The final whistle of the training session blew, a sharp, piercing sound that signaled the end of the day’s brutal but invigorating work.
The players, looking utterly drained but mentally sharp, began their slow, satisfied trudge back towards the changing rooms.
Michael intercepted Arthur just as he was about to follow them in.
The new manager was wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve, a look of intense concentration still etched on his face.
"A word, Gaffer?" Michael asked, a glint in his eye.
"Only if it’s good news, Chairman," Arthur replied, his voice tired but pleased.
"I think my brain is as tired as their legs are."
"I think you’ll like this news," Michael said, starting to walk with him along the edge of the pitch. "While you were busy revolutionizing football tactics, I had a visitor. A Mr. Julian Croft."
Arthur stopped dead in his tracks.
"Croft? The shark? What did that parasite want?"
"He wanted to buy Marcus Thorne," Michael said calmly.
Arthur groaned, rubbing his temples. "Of course, he did. Let me guess, he offered us a pittance, planning to unsettle the player and force our hand?"
"He opened at two million," Michael said.
"And you, I hope, told him to take a long walk off a short pier," Arthur said, resuming his walk towards the changing rooms. "We can’t afford to lose our most productive winger the day before our first match."
"I told him our valuation was three million," Michael continued, enjoying this.
Arthur stopped again, this time with a look of genuine surprise. "You did what? Three million? Michael, that’s..."
"Ambitious? I know. He countered with two-point-two million, plus a ten percent sell-on clause."
Arthur stared at him, his mouth slightly open as he processed the numbers.
"And?"
"And I accepted," Michael said with a grin.
"The paperwork is being drawn up as we speak. Marcus is having his medical at Blackwood tomorrow morning. He won’t be playing in the Tyke Shield."
For a full ten seconds, Arthur was speechless.
The shock on his face slowly morphed into a look of something Michael had never seen from him before: pure, unadulterated admiration.
He let out a low whistle.
"You’ve been the owner for a day," Arthur said, shaking his head in disbelief.
"And you’ve already fleeced Julian Croft, one of the most notorious negotiators in the game, for a fee that is at least half a million more than the player is worth. You sold our best winger from under my nose and I’m not even mad. In fact, I’m impressed."
"We have the money to reinvest now," Michael said, feeling a warm glow of pride.
"And we have a space on the right-wing."
He glanced meaningfully towards the dressing room, where a certain shy, left-footed prodigy was.
Arthur’s eyes lit up as he understood the implication. "You’re a madman, Sterling. A complete and utter madman."
He clapped Michael on the shoulder, a genuine grin spreading across his face.
"But I think I’m going to enjoy this."
Before the players left for the day, Michael pulled Danny Fletcher and Jamie Weston aside in a quiet corner of the corridor.
Danny, the confident prince [PA 91], stood with a relaxed posture. Jamie, the kid from the cage [PA 89], looked like he was about to be told off and was trying to make himself as small as possible.
"Jamie," Michael started, his voice soft and encouraging.
"You did well today. You were nervous, you made mistakes, but I saw the talent. Don’t be afraid to try things. This is your home now. You belong here."
Jamie looked up, his eyes wide with gratitude, and just managed a small, thankful nod.
Then Michael turned to Danny....