With the dressing room civil war expertly averted by Arthur, Michael felt a renewed sense of purpose.
Arthur was the master tactician on the pitch, the general forging a united army.
That freed Michael up to do what only he could do: hunt for the hidden gems, the undervalued assets that his secret system could uncover.
He had the money from the Marcus Thorne sale—£2.2 million—burning a hole in the club’s bank account.
He could buy a ready-made, solid League One player. That would be the safe, sensible option.
But Michael wasn’t interested in being sensible. He was interested in being a genius.
Back in his office, while the newly unified team trained on the pitch below, Michael opened his laptop and activated the core function of his Football Empire System. He was scanning the world. He typed in a specific set of search parameters:
Player Age: 17-19. Status: Recently Released. Last Club: Premier League Academy.
It was a search for fallen angels, the kids who had been on the cusp of greatness, only to be told they weren’t good enough.
A list of names appeared on his screen, a digital graveyard of broken dreams.
He scanned through them, his eyes flicking to the CA/PA numbers that appeared next to each name. Most were what you’d expect: [PA 70], [PA 75].
Good players who would likely have solid careers in the lower leagues, but not the game-changers he was looking for.
And then he saw it. A name that made his heart leap into his throat.
[Finn Riley. Age: 18. Position: Right Winger. Last Club: Manchester United.]
And next to the name, the numbers glowed with an almost incandescent light.
[CA 55 / PA 90]
Ninety. Another one.
It was a number that shouldn’t exist outside the world’s most elite clubs, and it belonged to a kid who had just been thrown on the scrap heap.
Michael’s hands trembled slightly as he clicked on the profile. The system provided a brief, one-line summary of the scout’s report, the reason for his release. It was an odd one.
"Reason for release: Poor tactical discipline and a perceived lack of professionalism. Uncoachable. A ’wild fox’ who plays by his own rules."
Michael leaned back in his chair, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. A wild fox. Uncoachable.
An agent like Julian Croft would see that as a red flag. A traditional owner like his father would see it as a character flaw. Michael saw it as a discount.
At Barnsley, under a tactical genius like Arthur, that wildness could be a weapon.
"Brenda," he called out over the intercom. "Get me everything you can on a player named Finn Riley. And find me a contact number. Now."
Two days later, Michael found himself sitting in a soulless, corporate coffee shop on the outskirts of Manchester. He had driven up alone, telling Arthur only that he was "scouting a potential asset."
Finn Riley walked in exactly on time, but he moved with an attitude that suggested the world should wait for him. He was tall and lean, with a mop of fiery red hair and a constellation of freckles across his nose. He wore a ripped band t-shirt and jeans that looked like they’d been in a fight with a lawnmower.
They darted around the coffee shop, sizing everything up, before finally landing on Michael.
He sauntered over and slumped into the chair opposite, not saying a word.
"Finn," Michael said, extending a hand.
"Thanks for meeting me. I’m Michael Sterling."
Finn looked at his hand for a second before giving it a brief, limp shake. "I know who you are," he said, his voice a lazy, Mancunian drawl. "Saw you on the telly. The kid who bought a club."
"That’s me," Michael said, refusing to be rattled by the kid’s abrasive confidence.
"So," Finn said, leaning back and crossing his arms, a smirk playing on his lips. "What’s this about? You here to offer me a job washing the kits?"
This was a test. A classic "bad boy" power play. Michael decided not to play the game.
"No," he said, his voice calm and direct.
"I’m here to offer you a job as our starting right-winger."
The smirk on Finn’s face vanished, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise. He sat up a little straighter.
"Starting? You haven’t even seen me play."
"I’ve seen the tapes," Michael lied smoothly. "I saw what you did for United’s Under-18s. And I read the reports. ’Poor tactical discipline.’ ’Doesn’t follow instructions.’ ’Plays by his own rules.’" He recited the phrases, watching Finn’s reaction.
The kid’s expression hardened.
"So you’re here to give me a lecture, then?"
"No," Michael said, leaning forward. "I’m here because of those reports. At Manchester United, that’s a problem. They want soldiers who follow orders. I’m not building an army of soldiers, Finn. I’m building a team of artists. I have a manager who doesn’t want to suppress your talent; he wants to unleash it. He doesn’t want you to track back like a robot. He wants you to get the ball, run at your man, and create chaos. He wants the wild fox."
Finn stared at him, the arrogant facade completely gone. Michael had just spoken the language of his soul. He had taken everything Finn had ever been criticized for and reframed it as a strength.
"You’re different," Finn said finally, a look of grudging respect in his sharp green eyes.
"We’re a different kind of club," Michael replied. "We’re offering you a one-year contract, with an option for a second if you hit your performance targets. It won’t be Manchester United money, but you will play. You will be the first name on the teamsheet. You will have a manager who understands you, and you will have the freedom to be the player you were born to be."
It was the perfect sales pitch, custom-made for this exact player.
Michael had offered him the one thing he craved more than money: freedom.
Finn was silent for a long moment, his gaze distant.
Then, he looked back at Michael, and the lazy, arrogant smirk returned, but this time it was different.
"So," he said, his voice full of a newfound swagger. "When do I start training?"
Michael drove back to Barnsley feeling like he had just pulled off the heist of the century. He had signed a [PA 90] player for nothing but a promise and a small salary.
He was so lost in his triumphant thoughts that he didn’t check his phone until he was pulling back into the stadium car park.
He had a dozen missed calls and a flood of text messages. One was from Arthur: ’Call me. NOW.’
He walked into his office, and Brenda looked up at him with wide, panicked eyes, holding up a copy of the afternoon’s local paper. Michael’s blood ran cold.
The headline, in huge, dramatic letters, was a gut punch.
"BARNSLEY’S KID OWNER BETS ON MAN UTD’S BAD BOY!"
Beneath it was an unflattering picture of Finn Riley from his youth team days, getting a red card, his face contorted in a snarl.
The article was brutal. It quoted an "unnamed source" from Manchester United’s academy, who described Finn as "a talented but toxic presence" and "a manager’s nightmare."
The story had leaked. Someone from Finn’s side, or maybe even someone from United, had tipped off the press.
His phone rang. It was Arthur.
"Michael," his manager’s voice was tight with controlled anger. "What in God’s name have you done now?"