"ONE NIL! THE PRINCE HAS RETURNED! BARNSLEY ARE IN DREAMLAND!"

The commentator's voice was practically vibrating inside Michael's earpiece, a hysterical, screaming buzz that matched the electricity coursing through his own veins.

Michael Sterling stood in the technical area, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to hide the fact that they were shaking. Not from fear. From pure, unadulterated adrenaline.

Danny Fletcher had just scored. They were beating Leeds United.

"Sit down, Boss," Arthur rasped from the bench, though the old scout was smirking so hard his face looked like it might crack.

"The game is not 16 minutes long."

"Let me enjoy it for thirty seconds, Arthur," Michael laughed, glancing back at the stands.

He saw his sister, Jessica, jumping up and down, waving her 'FLETCHER 9' scarf like a maniac. He saw his Mom, Catherine, clapping elegantly but with a wild gleam in her eyes.

But Arthur was right.

On the pitch, the Leeds United players weren't sulking. They were gathering in a circle.

Their captain—the one "The Butcher" had turned into a lawn ornament earlier—was shouting. He was pointing. Not at the referee, not at his teammates.

He was pointing at Mateo.

Michael's stomach dropped. Mateo, their [PA 88] 'Magic Bean' left-back, was currently looking at the crowd with wide, terrified eyes. He was [CA 50]. He was raw. And Leeds… Leeds were wolves.

"They're changing shape," Arthur muttered, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward on his cane.

"Look. Their winger. He's hugging the touchline. They're going to overload the kid."

Minute 22. The change happened instantly.

Leeds stopped trying to go through the middle, where Shaun "The Butcher" Higgins and Kai Sora were patrolling like a pair of nightclub bouncers. instead, they sprayed the ball wide.

A long, diagonal pass.

It soared over everyone's heads, landing perfectly at the feet of the Leeds right-winger, a speedster named Johnson who had Premier League thighs and Championship hunger.

Mateo hesitated.

"DON'T DIVE IN!" Michael screamed.

Too late.

Mateo lunged. It was a clumsy, nervous, "I-hope-I-get-the-ball" attempt.

Johnson didn't even blink. He flicked the ball past Mateo's outstretched leg, skipped over the tackle, and accelerated.

"TROUBLE! BIG TROUBLE FOR THE TYKES!" the commentator roared. "JOHNSON HAS SKINNED HIM! HE'S INTO THE BOX!"

Johnson looked up. He cut the ball back.

The Leeds striker met it.

THWACK!

A thunderous shot from twelve yards out.

Sam Jones, the 'OP Keeper,' reacted. He threw a hand up.

SMASH.

The ball rattled off the crossbar. The sound was like a gunshot. It bounced down, spun away, and was frantically hacked clear by Higgins.

"WAKE UP!" Higgins roared at Mateo, his voice terrifying enough to curdle milk. "DO THAT AGAIN, AND I'LL TACKLE YOU!"

Mateo looked like he wanted to cry.

"He's drowning, Arthur," Michael whispered, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Should we sub him?"

"No," Arthur said firmly. "If you take him off now, you kill his confidence forever. Let him suffer. It's how they learn."

Minute 30.

The pressure was suffocating. Leeds United were relentless. They were faster, stronger, and angry. Barnsley couldn't get out of their own half.

Possession: Leeds 68% - Barnsley 32%.

The crowd was getting nervous. The joyous "Olé" chants had stopped, replaced by a low, anxious murmur.

"We need an out ball," Michael muttered.

"We need magic."

As if he heard him, Raphael Santos, the 'Magician,' dropped deep.

Raph was tiny compared to the Leeds midfielders.

He looked like a mascot who had accidentally wandered onto the pitch.

A massive Leeds defensive midfielder, a guy who looked like he ate bricks for breakfast, charged at him from behind.

"RAPH! MAN ON!" Jamie Weston screamed.

Raph didn't panic. He didn't pass back.

He felt the pressure.

THE DRIBBLE.

Raph trapped the ball with the outside of his left boot. As the Leeds giant came crashing in to crush him, Raph did something that didn't make sense in physics.

He rolled the ball backward with his sole, spun 180 degrees, and flicked it through the giant's legs.

A Roulette.

A perfect, Zidane-esque, "Magician's" Roulette.

"OH, STOP IT!" the commentator screamed, his voice cracking with delight. "THAT IS FILTHY! THAT IS ILLEGAL IN THREE COUNTRIES! THE MAGICIAN HAS SENT HIM FOR A NEWSPAPER!"

The crowd gasped, then roared.

Raph wasn't done. He burst into the space. Another Leeds midfielder came sliding in. Raph dropped his shoulder, feinted a pass, and just… glided past.

He had broken the press.

"GO ON, SON!" Michael yelled.

Raph looked up. He saw Jamie Weston making a run. He curled a beautiful pass into the channel.

Jamie chased it. He battled the Leeds center-back, shoulder to shoulder. Jamie used his [Power Shot] strength, muscling the defender off. He was in!

Tight angle.

Jamie smashed it!

SPLAT.

The ball hit the side netting.

"OOOOH!" The stadium groaned, hands on heads.

"Better!" Arthur clapped, nodding approvingly. "The 'Magician'… he has guts."

But the relief was temporary.

Minute 38.

Leeds came back. Angry.

They went right back to Mateo. The poor kid was hyperventilating. Johnson, the Leeds winger, ran at him again. Mateo backed off, terrified of being beaten. He backed off too far.

Johnson laughed. He didn't dribble. He just cut inside, right on the edge of the box.

Mateo panicked. He stuck a leg out. He didn't touch the ball. He caught Johnson's ankle.

PHWEEEEET!

The referee's whistle was sharp and immediate.

"FOUL! AND A DANGEROUS ONE!" the commentator yelled. "RIGHT ON THE EDGE OF THE BOX! A NIGHTMARE FOR BARNSLEY!"

Yellow card for Mateo.

Michael put his head in his hands. "This is bad, Arthur. This is really bad."

Arthur didn't speak. He just gripped his cane tighter.

The ball was placed 20 yards out. Slightly to the right. Perfect for a left-footer.

The Leeds specialist, a tall, blonde-haired playmaker named Eriksson, stood over the ball. He placed it meticulously, rotating it until the valve was facing the way he liked. The Barnsley wall formed. Higgins was shouting, shoving players into position. Sam Jones was jumping on his line, trying to make himself look big.

"STAY TIGHT! DON'T JUMP EARLY!" Sam screamed.

The stadium fell silent. You could hear a pin drop in the Fortress.

Eriksson took three steps back. He took a deep breath.

He ran up.

THUMP.

He didn't shoot.

It was a fake.

Instead of curling it over the wall, he clipped a soft, floating ball toward the back post.

"IT'S A TRICK!" Michael yelled.

The Barnsley defense was caught watching the wall. They were static.

But the Leeds center-back, a 6ft 4in monster named Cooper, was moving. He had peeled off the back of the pack. He was unmarked.

Cooper rose. He jumped so high his knees were level with Mateo's head.

It was majestic. It was terrifying.

He met the ball with a thunderous connect.

BAM.

He headed it down, hard, across the goal.

Sam Jones scrambled across. He dove. He stretched every inch of his [CA 72] frame.

But the header was perfect. It bounced off the turf, right in front of Sam's hand, and skipped up into the roof of the net.

GOAL.

1-1.

The silence in the stadium was shattered by the roar of the 3,000 traveling Leeds fans in the corner.

"AND LEEDS ARE LEVEL!" the commentator bellowed. "A SET-PIECE MASTERCLASS! THEY CAUGHT THE TYKES SLEEPING! THE CHAMPIONSHIP GIANTS HAVE WOKEN UP!"

Michael felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

He slumped back into his seat. "Damn it."

"Focus," Arthur snapped, his voice cutting through the disappointment. "Look at them."

Michael looked.

Danny Fletcher wasn't shouting at Mateo. He was walking over to him. He put an arm around the shaking left-back. He pointed at his own head. Focus.

Higgins picked the ball out of the net and drop-kicked it back to the center circle. He glared at the Leeds fans. He looked angry. Good angry.

Minute 44.

The goal had hurt, but it hadn't killed them.

Leeds wanted another one before halftime. They smelled blood.

They poured forward again.

But this time… Barnsley pushed back.

Kai Sora, who had spent the last ten minutes looking at the clouds, suddenly decided to participate.

A loose ball bounced in the midfield. The Leeds goalscorer, Cooper, stepped up to clear it.

Kai stepped in front.

He didn't touch the ball. He just used his body. A subtle, basketball-style screen.

Cooper bounced off him.

Kai took the ball. He looked up.

"One more chance!" Michael whispered.

Kai flicked a pass to Raph. Raph turned. He saw Finn Riley, the 'Wild Fox,' making a sprint down the right wing.

"GO!"

Raph launched it.

Finn was fast. [CA 69] speed. He burned past the Leeds left-back. He was at the byline!

"CROSS IT!"

Finn whipped the ball in.

It soared into the box. Jamie Weston was there. He jumped!

But the Leeds keeper came out. He punched it clear!

The ball flew out to the edge of the box.

It fell… to "The Butcher."

Higgins. 25 yards out.

"SHOOT!" the crowd screamed.

Higgins wound up his massive leg. The Leeds defenders threw themselves in the way, terrified for their lives.

Higgins… didn't shoot.

He faked. A clumsy, heavy fake. But the defenders bought it! They slid past him.

Higgins took a touch. He passed it wide to Danny.

Danny controlled it. 10 seconds left.

Danny cut inside. He curled a shot!

CURVE.

The ball bent around the defender… it was heading for the top corner!

The Leeds keeper flew!

He touched it!

The ball kissed the outside of the post and went out for a corner.

PHWEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

The referee blew for halftime.

The crowd erupted into applause. Not a groan. Applause.

It was 1-1.

They had scored. They had conceded. They had almost scored again.

Michael stood up, letting out a long, shaky breath. His heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

"Well," Arthur rasped, standing up and adjusting his cap. "That wasn't boring."

Michael looked at the scoreboard.

BARNSLEY 1 - 1 LEEDS UTD

"No," Michael said, a small, fierce grin returning to his face as he watched his players—sweaty, bruised, but unbowed—walking toward the tunnel. "It wasn't boring at all."

He turned to the tunnel. He had fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes to fix Mateo. Fifteen minutes to calm them down.

Fifteen minutes to act like the Boss his Dad wanted him to be.

"Let's go to work," Michael whispered.

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