Michael woke at seven-fifty-eight, two minutes before his alarm.
For a fleeting second, he felt a pang of phantom luxury, the muscle memory of his body expecting a king-sized bed and a silent, climate-controlled room.
Then, the reality of his new life crashed in, and it was a hundred times better.
Today, he wasn’t just Michael. He was Mr. Sterling, the Chairman.
He needed to look the part. He spent a full ten minutes in the tiny bathroom, taming his hair until it looked sharp and professional. He chose his outfit with the care of a general selecting his armor for battle: a crisp white shirt, dark, well-fitted trousers, and a tailored navy blazer that projected an aura of quiet authority. He looked in the small, cracked mirror.
He still looked eighteen, but today, he also looked like he owned a football club. It was a start.
He skipped breakfast, his stomach a knot of nervous excitement, and got into his sensible gray Audi. The drive to the training ground was different from the day before.
The streets were busier, filled with the morning rush. It was a town heading to work, and he was now one of its biggest employers.
The thought was both humbling and electrifying.
He pulled into the reserved chairman’s spot—a space that had belonged to Ken Davies for years—and saw that Arthur was already there, leaning against a wall by the entrance.
The transformation was startling. The sharp-suited CEO was gone, replaced by a man who looked like he had been born on a touchline.
He wore a club-branded tracksuit that fit him perfectly and held a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a clipboard in the other.
"Morning, Chairman," Arthur said, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
"Morning, Gaffer," Michael replied, the title feeling thrillingly real. "Ready for the inspection?"
"Born ready," Arthur said.
"Steve and Mark are already prepping the first drills. The players should be arriving any minute."
They walked into the main building and into a small glass-walled office that overlooked the entrance to the dressing rooms.
It was a perfect vantage point. From here, they could see every player as they arrived. Michael took a seat, his heart starting to pound a steady, rhythmic drum against his ribs.
This was it. The moment he would see the raw materials of his new empire.
The first players began to trickle in around eight-thirty.
They arrived in pairs or small groups, their faces a mixture of first-day-of-school nerves and professional weariness. They carried washbags and wore expensive headphones, the universal uniform of the modern footballer.
As each player walked through the door, Michael focused, and the numbers materialized above their heads.
A tall, grizzled-looking man with a captain’s armband already on his training kit walked in, clapping a younger player on the back.
[Dave Bishop (Captain): CA 68 / PA 69]. The veteran leader. Reliable, respected, but with no room left to grow. The absolute definition of a solid League One player.
A young, lanky goalkeeper followed, his face covered in acne and youthful optimism.
[Sam Jones (Goalkeeper): CA 60 / PA 80].
Good potential. A solid future prospect who could become a top player in this league.
Player after player walked past.
A journeyman midfielder with [CA 65 / PA 65].
A young right-back with [CA 61 / PA 74].
A flashy winger with [CA 67 / PA 71].
A clear picture began to form.
The squad was exactly as Arthur had described it: solid, dependable, and thoroughly average for their level.
There was no dead weight, but there were no hidden stars either.
It was a team built to survive, not to conquer.
Michael’s initial investment in the academy felt more justified with every passing player.
Then, a nervous-looking figure appeared at the door, clutching a plain black gym bag.
He wore cheap trainers and looked utterly terrified, like a competition winner who had accidentally wandered into the players’ entrance. It was Jamie Weston.
[Jamie Weston: CA 59 / PA 89].
The numbers glowed, a secret promise of greatness.
Michael felt a flicker of triumph. His first gamble, his first secret signing, was here.
He caught Arthur’s eye, and Arthur gave a subtle, almost imperceptible shake of his head that clearly said, ’This is still a crazy risk.’
Michael just smiled.
The players continued to arrive, their numbers telling the same story of solid adequacy.
By eight fifty-five, the dressing room was full. All except for one locker.
Just as Arthur was about to get up and start the morning briefing, the last player strolled in
. He moved with a relaxed, easy confidence that was different from the others. He was young, no older than nineteen, with a strong, athletic build and a clean-cut, handsome face. He nodded a greeting to the other players, who all seemed to like and respect him.
There was an aura about him, an innate self-assurance that couldn’t be coached.
Michael focused, and his breath caught in his chest.
The numbers that appeared above the young man’s head made the hairs on his arms stand up.