The halftime whistle, which had been a sound of mercy for the Northwood players, was a sound of frustration for Barnsley.

They were furious. They were hungry. They wanted more.

Michael made his way down to the home dressing room, his heart a frantic, joyous, pounding drum. He didn't go in. He just stood in the corridor, a silent guardian, and listened.

He could hear them inside. There was just the low, dangerous, focused voice of his one-legged general, Arthur Milton.

"It's 3-0," Arthur was saying, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

"And they are broken. You broke their spirit. But I know that man in the other dressing room. He's not in there talking tactics. He's in there raging. He's just told them that if they don't go out there and hurt you, they'll never play for him again. The second half is not going to be a football match. It's going to be a fight."

He paused, letting the reality sink in.

"Don't. Fight. Back," he ordered. "Don't give them the excuse. Don't give the referee a decision. We don't beat them by brawling. We beat them by dancing. We beat them by being so fast, so smart, and so joyful that they can't even touch us. Go out there, and finish the lesson."

Michael was back in his box. He looked across the stadium. His father, Richard Sterling, was back. He had not stormed out for good. He was sitting in his plush chair, his face no longer red with rage.

It was a cold, pale, ashen mask.

The whistle blew for the second half. And Arthur was right. Northwood came out dirty.

Their 35-year-old captain, Kieran Shaw—the man who had patted Danny on the head—immediately went in for a "tackle" on Danny. It was a late, cynical, ankle-high lunge designed to do one thing: injure.

But Danny [PA 91] was too smart. He saw it coming, his footballing brain a supercomputer. He just... wasn't there. He skipped over the tackle, leaving the legendary ex-England captain to slide, pathetically, into the turf.

The crowd roared. The humiliation continued...

Northwood tried to attack. Their 36-year-old legendary striker, Bianchi, finally got a touch of the ball. He turned, looking to create... and was met by Tom "The Interceptor" Harrison.

Tom, his [Interceptor (Lvl 2)] skill glowing in Michael's vision, didn't even make a tackle. He just read the striker's mind. He stepped into the passing lane, stole the ball with insulting ease, and played a simple pass.

The 60th minute.

The ball was worked, with a beautiful, patient, one-touch rhythm, to the center circle. To Raphael Santos. The 34-year-old World Cup winner, Velasco, who had been nutmegged in the first half, charged at him, his face a mask of pure, desperate frustration.

"I'm going to end you, you little rat!" his body language screamed.

Raphael, his [Evasive Dribbler] trait making him a ghost, saw him coming. He waited. He waited.

And then... he did something filthy.

He did a rabona.

In a single, fluid, arrogant, and utterly beautiful motion, he wrapped his right leg around his standing left leg, and flicked the ball. It wasn't just a pass.

It was an over-the-top, 40-yard, defense-splitting lob.

The entire stadium—all 20,000 Barnsley fans, the shell-shocked Northwood supporters, Michael, his father, everyone—just gasped.

The ball sailed, in a perfect, magnificent arc, over the head of the last, slow, 35-year-old defender...

...and landed perfectly in the path of the sprinting Jamie Weston.

Jamie [PA 89] was clear.

He was one-on-one. The keeper came rushing out, his face a mask of pure terror.

Jamie didn't even hesitate. He let the ball bounce once.

BOOM!

4-0.

Oakwell was a carnival. It was a party. The fans were singing, "Olé!" They were singing, "Can we play you every week?" They were singing, "Is this a hobby, is it, is it, is it?"

Michael was just... laughing. He was leaning back in his chair, his head back, a pure, joyous, unrestrained laugh echoing in his private box. He looked across at his father.

Richard Sterling was just staring. Blankly. He was a broken man.

In the 80th minute, Arthur, leaning on his crutch, made his changes.

He subbed off his stars. Danny Fletcher, the boy who was "patted on the head." Jamie Weston, the kid from the cage. Raphael Santos, the magician. The "Holy Trinity."

The entire stadium, including the small, devastated pocket of Northwood fans who had stayed, rose to their feet. It was a standing ovation that shook the rafters, a sound of pure, unadulterated acknowledgment. A new order had arrived.

Arthur brought on the reserves.

The subs who had been running themselves into the ground in training, desperate for a chance.

Even they dominated.

A corner kick, 80th minute. The Northwood "geezers" were just... standing. Their spirits were shattered. Their legs were gone.

They just wanted to go home.

The cross was whipped in. It wasn't even a good one. It bounced in the six-yard box.

A Northwood defender, a £50 million signing, looked at it. He just... watched it. He was done.

And running past him, his heart pounding, was Tom Harrison.

Tom, the "Interceptor," the "Shadow," the [CA 55] kid who had been laughed at in the tunnel. He had come up for the corner, and he had been left completely, totally, insultingly unmarked.

The ball bounced. Tom, his eyes as wide as saucers, just... poked it. A simple, clumsy, beautiful, five-yard tap-in.

5-0.

The stadium... Michael couldn't even describe the sound. It was a primal scream of joy, laughter, and pure, unbelievable comedy.

Tom, the kid who had been brought on to defend, had just scored his first-ever professional goal.

He was buried under a pile of reserves, his face a picture of pure, disbelieving shock.

The game finished 5-0. It was not a victory. It was not a win. It was a humiliation. It was a generational statement.

The Barnsley fans were singing, "Can we play you? Can we play you? Can we play you every week?" The Northwood fans were long gone, their end of the stadium a vast, empty, silent graveyard of blue.

The referee blew his final, merciful whistle.

Michael stood in the director's box, the roar of his stadium, his fans, his home, washing over him. He wasn't smiling. He was just... watching.

His gaze was fixed, across the expanse of the pitch, on the one man who hadn't left.

His father.

Richard Sterling had returned to his box. He was standing, alone, in the glass-fronted room.

He was staring across the stadium, his eyes locked, not on the celebrating players, but directly at his son. And for the first time in Michael's life, his father... looked afraid.

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