While Arthur was a whirlwind of tactical instruction on the training pitch below, Michael found himself in the quiet solitude of his new office.
It still felt like he was borrowing it.
The chair was too soft, the desk too large, and the silence was unnerving.
He spent the first hour watching the training session from his window, a godlike perch from which he could see the intricate patterns of Arthur’s drills and, more importantly, the glowing numbers above his players’ heads.
He watched Jamie Weston [PA 89] get dispossessed twice in a row due to poor positioning, only to then skin two senior players and unleash a shot that the keeper barely saved.
He watched Danny Fletcher [PA 91] move with an intelligence that was years beyond his age, a quiet prince already learning the language of his new king.
This was his real work. Not sitting behind a desk, but observing, analyzing, seeing the hidden value that no one else could.
He was just about to head down to the pitch for a closer look when a soft knock came at his door.
It was Brenda, Ken Davies’ long-serving secretary, a kind, flustered woman in her sixties who seemed to be permanently overwhelmed by the whirlwind of change.
"Excuse me, Mr. Sterling," she said, wringing her hands slightly.
"There’s a gentleman here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he insists it’s urgent. A Mr. Croft."
"Croft?" Michael asked, the name unfamiliar.
"Did he say what it’s about?"
"He said it’s about ’an opportunity for mutual benefit,’" Brenda recited, as if the phrase left a bad taste in her mouth. "He looks... expensive."
Intrigued, Michael nodded.
"Send him in, Brenda. Thank you."
A moment later, the door swung open and in walked a man who was the human embodiment of a sharkskin suit.
He was impeccably tailored, with a deep tan, surgically white teeth, and a watch on his wrist that was worth more than Michael’s used Audi. He oozed a slick, practiced charm that set Michael’s teeth on edge.
This was his first encounter with one of the game’s great predators: the football agent.
"Michael! A pleasure. Julian Croft," the man said, striding across the room and extending a hand. His handshake was firm and brief, a business transaction in itself. He took a seat without being invited, crossing his legs and surveying the modest office with a look of faint pity.
"Mr. Croft," Michael said, remaining calm and professional, refusing to be intimidated.
"You said this was urgent."
"Always urgent in this business, my boy, always," Croft said with a condescending wink.
"Time is money, and money waits for no man. I’ll get straight to it. I represent the interests of Blackwood Rovers."
Michael nodded. Blackwood was a solid, mid-table club in the Championship, the league above Barnsley. A bigger fish.