The 95th minute. 2-2. The entire, packed-to-the-rafters stadium was a single, howling, unified entity, its 20,000 voices roaring in Michael's ears. He was on his feet in the director's box, his knuckles white, his heart a frantic, trapped bird in his chest.

This was it. The last kick of the game.

He looked down at the pitch.

The Wolves players, their £500-million-pound squad, had formed a terrified, 11-man wall. They were arguing with the referee, they were screaming at each other, their arrogance completely, finally, shattered.

And standing over the ball, 28 yards out, was Jamie Weston.

He was the hero of Old Trafford. The entire stadium, every fan, every player, Michael himself... they all believed. This was the fairy-tale ending.

The referee, his hand to his ear, finally blew his whistle.

Time slowed...

Jamie ran up. He connected with all his might.

THUD!

The sound was not the crack of the net. It was the sick, dull, agonizing sound of the ball smashing, at 100 miles an hour, directly into the face of the Wolves' captain, who had bravely, or stupidly, not flinched.

A groan of pure, soul-crushing despair erupted from the home fans. Michael felt his own stomach drop to his shoes.

No...

The ball was loose! It pinged, like a pinball, back into the crowded, chaotic penalty area

A Wolves defender hacked at it, missed. A Barnsley player swung a leg, missed. It was a mess of flailing limbs and pure, unadulterated panic.

And then, as if guided by a string, the ball bounced, almost gently, to the feet of the one player on the pitch who could make sense of the chaos.

Raphael Santos.

He was in a forest of giant, gold-shirted trees. A 200-pound defender, the one who had been trying to kick him all game, lunged in.

[Evasive Dribbler: ACTIVATED!]

Raphael wasn't there. He was just... gone. A sublime, liquid spin, and the defender was left tackling thin air. Another defender, the Belgian giant, saw the danger and slid in, a desperate, two-footed lunge to take the man and the ball.

Raphael didn't panic. He just... stopped. He dragged the ball back with the sole of his boot, and the Belgian slid harmlessly past, a look of pure, bewildered confusion on his face.

The kid had just embarrassed two Premier League defenders in the 96th minute. He was 8 yards out. The goal was at his mercy.

He was about to shoot...

The third defender, the one he had first beaten, had recovered. He wasn't trying for the ball. He just stuck out a lazy, desperate, cynical leg, and hooked Raphael's ankle.

Raphael went down in a heap.

A shrill, piercing, beautiful whistle. A sound that cut through the pandemonium.

The referee, who had been abused and ignored all day, had no choice. He pointed, with a dramatic, emphatic, almost furious gesture... to the penalty spot.

PENALTY!

The stadium detonated. The Millwall players swarmed the referee, screaming, pushing, their faces purple with rage, but it didn't matter. The decision was made.

Michael was grabbing the seat in front of him, his legs shaking so badly he could barely stand.

"Who's taking it?" he breathed.

"Who takes it?"

He looked down. Jamie Weston was bent over, hands on his knees, completely and totally gassed.

He had put every last ounce of his energy into the free kick. He looked at the spot, and weakly shook his head. He was done.

Michael's eyes darted to Danny Fletcher, the "Prince."

But Danny... Danny looked nervous.

He missed the last big penalty he took, in a youth cup final. He was looking at the ground, his [PA 91] potential overshadowed by a single, crushing memory.

The seconds were ticking by. The Wolves players were still screaming.

And then, a figure of pure, unadulterated calm walked through the chaos. He picked the ball up. He tucked it under his arm. He walked past the protesting Wolves players, gently but firmly pushing their captain out of the way.

It was Dave Bishop. The Captain.

The [CA 68 / PA 69] rock. The man who had been wrestled to the ground for their second goal. His face was a mask of cold, hard focus.

He placed the ball on the spot. He spun it, methodically. He wiped the mud from it.

The Wolves keeper, a £40 million international, was on his line, jumping, pointing, doing everything he could to play the mind games.

Dave Bishop just stared at him. He didn't care.

The stadium was so quiet, so full of tension, that Michael was sure he was going to have a heart attack.

This was it. The entire, insane, impossible comeback, all on the shoulders of his 33-year-old veteran.

The referee blew his whistle. Bishop took two steps. A simple, no-nonsense, professional run-up. He struck the ball.

The keeper, guessing, dove... left.

The ball rolled, almost calmly, into the bottom... right... corner of the net.

3-2. BARNSLEY.

The stadium didn't cheer. It imploded.

Before the ball had even finished rolling, the referee was blowing his whistle, three long, shrill, beautiful blasts.

It was over.

Dave Bishop was sprinting, his arms wide, a roar of pure, primal joy on his face, before he was buried under an avalanche of red shirts.

The entire bench, including Steve, who was crying, sprinted onto the pitch. The Wolves players just collapsed where they stood, their faces a mask of pure, blank, disbelieving shock.

They had been beaten.

Michael was just... laughing. He was laughing, and he was crying, his hands on his head, his body shaking. He was screaming, but he couldn't hear his own voice. He was just a part of the noise, a part of the joy.

Down on the pitch, his "Braves," his team of kids and veterans, were sprinting to the away end, throwing their shirts into the crowd, a single, unified, victorious army.

They had done the impossible. Again.

Michael walked through the tunnel, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder, his tie undone, his face hurting from smiling. The adrenaline was slowly fading, replaced by a warm, profound, deeply-felt sense of peace.

He got to a quiet alcove, away from the singing players and the frantic press. He had to make one call.

He pulled out his phone, his hands still shaking slightly, and dialed. It rang once.

"Michael...?" The voice on the other end was weak, papery, and filled with a breathless, hopeful terror.

"Gaffer," Michael said, his voice thick with emotion. "Gaffer, did... did you watch it?"

A low, wheezing sound came from the other end. It was a laugh. A pained, beautiful, exhausted laugh. "The... the nurses... are furious with me," Arthur rasped. "I... I think my heart monitor... flatlined... when Bishop picked up the ball. 3-2. You... you magnificent, insane... lunatics."

"We did it for you, Arthur," Michael said, leaning his head against the cold concrete wall.

"Your plan. Your ghost of a plan. It worked."

"I know, kid," Arthur said, his voice full of a pride that Michael felt in his bones. "Congratulations. You... you all... you earned this. I'm proud of you."

Michael just closed his eyes, soaking in the praise. It was the only validation he had ever truly cared about.

"But, Michael..." Arthur's voice suddenly changed. The celebration was over. The tone was serious, almost... ominous.

"Yeah, Gaffer?" Michael asked, his good mood instantly fading, replaced by a cold prickle of dread.

"Don't... don't celebrate too long. They're... they're fast-tracking the draws. To get the... the schedule... set for the next round."

"What? The draw for the FA Cup Fourth Round? Already?"

"Just saw it," Arthur's voice was a low, heavy rumble.

"On... on the TV here. In the hospital."

"Who is it?" Michael asked, his stomach suddenly turning to ice. "Not... not Man City? Not Liverpool?"

There was a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line. Michael could just hear the faint, steady beep of the heart monitor.

"No, kid," Arthur said, his voice full of a sudden, dark, complex gravity.

"It's Northwood."

Michael froze, the phone cold against his ear.

"You're playing your father."

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