The Friday before the first game of the Premier League season was always strange.

The grass on the training pitch looked greener than usual. The coffee in the canteen tasted stronger.

Michael Sterling stood in his office looking out at the car park. The rain was falling in sheets. It washed away the dust of the summer and left the world looking clean and ready for battle.

Arthur Milton was sitting on the sofa. He was polishing the Manager of the Month trophy with his sleeve.

"It is shiny Boss," Arthur said. "But it is lonely. It needs a big brother. Maybe the Premier League trophy."

"One step at a time Arthur," Michael said turning away from the window. "First we have to beat Wolves. They are strong. They have Cunha. They have speed."

"We have a Viking," Arthur reminded him. "And a Pitbull. And a Phantom."

Michael smiled. The squad was ready. The tactics were set.

But suddenly a black car pulled into the training ground entrance.

It was not a normal car. It was a Jaguar. A very expensive government style Jaguar with tinted windows. It ignored the security guard and drove straight to the front door of the main building.

"Who is that?" Arthur asked standing up and squinting. "Is it the tax man? Did we forget to pay the tax on Diego steak consumption?"

"No," Michael said. "The tax man drives a Ford. That looks like official business."

Michael phone buzzed on his desk.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

He picked it up.

"Hello? Michael Sterling speaking."

"Mr Sterling," a voice said. It sounded posh. It sounded like tea and biscuits in a palace. "This is Sir Edward Blackwood from the Football Association. I am downstairs. I would like a moment of your time."

Michael froze. The FA. The people who ran English football.

"Send him up," Michael said.

Sir Edward Blackwood walked into the office two minutes later. He was an older man with silver hair and a suit that cost more than the entire Barnsley midfield in League One.

He carried a leather briefcase.

"Mr Sterling," Sir Edward said extending a hand. "A pleasure. And Mr Milton. The famous scout who found the pink boots."

Arthur looked at his own hand which was covered in trophy polish. He wiped it on his trousers before shaking hands.

"Please sit," Michael said. "Would you like a coffee? Or perhaps an energy drink? We have plenty thanks to Jamie Vardy."

"Water will be fine," Sir Edward said sitting down.

He placed the briefcase on the desk. He clicked it open.

"I will be direct Mr Sterling," Sir Edward said. "The England National Team is in a crisis."

Michael nodded. Everyone knew this. The Three Lions had crashed out of the Euros in the group stage. The fans were angry. The press was sharpening their knives.

"The current manager has left by mutual consent," Sir Edward said. "We need a new direction. We need someone young. Someone brave. Someone who builds dynasties."

Michael felt his heart skip a beat.

"You want me?" Michael asked.

"We want the architect of the Barnsley Miracle," Sir Edward corrected. "We have watched you. You took a team of rejects and made them killers. You discovered Leo Stone. You revived Jamie Vardy. You made Diego Nunez... well you made him somewhat controllable."

Sir Edward slid a piece of paper across the desk.

"This is a contract Mr Sterling. Four years. Leading the team to the World Cup in 2026. The salary is double what you earn here."

Arthur gasped.

"Double?" Arthur whispered. "That is a lot of pastries."

Michael looked at the paper. The England Crest was at the top. The Three Lions.

It was the biggest job in the country. The job every English manager dreamed of.

"You would manage Bellingham," Sir Edward said. "Foden. Saka. Kane. The best generation we have ever had."

Michael looked at the contract. Then he looked at the window.

He saw the training pitch.

He saw Enzo Silva chasing a plastic bag in the wind.

He saw Erik Olsen practicing free kicks in the heavy rain.

He saw Diego Nunez carrying two goalposts by himself because he did not want to wait for the groundsman.

"It is a great honor Sir Edward," Michael said slowly. "Truly. To manage my country."

"But?" Sir Edward asked raising an eyebrow.

"But I am a club manager," Michael said. "I love the daily grind. I love the smell of the grass on Tuesday morning. I love arguing with Arthur about lunch. I love the panic when Diego tries to eat a referee."

"National management is prestigious," Sir Edward argued. "You represent the nation."

"I represent Barnsley," Michael said firmly. "We are just starting. We have the Conference League. We have the new stadium. I cannot leave them now. It would be like leaving a house before the roof is built."

He pushed the paper back.

"Also," Michael added a softness entering his voice. "I have a baby coming. A new signing at home. I need to be here. In Yorkshire. Not flying around the world for international breaks."

Sir Edward looked at Michael. He studied his face. Then he closed the briefcase.

"They told me you would say no," Sir Edward sighed. "They said you were stubborn. They said you were loyal to a fault."

" loyalty is expensive," Michael smiled. "But it pays the best dividends."

Sir Edward stood up.

"If you change your mind Mr Sterling call me. But for now good luck against Wolves. I hear they have a very fast winger."

"We have a Viking," Michael replied. "We will be fine."

As Sir Edward left the room the door opened and Diego Nunez walked in.

The giant defender was soaking wet. He was wearing a towel around his neck and eating a banana.

He looked at the posh man in the suit.

"Who is the old man?" Diego asked with his mouth full. "Is he the Queen?"

"The King Diego," Arthur corrected. "And no. He was the England man. He wanted to steal the Boss."

Diego stopped chewing. He dropped the banana.

The towel fell from his neck.

Diego stepped forward. He blocked the doorway. He looked at Sir Edward.

"You want to take Papa Michael?" Diego rumbled. His voice was low and dangerous like thunder.

Sir Edward looked nervous. He was a powerful man but Diego Nunez was a force of nature.

"It was just a job offer Mr Nunez," Sir Edward squeaked.

"Michael stays," Diego said pointing a massive finger at the floor. "He stays here. We have unfinished business. We have to conquer Europe. If you take him I will come to London. And I will tackle your car."

"He means it," Michael said from his desk. "He really will tackle your car."

"I believe you," Sir Edward said squeezing past Diego. "Good day gentlemen."

The Englishman ran down the corridor.

Diego turned to Michael.

"Did you say yes?" Diego asked. His eyes were wide and worried.

"I said no Diego," Michael said. "I am not going anywhere."

Diego let out a huge breath.

"Good," Diego said picking up his banana. "Because if you left I would have to become the manager. And I do not like wearing suits. They are too tight on my arms."

That evening Michael went home to his new mansion on the hill.

Sarah was in the kitchen. She was looking at paint samples for the nursery.

"How was your day?" Sarah asked. "Did you beat Wolves tactically?"

"I beat the temptation," Michael said kissing her forehead. "The FA came. They offered me the England job."

Sarah dropped the paint chart.

"England? Michael! That is huge!"

"I said no," Michael said taking an apple from the bowl.

"You said no?" Sarah looked at him. "Why?"

"Because of this," Michael pointed at the paint chart. "Purple walls? Really?"

"It is Lavender Mist," Sarah corrected laughing. "Be serious."

"I said no because my work is here," Michael said. "With you. With the baby. With the Misfits. England can wait. The World Cup can wait. But Barnsley? Barnsley is happening now."

He looked out of the window at the rain falling on his garden.

"Plus," Michael added. "If I managed England I would have to drop Harry Maguire. And I do not want that drama."

Sarah laughed and hugged him.

"You made the right choice," she whispered. "Our baby needs a dad who comes home for dinner. Not a dad who lives in Wembley."

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

The Fortress was shaking.

The first game of the season. The stadium was packed. The new stand was open and it looked magnificent. Forty five thousand fans screaming Hi Ho Silver Lining.

In the dressing room the music was loud.

Michael stood in the center.

"Turn it off," Michael said.

Isaiah King killed the music. The room went silent.

"Yesterday," Michael began. "A man came to my office. He offered me a job. A very big job."

The players looked at each other.

"He wanted me to leave you," Michael said. "He offered me double the money. He offered me fame."

Enzo Silva growled. "Who was he? I will bite his ankles."

"I told him no," Michael said.

The players relaxed.

"I told him that I already manage the best team in the world," Michael said. "I told him I have a Viking who is hitting his peak. I told him I have a Phantom who walks through walls. I told him I have a Bull who eats bananas and scares aristocrats."

Diego grinned.

"I told him," Michael voice rose. "That we are building a Dynasty. And you do not leave a Dynasty halfway through."

He slammed his hand on the tactical board.

"Wolves are outside. They think they are predators. Go out there and show them that they are just puppies."

"WE ARE THE PACK!" Jamie Vardy screamed crushing a Red Bull can on his forehead.

"WE ARE THE MISFITS!" the team roared.

They ran out of the tunnel.

The noise hit them like a physical wave.

Michael Sterling walked out last. He stood on the touchline. The rain was falling on his face but he did not feel cold.

He felt fire.

He had turned down the country for the club.

Now he had to prove he was right.

He looked at the opposing manager. Gary ONeil. A good tactician.

"Good luck Michael," Gary said shaking his hand. "I heard a rumor you turned down the big job."

"Rumors are just wind Gary," Michael smiled. "I am just a simple club manager."

The referee blew the whistle.

KICKOFF

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