Michael stood in the director's box, his hands shoved so deep into his suit pockets that his knuckles were white.

The noise was a physical thing, a 20,000-person roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the old stadium. He wasn't watching the pitch.

He was watching the other director's box.

Opposite him, encased in glass, sat his father.

Richard Sterling looked exactly as Michael knew he would: regal, calm.

He was flanked by the Northwood executives, all of them looking bored, as if this was a tedious but necessary stop on their royal procession.

Down on the touchline, Arthur Milton stood, leaning on his crutch, a single, defiant, one-legged general.

In the tunnel, the "lesson" had begun. The pat on the head. "Enjoy the lesson, son."

Michael's jaw was clenched so tight it ached. This wasn't a game. This was an exorcism.

The referee's whistle shrieked. The FA Cup, Third Round, was underway.

Northwood kicked off. Their 34-year-old, World Cup-winning midfielder, Thiago Velasco [CA 74 / PA 74], received the ball.

He looked up, expecting the League One side to retreat, to show him the "respect" his reputation demanded.

He expected to have all the time in the world.

He was wrong.

What he got was not a respectful, deep defensive block. What he got was a swarm.

It was Arthur's "lunatic high press."

Danny Fletcher, Raphael Santos, and Jamie Weston sprinted at the World Cup winner like a pack of rabid, hungry wolves.

Velasco, a man who had played in Champions League finals, panicked.

His ancient, [Pace: 5/20] legs couldn't react.

He tried to turn, fumbled the ball, and just barely managed to hook it backward to his defender before he was swallowed whole.

The crowd roared.

This was the "Butterflies with Switchblades" plan in full, glorious motion.

Northwood's "machine" of geriatric [CA 70+] superstars was not being allowed to breathe.

The 35-year-old veteran center-back received the pass. He looked up, intending to spray a long, majestic, 60-yard pass.

He was met by Finn Riley, a red-headed, 18-year-old blur of pure, chaotic energy.

He, too, panicked, shanking the ball out of bounds.

The first five minutes were not football. They were a mugging. Northwood's "geezers" couldn't get out of their own half.

Their high CA was useless. Their experience meant nothing. They were being suffocated by pure, youthful, relentless hunger.

Then, the 10th minute.

The Northwood captain, Kieran Shaw [CA 72 / PA 72]—the man who had patted Danny on the head—finally got the ball. He was being closed down by Tom Harrison, the "Shadow."

He tried to turn away, to shield the ball, a classic, "experienced" move.

He was too slow.

Raphael Santos [PA 93] was on him.

The 17-year-old magician didn't even make a tackle. He just... appeared.

He stuck his foot in, stole the ball with the deftness of a master pickpocket, and was gone.

Shaw was left spinning in a circle, his arms outstretched, a look of pure, baffled fury on his face.

Raphael was dancing. He glided forward, drawing in the 36-year-old center-back. The defender lunged, a slow-motion, desperate, clumsy tackle. Raphael was already past him, a ghost in the machine.

He looked up. He saw the run.

It was a perfect, defense-splitting, slid-rule pass.

Danny Fletcher [PA 91] was on it in a flash.

The "Prince" had timed his run to perfection, his young, [Pace: 16/20] legs eating up the grass. The Northwood defenders were statues, their high CA useless as they tried to turn their heavy, tank-like bodies.

Danny was one-on-one with the keeper. He thought of the pat on the head. He thought of his Gaffer's speech.

He didn't smash it. He didn't panic. He just calmly, coldly, slotted the ball into the bottom-right corner.

1-0. BARNSLEY.

The stadium detonated. It was a sound of pure, righteous joy. Danny Fletcher didn't celebrate.

He just stood there, staring at the Northwood captain, his face a mask of cold, hard ice, before he was buried by his teammates.

Michael leaped from his seat, a raw, primal scream tearing from his throat.

"YES! YES! HOW'S THAT FOR A 'HOBBY'?!"

He looked across the stadium. At his father.

Richard Sterling, who had been politely clapping with the home executives, stopped, his hands frozen in mid-air. The polite, regal, patronizing smile was gone, replaced by a look of stunned, baffled silence.

The lesson was not going according to plan.

And it was about to get worse.

The goal didn't wake Northwood up; it made them panic.

The 25th minute. Northwood, desperate to get a foothold, tried to play out from the back.

A slow, telegraphed pass went from their keeper to their 35-year-old, £50 million defender—the one who had laughed at Finn in the tunnel.

He took a heavy touch. He had time. Or so he thought.

WHAM!

Finn Riley [PA 90] was on him, a red-headed missile. He didn't just tackle the man; he stripped him, stealing the ball and knocking the defender onto his backside.

The "Wild Fox" was loose.

He was sprinting down the wing, the crowd roaring him on. The Northwood defense was in pure, unadulterated panic.

Finn looked up. He saw Jamie Weston [PA 89], his "Wonder Twin," steaming into the box, his arm raised, screaming for the ball.

Finn squared it. A perfect, unselfish, pace-perfect pass.

Jamie didn't take a touch. He was 18 yards out. He met it first-time.

He unleashed the Power Shot.

The sound was a crack of thunder. The goalkeeper didn't even have time to dive.

He just flinched as the ball exploded past his ear and nearly tore the net from the goalposts.

2-0. BARNSLEY.

Oakwell was not a stadium. It was a carnival. It was a dream.

Michael... Michael was just laughing. It was the cold, villainous, beautiful laugh from the Old Trafford corridor. He was laughing at the sheer, beautiful, poetic injustice of it all.

He looked at his father.

Richard Sterling was no longer sitting. He was on his feet. He was livid.

His face was a dark, furious red. He was screaming, his finger jabbing violently down at his own manager on the touchline.

The mask was gone. The King was raging.

The Northwood players were collapsing. Their high CA meant nothing. Their low stamina was killing them. They were gassed. They were screaming at each other. The World Cup winner was yelling at the captain. The legendary striker was throwing his hands up in the air, a picture of pure, pathetic frustration.

The 44th minute. Barnsley was still pressing. They were relentless. They were hungry. Raphael, dancing, was fouled again. A corner for Barnsley.

The Northwood players just looked defeated. They wanted the half. They wanted the pain to stop.

The cross came in, a beautiful, looping delivery.

Dave Bishop, the Captain, the "Old Guard," rose highest, his desire absolute. He powered a header towards the goal. The keeper made a brilliant, desperate, fingertip save!

The ball looped up. A defender hacked at it, a panicked, clumsy clearance.

It fell to Tom Harrison, the "Interceptor," who had stayed forward. He didn't shoot. He calmly, intelligently, headed the ball backwards...

...to Danny Fletcher, who was unmarked.

Danny watched the ball drop. He swiveled. He hit a perfect, magnificent, side-on volley.

The stadium held its breath.

The ball rocketed into the other top corner.

3-0. BARNSLEY.

It was not a football match. It was a demolition. It was a humiliation. It was the "lesson" his father had promised, delivered in reverse.

The referee, almost out of pity, blew the halftime whistle.

Michael just stood there, his arms folded, his heart a supernova. He was watching his father.

Richard Sterling, his face a mask of pure, apocalyptic fury, didn't even look at the pitch.

He just turned, violently ripped open the door to his private box, and stormed out.

He wasn't staying for the second half.

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