thoughtfully. "Well… I'd say June is best. July is the Asian Cup, and if we go before that, we can ride the wave of hype. What do you think?"

"Hang on, Uncle Marcus," Arthur replied, sliding open his desk drawer for the battered old schedule book he swore was more reliable than any smartphone app. He flicked through the pages. "Right, so the league finishes May 13th. Even if we make it all the way to the Champions League final, that's done by the end of May. June works perfectly — no conflicts, no excuses. We're good to go."

"Excellent," Anderson said, the sound of a pen scribbling faintly in the background. "My company will handle organizing the trip. I'll have a contract drafted and sent to you tomorrow."

"No problem," Arthur replied cheerfully. "I'll have Julian and Allen oversee the arrangements. Might as well give them something to do, otherwise they'll just sit around complaining they're bored all day." He chuckled.

"Speaking of which…" Anderson's tone suddenly shifted, dropping into something quieter, almost conspiratorial. "Arthur, there's something else I need to tell you first. After you… ah… let loose on the Football Association, you've attracted a bit of attention. People are looking into things."

Arthur rubbed his temple. "Here we go…"

"You know how the football scene is," Anderson continued. "Even though those clowns in the Association have no idea how I managed to connect with Leeds United, when I sent people to handle the paperwork for this Saudi trip, word got out. And now they're sniffing around. They want me to contact you. Apparently, they're interested in 'cooperation.'" His voice dripped with irony.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Cooperation? That's rich."

"They probably want to invite Leeds to China," Anderson went on, chuckling. "Something about polishing their image. They've even tried throwing money into some of my businesses here to sweeten the deal."

Arthur let out a long sigh. "We'll deal with that when we have to. Honestly, they think they can host Leeds? Maybe when we were still a Championship side. But we're about to be Premier League champions. Why would we waste our time pandering to them?"

That was the end of that discussion.

The next morning, Arthur tossed the Saudi trip paperwork onto Allen's desk with a casual, "You're in charge of this now." Then he headed straight back to the training ground. There was no time to rest — the season was in its final stretch, and every match now carried the weight of a title race.

By Sunday, the anticipation in Leeds was palpable. Leeds United were at home, set to face Fulham. The visitors were rock-bottom of the table, and everyone in the stands — from the fans in the cheap seats to the VIP box — expected a comfortable win. It was the 30th round of the league, and Leeds were neck-and-neck with Manchester United in a battle that had gone from tense to downright cutthroat.

Kickoff came. Arthur stood on the sideline in his dark coat, arms folded, eyes narrowing with each passing minute.

The first half? Scrappy. Leeds dominated possession but couldn't break through. Fulham, apparently unaware they were supposed to roll over, defended like their lives depended on it. Every time Leeds got close to goal, there was a white shirt in the way.

Second half? More of the same. Arthur could feel the minutes slipping away, every tick of the clock making the home crowd more restless. By the time the referee blew for full-time, the scoreboard still read 0–0.

Arthur's jaw tightened. On the outside, he looked like a man keeping it together. On the inside? He was fuming. They'd just been held to a draw — at home — by the bottom club in the league.

As if that wasn't enough to sour his mood, the news from Manchester came through almost immediately. Old Trafford had seen Manchester United dismantle Bolton 4–1.

Just like that, Leeds' short-lived reign at the top of the table was over. Manchester United had snatched back first place, and Arthur knew the fight was only going to get nastier from here.

He turned away from the pitch, face set, already thinking about the next match. The title race wasn't over — not by a long shot. But this? This was a punch in the gut.