Stamford Bridge was a vacuum. 40,000 people held their breath.

Michael Sterling stood in the director's box, his heart a painful, solid rock in his chest. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move.

It was the 59th minute. 2-1 to Chelsea. 10 men vs. 10 men.

And Jamie Weston, his [PA 88] "Wonderkid," was standing over a penalty kick.

The £100-million-pound Chelsea goalkeeper, a man who looked as wide as the goal itself, was jumping on his line, waving his arms, screaming at Jamie.

"He's trying to get in his head," Michael whispered, his knuckles white as he gripped the railing. "Don't look at him, Jamie. Just... just hit it."

In his ear, the commentator's voice was a low, tense, terrified whisper.

"This... this is it, folks. This is the moment. The 'Wonder Twin,' Jamie Weston, against one of the best goalkeepers on the planet. To tie the game at 2-2. The pressure... I can't even imagine it..."

Jamie didn't look at the keeper. He just stared at the ball. He took his two steps back. He let out a single, sharp breath.

The referee blew his whistle.

PHWEEEEET!

Jamie ran up.

He didn't try to be clever. He didn't try to place it.

He unleashed his [Power Shot].

BOOOOOOM!

The ball exploded off his foot. It was a white blur, a missile, a rocket, aimed at the top-left corner.

The goalkeeper dove. He was a split-second too late.

The ball smashed into the back of the net with a sound so loud, Michael felt it in his chest.

GOAL! 2-2! BARNSLEY!

Michael Sterling erupted.

"HE DID IT! HE DID IT! YEEEEESSSSS!" he roared, jumping up and down, pounding his fists on the railing. The ancient, rich Chelsea director next to him just stared, horrified.

The 3,000 Barnsley fans in the corner were a single, screaming, joyous, red-and-white monster. They were hugging, they were crying, they were falling over the seats.

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL! UNSTOPPABLE!" the commentator was just a wall of glorious noise. "HE NEARLY TORE THE NET OFF! JAMIE WESTON, WITH ICE IN HIS VEINS, HAS DONE IT! IT'S 2-2! AT STAMFORD BRIDGE! THIS IS NOT A FAIRY TALE! THIS IS REAL!"

Jamie was screaming, his face a mask of pure, primal joy, as Finn Riley jumped on his back, cackling like a madman. "YOU DID IT! YOU ROCKET-LEGGED MANIAC, YOU DID IT!"

The game was tied.

The Chelsea players looked... broken. They kicked off, their superstar faces a mask of pure, stunned confusion.

And then, as if the game wasn't crazy enough, the heavens opened.

A cold, driving, angry London rain began to pour.

"AND NOW IT'S RAINING!" the commentator cackled, pure hysteria in his voice. "OF COURSE IT IS! WHY NOT?! THE PITCH IS SOAKED! THE BALL IS ZIPPING AROUND! THIS ISN'T FOOTBALL! THIS IS PURE, BEAUTIFUL, LIQUID CHAOS!"

He was right. The game went from a tactical battle to a water-polo match.

The ball was sliding everywhere.

Players were slipping, passes were going wild, and tackles were sending up huge sprays of water.

It was a mess. And Barnsley loved it.

"GET STUCK IN!" Arthur was roaring from the sideline, his voice somehow cutting through the rain and the noise.

"DON'T LET THEM BREATHE!" the Chelsea manager was screaming back.

It was just... a glorious, end-to-end, soaking-wet brawl.

Sam Jones, the "OP Keeper," had to make a miracle save, sliding on his chest to block a low shot.

The Chelsea keeper had to punch a swerving, rain-soaked shot from Raph over the bar.

Michael's suit was soaked, his hair was plastered to his face, and he had never, ever been happier.

Then... the 85th minute.

Chelsea's £90-million-pound striker, the one Danny had been marking, finally, finally got free. He was furious. He was in the box.

He turned... and shot!

And Danny Fletcher, the 'Brain,' who had been right behind him, just... stuck a leg out. A perfect, rain-soaked, miracle of a block.

The ball spooned up, over the goal, for a corner.

The striker, his face purple with rage, screamed. He had been beaten, again, by a skinny midfielder.

And then, in the stand right behind the goal, there was a commotion.

A man in a blue Chelsea shirt... was shouting. He was screaming at the players.

And then... he reached into his jacket.

"What's this now?" the commentator said, his voice dropping.

"There seems to be... a disturbance. The referee has stopped the game..."

Michael squinted, his heart suddenly cold.

"What... what is he doing?"

The fans around the man... scattered. They looked terrified.

And then Michael saw it. The man was holding... something. Something black.

The police were moving. Fast.

"My goodness..." the commentator's voice was a low, shocked whisper. "The police are... they're swarming a fan. He appears to be... I... I cannot believe I am saying this... he appears to have a... a firearm? In the stadium?!"

A dozen police officers piled onto the man, tackling him to the ground in a wave of black uniforms. It was over in a second.

"They have him!" the commentator shrieked, his voice full of relief. "The police have him! He's being dragged out! An absolutely disgraceful, shocking, insane moment at Stamford Bridge! Thank goodness for the quick work of the security! The players... they're just... stunned. What else?! What else can this game possibly throw at us?!"

Michael was just... staring. His mind was blank. A gun? Because of a missed shot? He was starting to think his father was right. This "hobby" was truly insane.

The game restarted after a five-minute delay. The players looked shaken. The rain was pouring. The atmosphere was just... weird.

"Just... just hold on, lads," Michael whispered into the rain.

"88th minute. Just hold on for extra time. Please."

Chelsea, embarrassed and furious, threw everyone forward. They wanted to end this.

A superstar midfielder whipped in a desperate, hopeful cross.

The ball skidded on the wet grass...

But who was there? Danny Fletcher. The "Brain." The "Prince." The part-time, emergency center-back.

He didn't clear it. He didn't panic.

He just... stole it. He stepped in front of the striker, shielded the ball, and turned, all in one smooth, silky, beautiful motion.

It was the 89th minute.

He took a touch. He looked up.

The Chelsea players were all in his half.

The £100-million-pound Chelsea goalkeeper... he had crept off his line. He was 10 yards out of his box, yelling at his team, expecting Danny to just... clear the ball.

Danny... didn't clear it.

He was 50 yards from goal. Maybe 55.

He...

"No," Michael said out loud, his voice a disbelieving croak.

"Danny... no. Don't... don't you dare..."

Danny dared.

He just... chipped it.

A high, looping, insane, impossible, beautiful kick.

The ball went up, up, up... a tiny white dot against the dark, rainy, London sky.

"WHAT IS HE DOING?!" the commentator was screaming, his voice cracking into a thousand pieces. "FLETCHER! HE'S CHIPPED THE KEEPER! HE'S CHIPPED HIM FROM HIS OWN HALF! NO! NO!"

The £100-million-pound keeper turned, his face a mask of pure, slack-jawed, existential horror.

He sprinted... he scrambled... his feet slipping on the soaked turf...

He dove... a desperate, hopeless, full-stretch, backward dive...

The ball just... floated...

It floated, as if in slow motion...

It floated, right over his outstretched fingertips...

It hit the wet grass...

...and bounced, gently, perfectly, into the back of the empty net.

GOAL. BARNSLEY. 3-2.

The stadium died.

40,000 Chelsea fans. Dead. Silent.

The 3,000 Barnsley fans... were not. They were a single, screaming, crying, joyous, red-and-white thing.

Michael Sterling... was not making a sound. He was just... staring. His mouth was wide open. His brain was broken. He just... he couldn't...

"I... I... I'M DONE," the commentator whispered, his voice completely gone. He was just croaking. "I'm... I'm finished. That is... that is the greatest goal... I have ever seen. That is the greatest game... I have ever seen. Danny Fletcher... the 'Brain'... the 'Prince'... has just won... the FA Cup Quarter-Final. At Stamford Bridge. With a 50-yard chip. In the rain. In the 90th minute. It's... it's 3-2. I... I need to sit down."

PHWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

The referee blew his whistle. A long, final, beautiful blast.

It was over. It was over!

The Barnsley players just... collapsed. They fell to the ground, a pile of exhausted, soaked, joyous, red-shirted heroes.

Michael Sterling just... slumped. He fell back into his expensive, plush seat.

And a single, tiny, hysterical laugh bubbled out of his chest.

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