The roar of Old Trafford faded behind them, replaced by the chaotic, high-energy buzz of the post-match media scrum.
Flashes popped, reporters shouted questions, and a sea of microphones was thrust in the direction of anyone in a Barnsley tracksuit.
Michael and Arthur, however, slipped out a side exit, their faces hidden by the shadows of the massive stadium. The 3,000 traveling fans were still in the stands, singing their hearts out in a celebration of their glorious 4-2 defeat.
The team bus was idling, a noisy, diesel-fueled cocoon of triumph, ready to take the ’Barnsley Braves’ home.
"You go with them, Gaffer," Michael said, clapping Arthur on the shoulder.
"They’ve earned a celebration. You’ve earned it."
"And you?" Arthur asked, his face etched with exhaustion, but his eyes shining with a manic, victorious energy.
"I need some quiet," Michael said, gesturing with his car keys. "My Audi is a lot less... sticky... than that bus is going to be."
Arthur laughed, a rare, full-throated sound. "Good call. I’ll see you at Oakwell tomorrow. We have a lot of work to do."
Michael nodded and cut across the car park to his own, sensible, anonymous gray car. He got in, the silence of the cabin a welcome relief.
He sat there for a moment, his phone still buzzing from his father’s cold, dismissive text.
’Don’t let this go to your head. It was a fluke.’
A minute later, his passenger door opened, and Arthur slid into the seat, tossing his travel bag into the back.
Michael blinked, surprised. "I thought you were riding the party bus?"
"And listen to thirty-five renditions of ’Jamie Weston’s Magic Left Foot’?" Arthur grunted, sinking into the seat with a groan. "I’m forty-nine, Michael, not nineteen. My heart feels like it’s been through a cement mixer. I need privacy, and you’re the only one who won’t ask me to do a celebratory dance."
Michael smiled. "Fair enough."
He pulled out of the Old Trafford car park, just another car in the post-match traffic, leaving the Theatre of Dreams behind them.
They drove in comfortable silence for twenty minutes, the only sound the hum of the motorway. Arthur seemed to have fallen asleep, his head resting against the window.
But as they cleared the Manchester city limits, he spoke, his eyes still closed.
"Jamie was incredible," he murmured, almost to himself.
"The run for the first corner... the goal... but that ’Power Shot’..." He opened his eyes and turned to look at Michael, his gaze sharp and analytical. "Where did that come from, Michael? I’ve watched every minute of his training. He’s got a strong left foot, yes. But that... that was a cannon. That was physics-defying. He’s never hit a ball like that in his life."
Michael kept his eyes on the road, his heart giving a small, guilty flutter. He had to deflect.
"He’s a big-game player, Gaffer. Some players just... rise to the occasion. He’s leveling up fast."
Arthur grunted, not entirely satisfied. "Let’s hope he can ’level up’ like that against Scunthorpe on a rainy Tuesday night. But he’s right," he said, shifting in his seat. "We have to be honest. Our defense. It was a disaster. They shredded us. They were so fast, so clinical. We were lucky it was only four."
"Agreed," Michael said, his tone turning serious. The buzz of the day was over. The work was starting again.
"We need fixes. We can’t be a team that just scores miracle goals and concedes four. We need stability."
"Stability is expensive," Arthur countered. "What we need is time. And we need to get our new secret weapon up to speed."
He lowered his voice, even though they were alone.
"Which brings us to Raphael Santos."
Michael nodded, his mind already on his [PA 93] ghost. "He arrives on Tuesday."
"And he’s a massive talent, I’ve seen the clips. He’s a butterfly," Arthur said. "But Michael... his physicals... He’s a child. The first League One defender who gets ahold of him will snap him in half like a dry twig. He has to be kept completely under wraps."
"That’s the plan," Michael agreed. "He’s ’Project Ghost.’ He doesn’t train with the first team. He doesn’t go near the press. He trains in the gym, he works with the academy, and he eats about six meals a day until he looks less like a footballer and more like... well, a person. He’s our long-term investment. He doesn’t see a first-team bench for at least a year."
Arthur nodded, the pragmatist in him satisfied.
"Good. We have our superstars. Now we just need to teach them how to defend."
The next morning, Michael woke up in his humble flat. He felt... normal. The adrenaline of Old Trafford felt like a distant dream.
He made a coffee, his 150 System Points a warm, secret glow in his mind, and flipped on the TV to the 24-hour sports news.
The smug-looking presenter was in the middle of a segment. "...and in what can only be described as a shocking upset from the pre-season circuit, Richard Sterling’s new pet project, Northwood FC, were humbled in a 2-0 defeat to a second-tier Norwegian side..."
Michael stopped, his coffee mug halfway to his mouth. He watched the highlights: his father’s team, full of expensive, aging stars, looking slow and clueless.
A wide, satisfied grin spread across his face. He took a long, slow sip of his coffee.
’Fluke,’ huh?
The presenter’s tone suddenly shifted, becoming bright and excited. "But the real story everyone is talking about this morning is the ’Honorable Defeat’ at Old Trafford! Barnsley’s ’Braves’ have captured the imagination of the entire country!"
The screen lit up with a montage: Jamie’s impossible goal, the ball exploding into the net. Finn Riley’s audacious run, smashing the crossbar. Danny Fletcher’s clever, intelligent link-up play.
"Pundits are calling their performance ’heroic’ and ’revolutionary!’" the presenter gushed.
"The small club from League One went toe-to-toe with the giants, and the fans are already dubbing their two young stars, Jamie Weston and Danny Fletcher... the ’Wonder Twins’!"
Michael smiled. The ’Wonder Twins.’ He liked the sound of that.
But the report wasn’t over. The screen cut to a new anchor. "But the real question everyone is asking... what about the man behind it all? The 18-year-old owner who called his shot?"
The screen suddenly changed. It cut to a grainy, zoomed-in, candid shot of Michael, clearly filmed on a phone from the Old Trafford stands. It was the exact moment he’d seen the social media explosion, the moment he’d let out that cold, triumphant, "villainous" laugh.
He watched himself on screen, a stranger. He looked calculating. He looked cold. He looked... terrifying.
The commentator’s voice was laced with suspicion. "This was the moment 18-year-old owner Michael Sterling learned his club’s social media followers had doubled. Is this the passion of a young owner celebrating his team’s heroic fight?"
The footage played again, his cold laugh seeming to echo in the studio.
"Or," the commentator said, his voice dropping, "is this the cold calculation of a man who just won the lottery? The question on everyone’s lips this morning: is this kid a genius... or just a lucky punk about to lose it all?"
Michael just stood there in his small flat, staring at his own calculating, villainous face on the national news.
He took another sip of his coffee.
"Let them talk," he whispered, a dangerous smile touching his lips. "Let them wonder."