Michael was in his office, but his mind was elsewhere.

A small, satisfied smirk on his face as he watched the 24-hour sports news broadcast on the large TV mounted to his wall.

The "Collapsing Club" narrative was dead, replaced by a story of such bewildering, chaotic success that the media had no choice but to embrace it.

"I just don't get it, Jeff!" a red-faced, gesticulating pundit was shouting.

"It makes no sense! Their genius manager is in a hospital bed! Their vice-captain is suspended in a doping scandal! And yet, they go out and win 2-1 with an 18-year-old nobody making his professional debut? Nobody knows how they're doing it!"

"I'll tell you how, Gary," the other pundit replied, leaning forward with a self-satisfied, "I-knew-it-all-along" expression.

"It's the 'Barnsley Way.' It's what I've been saying all along. This isn't a fluke; it's a philosophy. It's heart. It's youth. It's the most exciting story in English football."

Michael took a slow, happy sip of his morning coffee. It was the best he'd ever tasted.

"And just look at this," the presenter said, as a new graphic filled the screen. It was the League One table. Michael leaned in, his smile widening.

1- Portsmouth

2- Barnsley FC

3- Bolton Wanderers

4- Derby County

Second place.

They were in an automatic promotion spot. They were smashing all expectations. Michael felt a warm, deeply satisfying glow spread through his chest. It was working. All of it. The pain, the risk, the impossible gambles... it was all working.

"And it's not just the team, Gary," the presenter continued, "it's the individuals! Look at the top scorers list!"

Another graphic.

Alfie May (9 goals)

Colby Bishop (8 goals)

Danny Fletcher (7 goals)

James Collins (7 goals)

Jamie Weston (6 goals)

"Fletcher and Weston, the 'Wonder Twins,' are absolutely on fire!" the pundit gushed.

"That Weston kid... every goal he scores is a missile! They're saying the net at Millwall is still smoking!"

Michael chuckled. [Power Shot]. Best 150 points I ever spent.

"But," the presenter said, his voice suddenly becoming soft and emotional. "We all know the real story. The team is winning, but the architect is fighting." The screen cut to the league's official monthly awards.

"And in a massively emotional, and unanimous, gesture," the host announced, his voice thick with fake sentiment, "the League One 'Manager of the Month' award... goes to Barnsley's own Arthur Milton."

The screen cut to a short, pre-recorded clip. It was Arthur, in his hospital bed.

He looked weak, pale, and tired, but his eyes... his eyes were the same.

They were sharp, intelligent, and brimming with a fierce, unyielding pride. He held up the small, gleaming trophy, his hand shaking slightly, and gave the camera a weak, lopsided smile.

Michael felt a lump form in his throat. That was his partner. His general.

"A wonderful, wonderful moment," the presenter cooed. "And we have a brief update: our sources confirm Arthur is recovering well from his surgeries, but doctors insist he will be 'out for at least another month,' leaving the team in the... capable... hands of interim boss Steve...."

The screen cut again. The music became dramatic, suspenseful.

"And that 'capable' boss has his work cut out for him! The draw for the FA Cup Third Round was just made, and the 'Barnsley Braves' have drawn..."

A graphic of two crests smashing together.

BARNSLEY FC vs. WOLVERHAMPTON WANDERERS

"That's right! Another Premier League giant! And folks, you won't believe this, but due to scheduling congestion, that match is set to be played in just... two days."

Michael sat up straight. Two days. Another Premier League opponent. Another chance to be on the world stage. He was thrilled. This was another opportunity.

His phone buzzed. It was a notification from the club's media team.

The pre-match press conference, the one he had forgotten was even happening, was starting.

He clicked the link, streaming it to his laptop, curious to see how Steve, the [CA 55] hero of the last match, would handle himself.

Steve walked into the room. But this wasn't the pale, terrified, nauseous-looking man from the dressing room.

This Steve was... different. He was wearing a new club suit. His hair was slicked back. He was strutting. He sat down at the podium, a smug, self-satisfied smile on his face.

Oh, no.

Michael's heart sank. Steve, the man whose tactical masterstroke had been "be compact," had just won a game he had nothing to do with. And he believed he had done it.

A journalist, the same sharp-faced man from the Chronicle, asked the first question. "Steve, congratulations on the win. But now a massive step up. Wolves. A Premier League side. You must be going in as massive underdogs?"

Steve leaned into the microphone, his chest puffed out like a peacock. Michael watched, horrified.

"Wolves?" Steve scoffed, as if the very question was an insult. "Yeah, they're Premier League, sure. But they're struggling this season, aren't they? Bottom half of the table."

He looked around the room, as if letting them all in on a secret. "Are we the underdogs? Maybe. On paper. But football isn't played on paper, is it? We play with heart. We play the 'Barnsley Way.' And I'll tell you what..."

He leaned in, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated, catastrophic over-confidence.

"I reckon we can take 'em."

Michael dropped his head into his hands, his good mood shattering into a million pieces.

"Oh, Steve..." he groaned, his voice a low, horrified whisper. "What have you done?"

He had just watched his terrified, well-meaning, [PA 60] assistant manager, high on a victory he didn't earn, walk up to a sleeping, wounded Premier League wolf and poke it, very hard, in the eye.

...

Michael sat in his office, his head in his hands, groaning. He had just watched Steve's pre-match press conference. The man's smug, triumphant voice echoed in his head.

"I reckon we can take 'em."

"Oh, Steve," Michael whispered to the empty room, a feeling of pure, unadulterated dread washing over him. "You absolute, magnificent idiot. What have you done?"

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