"It's saved! Howard saved it again!"
The commentator's voice practically exploded out of the speakers.
Ere Geddy's roar echoed all over Elland Road as if he had just watched a spaceship land in the penalty box.
"That's the 7th penalty Tim Howard has saved this season!" he bellowed. "The score remains 1–0 to Leeds United! Just ten minutes left on the clock! Can you believe this?!"
The camera panned to the South Stand, where fans were losing their minds. Scarves in the air, people jumping like pogo sticks, beer flying in all directions. A giant Tifo rippled in the stands, a massive image of Howard mid-shout, arm pointing like a general sending troops into battle.
Four months ago, nobody would've believed this. Leeds United were still trying to remember how to pass the ball forward. The fans had laughed when Arthur — young, fresh-faced, still awkward in press conferences — told the media Leeds would win the "half-time championship." One game into the season, and he was already talking about titles.
Most people thought he was just a rich kid with a dream, like a guy buying a broken-down racehorse and talking about the Kentucky Derby.
But here they were. Twenty-three rounds in, unbeaten in the league, top of the table, and about to make that "joke" a reality.
Down on the pitch, Howard was mobbed by his teammates. Even the centre-backs who normally looked like grumpy bouncers were slapping his back like he'd just cured the flu. His calm expression never changed. He just pointed forward again and barked something — probably "Focus!" or "Back to work!" or possibly "I could've caught that one."
Arthur sat back in his seat in the top-floor box, arms crossed, grinning like a satisfied cat. The chair creaked slightly under him — not from his weight, but from the tension finally leaving his body.
"Alright," he muttered, glancing at the stadium clock. "We're winning this one."
He leaned over and picked up his laptop, the kind of brick-sized silver model that made a gentle whirr every time it did something complicated, like opening an email. His assistant had just sent the daily update. At the top of the inbox was a familiar subject line:
TRANSFER OFFERS – UPDATED
(Howard again, obviously)
Arthur clicked it open. Unsurprisingly, a few clubs had sent feelers. Mid-table Championship teams mostly, and one from France that spelled "goalkeeper" wrong in their email. But what caught his eye — again — was Bates.
Ken Bates. Old, smug, and persistent like a stubborn cough.
His latest offer? €10 million.
Arthur let out a low whistle.
Not bad, not bad at all. But not good enough either.
He didn't reply.
Instead, he clicked open the scouting reports, and then the league table.
West Bromwich Albion – 17th place in the Premier League.
Yikes.
Arthur chuckled. No wonder Bates was getting desperate. West Brom hadn't won in eight games. Their defense was a disaster. Leaking goals like a colander leaks water. Thirty-six goals conceded in less than half a season — the sort of stat that gave goalkeepers stress dreams.
"Must be tough," Arthur mumbled, sipping on a cold cola. "Poor old man's trying to build a sandcastle in the middle of a monsoon."
He knew how things would unfold. Bates would wait, fidgeting in his big leather chair, watching his team get battered week after week. He'd glare at his defenders like it was their fault gravity existed. And every time another ball rolled into his net, he'd get twitchier.
Of course he wanted Howard. Bates probably dreamed of him every night — dressed in golden armor, saving penalties while fireworks exploded behind him.
But Arthur wasn't in the mood to do charity work.
Besides, Howard wasn't just having a good run. He was a wall. No, scratch that — a brick fortress with laser sensors and motion-activated flamethrowers. In twenty-three rounds, Leeds had conceded only four goals.
And that was with Blackwell still picking his favorites.
Arthur rolled his eyes at the thought of the coach. The man had finally bought into the whole defensive-counterattack system after Arthur practically begged him to use his brain. But even now, he still treated Arthur's signings like spare furniture.
Sure, Adebayor had started to get more minutes. Tevez, too. But there were still three or four signings sitting on the bench like unwrapped birthday presents. Arthur made a mental note to have another "friendly chat" with Blackwell soon — probably involving passive-aggressive stats and maybe some sarcasm.
Back on the pitch, the players were now in game management mode. Short passes. Slow throw-ins. Time-wasting disguised as "tactical adjustments."
Howard was casually bouncing the ball like he had all the time in the world. The referee probably checked his watch every thirty seconds.
Ere Geddy kept the energy up from the commentary booth.
"Can you believe it, folks?" he shouted. "It's been twenty-two games without a loss. And here we are — ten minutes away from twenty-three. This team… this team is different!"
Arthur looked out over the pitch and allowed himself to enjoy the moment. The fans were singing. The press box was buzzing. Even the stadium pigeons looked impressed.
But his thoughts kept drifting back to Bates.
That €10 million offer was cute. Really. Almost heartwarming.
But if West Brom kept dropping points, Arthur knew that desperation would crank up. Bates didn't want to survive the season — he needed a miracle to keep the fans off his back.
And Howard?
Howard was the miracle.
The one-man defense line. The living highlight reel. The bald American wall.
Arthur leaned back and muttered under his breath, "Keep waiting, old man. By the time you're ready to pay what he's really worth, I'll be charging extra for emotional damage."
He closed the laptop, folded his arms again, and let his grin return. One more win. One more game unbeaten. One step closer to proving everyone wrong.
And maybe, just maybe, showing the world that Leeds United was back.
***
While Leeds United marched on like a runaway train, things over at West Bromwich Albion were… less exciting.
Ken Bates, the man who had once tried to buy Leeds United and now owned West Brom, was in full-blown panic mode.
When he first took over the club, Bates had been feeling pretty good about himself. He didn't spend much money in the summer because, in his mind, the squad was "solid enough." Mid-table in the Premier League? Easy. Maybe even top ten with a bit of luck.
Now, halfway through the season, reality had punched him in the face. West Brom were teetering dangerously close to the relegation zone. Actually, not just teetering — they were doing cartwheels on the edge.
Eight games without a win.
Thirty-six goals conceded.
And the fans? Oh, they were done being polite. The club's official website had turned into a message board of rage. Every post under the club updates had some version of:
"Sack Bates."
"Sell the club."
"Sign anyone who can defend."
"Where's the ambition?"
Even the club's social media manager had started turning off comments.
And as for Bates? He was a mess.
He stopped wearing suits to games and started showing up in jackets that looked like he slept in them. He cancelled two Christmas parties — one for the players and one for the staff — and spent most of December pacing around his office like a man waiting for his lottery numbers to hit.
Every time he saw another headline about Leeds United winning again, his blood pressure spiked.
He had been watching them. Not because he cared — no, no, of course not. Just… curiosity.
And every time he tuned in, he saw Tim Howard making ridiculous saves, commanding his box like a general in a war movie. The man looked ten years younger and twenty times sharper than he ever had at Manchester United.
And that was the problem.
Howard had become Leeds United's golden boy. Their guardian angel. Their wall. And worst of all, he was the one player Bates couldn't get out of his head.
So, after much thinking, much sighing, and a lot of pacing, he made his move. He sent an official offer to Leeds United — €10 million for Howard.
He figured it was fair. Generous, even. After all, he reasoned, Leeds were still in the Championship. And ten million euros for a second-division keeper? Surely they'd jump at it.
Except… Leeds didn't respond.
No email.
No call.
Not even an automated reply saying, "Thank you for your interest."
Nothing.
Bates stared at his inbox every day like it owed him money.
After a week of silence, he finally slammed his laptop shut and declared, "That's it. I'm going to Leeds."
If Leeds United's young chairman — what was his name again? Oh, right, Arthur — wasn't going to reply, then he'd speak to him in person. Face to face. Like in the old days. Before texts and email and passive-aggressive silence.
Back in Leeds, Arthur wasn't ignoring Bates just to be rude.
Okay, maybe partly to be rude.
But mostly because he knew Bates was desperate. And desperate buyers always pay more.
Arthur had seen the latest headlines popping up on every football site:
"Timothy Howard, the only true god of Leeds United!"
"Shock! Real Madrid offers €14 million for Howard!"
"Leeds United receives offers from five clubs for their star keeper!"
"Beyond Buffon: Howard breaks half-season save record!"
"Can Leeds keep Howard?"
"Leeds United vs Sunderland: Half-Season Title on the Line!"
"Arthur's Bold Prediction Coming True?"
"What Happens to Leeds After Losing Howard?"
Arthur scrolled through them like someone casually flipping through fan mail.
He was used to the noise by now. Since the start of the season, Leeds had gone on a blistering five-match winning streak, and the momentum never stopped. Howard had been at the center of it all, pulling off save after save, keeping their goal as clean as a hotel room before check-in.
Fans worshipped him. Kids in Leeds wore bald caps to matches. One local pub even renamed its signature burger to "The Timmy Wall" — double beef, American cheese, and a goalkeeper glove stuck on the bun for decoration.
Arthur sipped his tea, leaned back in his chair, and grinned. Everything was going to plan.
The system had been clear: build momentum, stay unbeaten, win the half-season title, and then reap the rewards. And now, just one more game — Sunderland at home — and the prediction he'd made months ago, the one everyone laughed at, would become reality.
As for Howard?
Arthur had no intention of selling him in January. Not unless someone came in with an absurd offer. He wasn't running a charity. And he definitely wasn't about to help Ken Bates of all people.
He clicked back to the scouting reports and glanced at West Brom's latest performance.
Lost 3-0 to Southampton.
Two own goals. One defensive error. Keeper shouted at teammates for 90 minutes.
Arthur chuckled. If Bates thought Howard would walk into that circus and magically fix everything, he was dreaming.
Still, Arthur had to admit — the old man was persistent.
And desperate people do stupid things.
He knew it was only a matter of time before Bates showed up at Elland Road, hat in hand, voice friendly, smile fake.
Arthur already knew how the conversation would go.
Bates would start by pretending to be calm. Say something like, "I'm just here for a friendly chat."
Then he'd start buttering him up. "You've done a fine job at Leeds, really impressive. Didn't expect it, but hats off to you."
And finally, he'd throw out a slightly improved offer. Maybe €11 million. Maybe €12 million if he was feeling wild.
Arthur was ready.
He already had his line prepared:
"Howard's buyout clause is €15 million. Take it or leave it."
And if Bates didn't want to pay?
Then he could enjoy the rest of his season in the relegation zone, watching his defenders pass the ball to the other team like it was Christmas morning.
Arthur shut his laptop, stretched his arms, and looked out the window at Elland Road.
The stands were quiet now, but they wouldn't be for long. Sunderland was coming. Another big game. Another step closer.
And somewhere, a panicking club owner was packing his bags for a desperate visit.
Arthur smiled."Let's see what he brings to the table."
***
The tone in the media had done a complete U-turn.
At the start of the season, Leeds United had been the league's punching bag — not on the pitch, but in the headlines. Every article was some variation of "Is Arthur out of his depth?" or "Leeds United's fairytale will collapse soon."
Now?
Now the same journalists couldn't praise them enough.
Every time Leeds played, the newspapers exploded with praise. Headlines like:
"Leeds United: Unstoppable and Unbeaten!"
"Howard's hands worth their weight in gold!"
"Leeds flying high thanks to Arthur's vision!"
Howard, in particular, had become a media darling. He'd already graced the covers of half a dozen football magazines. Some even featured him holding a giant invisible shield, as if he were guarding Leeds' goal with superhero powers.
Arthur had no complaints. Not one.
In fact, he was more than happy to ride the wave of attention — because where there's buzz, there's money.
He'd already cashed in by licensing Howard's image rights and launching a limited edition Leeds United goalkeeper kit with Howard's name and number. The shirts were flying off the shelves faster than matchday pies. Even casual fans who didn't know a clean sheet from a bed sheet were snapping them up.
It helped take some pressure off the club's finances. Because, well, Leeds was still in the red. Deep in the red. Drenched in it, really.
Arthur smiled to himself as he pulled up the system panel.
[Host]: Arthur
[Club Owned]: Leeds United
[Economic Situation]: Heavy Debt – €80 million
[Team Status]: Morale High
[Available Funds]: €6 million
[Fixed Skill]: Super Scout (Can view detailed attributes of any player)
*[Skill Pack]: Peak Drogba Experience Card – 1 month (Usable on any player)
Some things had changed on the system interface. The team's status was now marked as "Morale High," which made sense — everyone was riding high after the last few wins, and Howard's penalty save had practically boosted team spirit into orbit.
Arthur looked at the funds section and gave a little nod.
He had just over €6 million in hand. Not much in football terms, but definitely better than the sorry state he was in after the winter transfer window when he'd been left with barely over €1 million.
At least now the club could run smoothly for the next couple of months. Salaries could be paid, travel costs covered, and the lights would stay on.
Of course, that didn't mean the debt had disappeared. They still owed €80 million.
But Arthur wasn't in a rush to clear it. He knew how this game worked. Chasing quick profits never helped anyone in football. Patience, smart moves, and the occasional lucky break — that was how you made progress.
As he clicked over to Howard's player panel, the familiar Buffon template still glowed at the top.
Buffon Template Active: 8 Days Remaining
Perfect. Just enough to carry through the all-important clash against Sunderland. With that in place, Howard would still be channeling the aura of Italy's greatest wall between the posts.
Arthur closed the panel and set the laptop aside. Then, he reached for the phone on his desk and dialed his assistant.
"Hey," he said casually. "Reject West Brom's offer. Again."
A pause.
"Yes, I know it's ten million. Doesn't matter. Just send them the usual polite reply — thanks but no thanks."
He leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs, and added, "Then get in touch with the media. You know the drill."
This wasn't his first rodeo.
"Push the story that we've had lots of interest in Howard. Make it sound big. Five, six, ten clubs — whatever sounds believable."
He smiled a little.
"And throw in some envelopes while you're at it. Nothing too flashy, just enough to keep the headlines coming."
Another pause.
"Yes, say we're not selling unless someone triggers the release clause. Say he's not for sale — loyal to the club, happy in Leeds, yadda yadda."
He hung up.
Simple, clean, and efficient. Let the fish swim in stormy water — it only made the catch more expensive.
He glanced back at the list of offers on his screen. Besides West Brom, there were some feelers from Spain and Italy. Nothing serious yet, but the vultures were circling.
Arthur wasn't worried.
As long as Howard kept performing, his value would keep rising. And if someone did trigger the release clause?
Well, that would be a different conversation.
But for now, the message was clear:
Tim Howard was not for sale.
Unless you came with a briefcase full of cash and a very compelling reason.