Michael Sterling stood in his brand-new, glass-walled office, not that he ever used it. He was too busy pacing.

He looked at his phone, his heart doing a familiar little thump-thump-thump.

The Chelsea game... the 3-2 "Miracle at the Bridge"... felt like a lifetime ago.

It was three whole weeks ago.

Three weeks where the entire world of football had lost its mind.

His phone hadn't stopped ringing. His "kids" were on the cover of every sports magazine on the planet.

Danny Fletcher's 50-yard chip goal was just... on a 24-hour loop, on every TV, in every pub, forever.

But the "sugar high" of the FA Cup had done something magical. It had injected his team with a level of pure, uncut, superstar confidence that the rest of League One just couldn't handle.

The "Barnsley Braves" had become the "Barnsley Bullies."

They hadn't just won their next league games. They had demolished them.

4-0. 5-0. 6-1.

And now... Michael looked at the league table, his true, beautiful, number-one prize.

1- Barnsley FC - 98 points (44 games played)

2- Derby County - 94 points (44 games played)

3- Reading - 93 points (45 games played, Finished)

They had two games left to play. Derby had two left.

They were four points clear.

"One win," Michael whispered to the empty room, a giddy, hysterical laugh bubbling in his chest.

"One more win. One... and we're champions."

They were so close, he could taste it. The league title. The real prize. The whole reason he'd started this.

But... there was a problem.

A giant, blond, Norwegian, robot-sized problem.

Michael grabbed his jacket and walked out to the pristine, £1.5 million training ground.

The players were out, stretching, passing balls. But they were... too happy.

Arthur Milton was on the sideline, leaning on his cane, his arms crossed. And he did not look happy. He looked... furious. His face was a dark, stormy, thundercloud.

"Uh oh," Michael muttered. He jogged over.

"Gaffer? Everything... alright?"

Arthur just grunted, his eyes fixed on the players.

"Watch," he rasped.

Arthur blew his whistle. PHWEEEEET! "PASSING DRILLS! TRIANGLES! NOW! SHARP!"

The players got into groups.

The ball zipped between them. But... it was sloppy. And they were laughing.

"So, I'm just saying," Jamie Weston said, his pass a little too hard. "He's big. But is he fast? I bet he's not faster than Finn."

"Who cares if he's fast?" Finn Riley cackled, doing a silly, no-look pass that almost hit Danny in the shins. "He's a giant! A big, blond, Viking! A goal-eating monster! I love it! I'm gonna try and nutmeg him."

"Finn, you are not going to nutmeg Erling Haaland," Danny Fletcher said, his 'Brain' trying to be logical, as he cleanly trapped Finn's bad pass. "He's... he's a machine. He's not even human."

"Nah, he's just a man," Jamie said, puffing his chest out. "A very, very big man. I'm just gonna hit a [Power Shot] at him. See what happens. Maybe he'll... you know... break."

"BREAK?!" Finn howled with laughter.

"You're gonna break Haaland?! I want to see this!"

CLACK!

Arthur Milton slammed his cane onto the metal dugout bench. The sound was like a gunshot.

The players froze.

"SORRY, GAFFA!" Jamie yelled, his face suddenly pale. "Just... uh... getting in the zone!"

"THE ZONE?!" Arthur roared, his voice cracking with pure, beautiful, unfiltered rage. "That's what you call 'the zone'?! That was the worst passing triangle I have ever seen! You, Weston! Your pass was a joke! You, Riley! You're trying to break your own teammate's leg with a stupid pass! And you, Fletcher! You're encouraging them!"

The three of them looked at the ground, like schoolboys who'd been caught.

"But... Gaffer," Finn, the 'Wild Fox,' dared to say. "We're just... we're just excited! It's Man City! At Wembley! We're supposed to be excited!"

"EXCITED?!" Arthur roared, and Michael had to physically step back. "You're playing the best team on the planet in two days! The unstoppable, treble-winning, blue machine! You think you can laugh your way to a win? You think you can just joke about nutmegging a robot who has scored more goals than our entire team combined?!"

The players were silent, their "fun" party atmosphere instantly gone, replaced by a cold, prickling fear.

"I... I mean... we're not just joking," Jamie stammered. "We're... we're training for them. That's... that's the next match, right?"

"YES!" Arthur screamed. "It is the next match! And you are treating it like a field trip! Like a prize! Like you've already won! You're all walking around here like you're heroes! Because you beat Chelsea! You haven't won anything!"

He pointed a long, shaky finger at the league table, which he'd had printed and pinned to the outside of the tactics shed.

"WHAT... ABOUT... THAT?!" he roared.

The players looked confused.

"Gaffer... that's the league," Danny said, softly. "We're... we're winning."

"You are," Arthur said, his voice now a low, dangerous growl. "And what happens after we play Man City? Win or lose. What happens?"

"We... we play Crewe Alexandra," Raph, the 'Magician,' whispered from another group.

"We play Crewe Alexandra," Arthur repeated. "The game that wins us the league. The entire reason we are here. The prize!"

He limped right into the middle of the players.

"You are all so obsessed with the 'dessert'—the big, shiny, Wembley 'circus'—that you've forgotten about the main meal! You go to Wembley. You play this 'Haaland' monster. And he smashes you. He beats you 7-0. Because you were 'having fun.' Because you were 'excited.'

"And you come back... your hearts are broken. Your confidence is gone. You're 'heroes' who just got humiliated. And then... you have to play Crewe. And you're so sad... you're so broken... you lose."

He let the words hang in the air.

"You let Derby catch you. You lose the league. You lose everything. The 'Greatest Story' becomes the 'Biggest Choke in Football History.'

"THAT," he snarled, "is what you are 'training' for right now."

The blood had drained from every player's face. The fun was gone.

"You... you really think they'll beat us 7-0, Gaffer?" Jamie whispered, his voice small.

Arthur's face softened, just a fraction.

"No, son. I don't."

He walked back to the sideline.

"You want to beat Man City? You're not going to do it by being them. You're not going to 'out-football' them. You're going to do it... by being us. By being the most annoying, most hardworking, most angry team of 'Braves' they have ever seen."

He turned to the analytics team, who were standing by, terrified.

"Right," Arthur barked. "Training's over. Get them inside."

"What?" Finn said.

"But... we've only been out here 20 minutes!"

"Training... is over," Arthur said. "We're not going to kick another ball. We're going to watch."

"Watch what, Gaffer?"

Arthur pointed to the high-tech, massive TV screen in the video analysis room.

"Put it on," he commanded.

A video started. It was Erling Haaland. Scoring a goal. And another. And another. A tap-in. A header. A 30-yard rocket. A penalty. Over, and over, and over.

"Gaffer..." Michael whispered, his own stomach churning. "This is... this is terrifying."

"I want... every single goal... he has scored... this season," Arthur commanded.

"All 50 of them. We are going to sit in this dark room, all of us. And we are going to watch. We're not leaving until we find one. A weakness. A mistake. A... a miracle."

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