The victory at The Den, that impossible, heart-stopping 3-2 comeback, had changed everything.
The next few weeks were a glorious, heady blur of success. Michael, sitting in his office at Oakwell, had made a new habit. He no longer watched the 24-hour sports news with dread. He watched it for validation, a smug, satisfied smile on his face.
The league table, displayed on the massive screen, told the whole story.
After five games, the top three looked like this:
1- Derby County
2- Bolton Wanderers
3- Barnsley FC
He just stared at it. Third place. His team. His kids. His "philosophy."
The pundits, the same cynical, sharp-faced men who had called him a "lucky punk" and his team a "circus," were now eating their words, and it was the most delicious meal Michael had ever tasted.
"I just... I don’t know what to say, Frank," one pundit gushed, his face a mask of bewildered admiration. "I thought they were a flash in the pan. I thought that Old Trafford game was a one-off. But... they’re not. They are... shockingly consistent."
The other pundit nodded, looking equally baffled. "You said it, Gary. I watched their last two games.
A dominant 2-0 win at home where they had 80% possession, and a gritty 1-1 draw away, where they were reduced to ten men and still looked the more dangerous side.
The ’Stirling Revolution’ looks like it’s on a... a ’straight line’ path to promotion. I’ve never seen anything like it."
Michael leaned back in his chair, a profound, deeply-felt wave of contentment washing over him. It was a new feeling, and it was addictive.
His system was working. His gambles had paid off. Jamie Weston was terrorizing left-backs across the league, his [Power Shot] a known and feared weapon.
Finn Riley was a whirlwind of un-coachable, brilliant chaos, giving defenders nightmares. Danny Fletcher was the intelligent, selfless brain, linking it all together.
And his secret weapon, Raphael Santos, was safely tucked away in the academy, in the gym, and in Arthur’s tactical laboratory, his [Evasive Dribbler] trait making him a legend in training.
Everything was going exactly according to plan.
The team was on a "straight line," and he was the one who had drawn it.
He looked at the training report on his desk. His players were exhausted, but happy. The last two games had been tough, and the schedule was only getting tighter.
"No problem," he thought to himself, a small smile playing on his lips.
"I’ve got a fix for that."
He leaned back, closed his eyes, and summoned the familiar blue screen.
[BALANCE: 150 pts].
He’d earned another 150 points for the two good results. He was feeling rich.
He opened the [System Shop].
The interface was no longer a desperate, last-ditch lifeline. It was a management tool. He, as a good, responsible owner, was simply managing his assets.
His gaze flicked past the [Skill Lottery Ticket].
He navigated to the [Consumables] tab.
[Minor Recovery Potion - 50 pts]
[Single-Player Stamina Boost - 100 pts]
"Right," he murmured.
"Let’s buy three [Recovery Potions]. One for Jamie, one for Finn, and one for the captain."
He was about to confirm the purchase. It all felt so wonderfully easy. Everything was under complete, total control.
He was so content, so wrapped up in his perfect, orderly new world, that he decided to call his partner in crime. He wanted to share the moment, to talk tactics for the next match, to just... enjoy it.
He picked up his phone, hit Arthur’s name on speed-dial, and put it on speaker, leaning back in his chair.
"Hey Gaffer," he said, the second the line connected. "Brilliant performance last weekend. I’m just looking at the table now. Feels good, doesn’t it?"
He was met with a blast of static and a howling sound, like a wind tunnel.
"...Michael?"
Arthur’s voice was faint, almost unrecognizable. It was strange. It was strained.
Michael sat bolt upright, his contentment vanishing in a cold flash. "Arthur? Gaffer? Are you okay? You sound... what is that noise?"
"...on the motorway," Arthur’s voice crackled, distant and panicked. "The... the M1... Michael, the rain... it’s... it’s terrible... I can’t... I can barely see..."
"Arthur, pull over," Michael commanded, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his desk.
"Pull over now! You don’t sound good."
"I’m trying... I’m trying..."
Arthur’s voice was tight with terror. "There’s a lorry... he’s... he’s swerving! He’s... Oh, God... He can’t see me! He’s..."
The next sound Michael heard was not a voice.
It was a sound that would be seared into his brain for the rest of his life. It was the high-pitched, desperate, terrifying squeal of tires on wet tarmac, a sound of rubber screaming in a battle it was about to lose.
It was followed, a millisecond later, by a sound he couldn’t have imagined.
A sickening, horrific, wet crunch of metal compressing.
A sound of glass shattering into a million tiny diamonds. A sound of final, absolute, violent impact.
And then...
Silence.
Just the faint, hissing static of an open, unanswered line.
Michael sat frozen in his chair, the phone still on his desk, his brain unable to process the two clashing realities: the ’straight line’ of his perfect world, and the sound he had just heard.
"Arthur?" he whispered, his voice small, a child’s voice.
"Gaffer?"
The silence on the other end was his only reply.
The phone slipped from his numb fingers. The panic, the real panic, the kind he had never truly felt before, took over. He grabbed the phone, his hands shaking so badly he almost dropped it again.
He held it to his ear, his voice cracking, the eighteen-year-old kid in his heart taking over.
"ARTHUR!?" he screamed, his voice echoing in the quiet, sunlit office.
"ARTHUR! ANSWER ME!"
He was just screaming into a dead line.
"ARTHUR!"
.....
The phone was still on speaker, the hissing, dead-line static filling the quiet, contented silence of Michael’s office.
For a single, frozen second, Michael did not move.
He just stared at the phone, his brain refusing to connect the sounds he had just heard—the scream of tires, the sickening, final crunch of metal—with the man on the other end.
It was a mistake. A dropped call. A bad signal in the rain.
But the silence that followed was too absolute, too terrifying.