The ball hung in the air, a spinning, hopeful prayer against the dark, furious backdrop of the Millwall crowd.

Michael was on his feet, his heart in his throat, his entire body rigid with tension. Finn's shot had been saved, a moment of brilliance met by an equal one. But the rebound... the rebound was everything.

Danny Fletcher [PA 91] was leaping.

He had read the play, his footballing brain a supercomputer calculating the arc of the ball, the position of the keeper, and the desperation of the moment. He saw the injustice of his stolen goal, the exhaustion of his teammates, the fury of his manager.

He put it all into this one, perfect leap.

He met the ball at the absolute peak of his jump, a foot higher than the two lumbering defenders who were still flat-footed.

A powerful, precise nod that sent the ball back across the goal, past the scrambling, helpless goalkeeper, and into the one place he couldn't reach.

The net bulged.

2-2!

The tiny corner of Barnsley fans in the away end didn't just cheer... they exploded.

It was a raw, primal scream of pure, vindictive joy. Danny slid on his knees towards them, his face a mask of furious celebration, pointing at the linesman who had robbed him, as if to say, "You can't steal this one, you fraud!"

His teammates piled on top of him, a joyous, exhausted heap of red shirts.

On the touchline, Arthur Milton just pumped a single, violent fist.

Millwall's players, "The Butchers," just stood there, hands on hips, stunned, their faces a mask of pure disbelief. They had bullied, they had cheated, and they were still not winning.

The clock ticked over. 90th minute.

The fourth official's board went up. Three minutes of stoppage time. Three minutes to hold on.

But Barnsley wasn't holding on. They were the "Barnsley Braves." They were all-in.

In the 93rd minute, with what was surely the last attack of the game, a tired Millwall pass was intercepted. The ball was played forward to the one player who still seemed to have energy: Raphael Santos.

He was in his own half. He was exhausted. He could have taken the ball to the corner, shielded it, and wasted the final seconds. But Raphael Santos was not sensible...

He turned. He saw the space. And he ran.

He ran at the heart of Millwall's tired, broken defense. He beat the first man with an [Evasive Dribbler] spin. He beat the second with a shimmy. He was 30 yards from goal.

Harris, the man who had tried to end his game in the first second, saw him coming. He was not going to be embarrassed. He was not going to let this kid win. He charged.

It was a tackle of pure, unadulterated spite. A cynical, brutal, red-card-worthy scythe, designed to do one thing: hurt the man, not get the ball.

Raphael, with his last ounce of strength, just managed to flick the ball past him, but he couldn't avoid the man.

The Butcher clattered into him, sending the 17-year-old flying through the air in a painful, spinning heap.

A shrill, furious blast of the referee's whistle. A direct free kick.

The referee, finally, had no choice. He marched over to Harris, and pulled out a red card. The captain was off.

But the game wasn't over. The ball was placed, 28 yards from goal, just left of center. The last kick of the war.

The Millwall players formed a wall, a line of 11 angry, defeated giants. The Den was a cauldron of whistling, screaming, pure noise.

Jamie Weston, Mr. [Power Shot] himself, picked up the ball. He placed it down with a strange, eerie calm. He looked at the goal. He looked at the wall. He looked at the keeper.

He took three steps back. Michael, in the stands, was holding his breath. His fists were clenched. This was it.

Jamie ran up... and unleashed it.

It was not a clever, curling shot. It was a [Power Shot]. A rocket. A missile of pure, righteous fury. It flew with the power of the disallowed goal, the fury of the 100 bad tackles, the joy of the last-second comeback.

It curled up, over the wall of giants, and then, with an unnatural, physics-defying dip, it rocketed downwards.

The goalkeeper, who had been expecting a shot to the other side, was frozen. He made a desperate, useless dive, his fingertips a mile away.

The back of the net exploded.

3-2 TO BARNSLEY!

Jamie took off, screaming, his shirt already off, running towards the away fans, his face a mask of pure, unbelievable ecstasy.

The entire Barnsley bench, Arthur included, spilled onto the pitch, a scene of absolute, glorious, beautiful chaos.

The referee, amid the madness, blew his final whistle. It was over.

Back in the away dressing room, the scene was one of pure joy. The players, caked in mud, sweat, and cheap champagne that Michael had no idea where they'd found, were howling with laughter.

Someone had the replay of Danny's disallowed goal on their phone. They were watching it on loop, howling at the sheer, idiotic incompetence of the call.

"He was only five yards onside, lads!" Dave Bishop roared, and the room erupted in another wave of laughter.

Michael walked in, his suit jacket long-gone, his tie undone, his face split by a grin that hurt his cheeks. The players saw him and the room quieted, just a fraction.

"Lads," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I... I have no words. That was... that was history. You fought the ref, you fought 'The Butchers,' and you still found a way to win."

He paused, letting the triumph sink in.

"So," he continued, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"As a reward... I've just ordered five brand-new PS5s for the players' lounge."

The room erupted. It was a sound louder than the stadium. Players were jumping on the benches, hugging each other.

"AND!" Michael shouted over the din, "I've just approved the full, top-of-the-line, £100,000 upgrade for the physio and massage rooms. You've earned it, Braves!"

The cheer was deafening. This was his team. This was his family.

A week later, Michael was back in his quiet office at Oakwell.

The sports news was on his TV, the sound muted.

The pundits were not calling them a "circus" anymore.

"It's not a fluke anymore, folks!" the commentator was gushing.

"The 'Barnsley Braves' are the real deal! Their thrilling, all-attack style is taking the league by storm!"

The screen showed the league table. Barnsley was sitting in third place.

"Since that incredible, drama-filled 3-2 win at The Den," the presenter continued, "they've played two more. A solid, professional 2-0 win at home, and a hard-fought 1-1 draw away."

The screen was now showing a montage of highlights...

Raphael dancing, Finn running, Jamie shooting. Michael just smiled, looking out his window at the training pitch below, where his real-life superstars were practicing. The world was finally catching on.

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