Jamie Weston wasn't pale. He was bright red, his jaw set, and he was pounding his own chest.

Danny Fletcher wasn't re-reading his notes. He was just... staring. His eyes were fixed on the back of the giant, blond, long-haired robot in the light-blue shirt just ahead of them. Erling Haaland. Danny wasn't looking at him. He was looking through him.

"So," Finn whispered to Jamie, loud enough for Michael to hear as he walked past. "He's fast. But... is he annoying? I bet... I bet I'm more annoying."

Jamie just grunted, his eyes fixed. "Just... hit them. Hit them hard. And then... keep hitting them."

"I'm not hitting Haaland," Danny whispered, his 'Brain' whirring. "He's... he's too big. I'm just... going to be his new best friend. For 90 minutes. He's never going to be alone. Ever. Again."

Finn cackled. "That's... that's so creepy, 'Brain.' I love it."

Michael just... smiled. The cold, gray doubt from his sister... it was still there. But this... this... this was his new family. And they were going to war.

He took his seat in the director's box. The stadium... it was a painting. A perfect, beautiful, terrifying painting.

In his ear, the commentator crackled to life, his voice already an octave too high.

"WELCOME! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! TO THE 'CATHEDRAL OF FOOTBALL'! THIS IS WEMBLEY! And this... this is the Battle of the Firsts! The Kings of the World, the Champions of the Premier League, Manchester City... versus... the 'Kindergarten' champions! The 'Lucky Mascots'! The 'Kids from League One'! BARNSLEY!"

The camera panned across the City lineup. Haaland. De Bruyne. Doku. It was a "who's-who" of £100-million-pound superstars.

"It's a team of gods versus a team of... well... kids!" the commentator yelled. "It's the horror movie! It's the execution! It's... it's... kickoff!"

PHWEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

The match began.

And for the first five minutes... it was exactly what the pundits predicted.

Manchester City's were... just... better. Their passes were faster. Their movement was smarter.

The ball went wide to Jérémy Doku. The "45-goal monster."

He was one-on-one with Barnsley's left-back.

"Oh, no," the commentator gasped. "Here it is, folks. The mismatch of the century..."

Doku... exploded. He went from 0 to 60 in a split second.

He was past! He was in! He was...

CLATTER!

A red shirt... from nowhere... just... demolished him.

It wasn't the left-back.

It was Finn Riley.

He had sprinted 40 yards, from the other side of the pitch, and just... smashed Doku with a perfect, hard, angry (and perfectly legal) slide tackle.

The ball went out. The 45,000 Barnsley fans roared like it was a goal.

Doku... just... sat there. He looked... stunned.

Who was this guy?

Finn just got up, dusted himself off, and... winked at him.

"Welcome to the war, son," he chirped.

On the sideline, Arthur Milton... applauded.

Barnsley weren't playing football. They were playing... Arthur-ball.

Every time a City player got the ball, a red shirt was there. Not just to tackle him, but to annoy him.

Danny Fletcher was... a ghost. Haaland would get the ball... and bop... Danny's foot would just... poke it away.

Haaland, the giant, blond robot, actually looked... confused.

This skinny kid wasn't trying to fight him. He was just... there. Always.

It was... working. City were... rattled. They were so used to teams being scared of them. They weren't scared. They were angry.

The 20th minute.

Man City, frustrated, got a throw-in, deep in Barnsley's half.

Their superstar midfielder, De Bruyne, tried to take it quick...

But Raphael Santos, the 'Magician,' was... right there. He just... got in the way.

De Bruyne, furious, shoved him.

PHWEEEEET!

The referee blew his whistle. Foul. Free kick... to Barnsley.

"And that's just stupid!" the commentator yelled. "A frustrated foul from the best midfielder in the world! He's let these 'kids' get in his head!"

The ball was placed. It was... 30 yards out. Maybe 35.

The 45,000 Barnsley fans... gasped.

Michael's heart... leapt.

They all... all 45,000 of them... had just had the exact same thought.

The Chelsea Goal.

"Wait..." the commentator's voice was suddenly full of a wild, new, hope.

"Wait... no... surely... surely he can't... is he? IS THE 'MAGICIAN' GOING TO TRY IT AGAIN?!"

Raphael Santos, his face a mask of pure, beautiful, calm, picked up the ball.

The City wall... was a line of giants. Haaland was in it.

The City goalkeeper, Ederson, one of the best in the world, just... laughed. He was yelling at his wall, mocking Raph.

Raph just... placed the ball.

He took his three steps.

The referee blew his whistle.

Raph ran up. He hit it.

He...

SKIED IT.

It wasn't just over. It was... miles over. It was in Row Z. It was... terrible.

The 45,000 Man City fans howled with laughter. They were chanting, "Wem-ber-ley! Wem-ber-ley!" at him.

"Oh," the commentator said, his voice sinking. "Well... that's that, then. The magic... it seems... has run out. A terrible effort. A real... 'Welcome to the big leagues, kid' moment."

Raph just... trotted back, his face bright red. Jamie Weston patted him on the back. "Nice try, 'Magician.' You'll get 'em next time."

Michael just... sighed. His heart was back in his shoes.

It was fun while it lasted.

The game restarted.

And now... City were cocky. The "threat" was gone. The "magic" was a joke.

The 28th minute.

The City goalkeeper, Ederson, who was famous for playing way off his line, got the ball. He wasn't in his box. He was... 35 yards out. Playing like an extra defender.

He passed it, a lazy, arrogant, no-look pass.

But... he passed it... right... to Jamie Weston.

Jamie, his [Power Shot] brain screaming SHOOT!, trapped the ball.

The goal... was empty.

SHOOT! his brain screamed.

But the keeper... was sprinting back. He was fast.

Jamie... didn't shoot.

He looked up. He took a touch. He saw... him.

Raphael Santos. The 'Magician'. The kid who had just... failed.

He was standing in the center circle. In a massive ocean of space.

Jamie didn't hit his rocket. He didn't try to be a hero. He just... passed. A simple, 10-yard, sideways pass.

"WHAT IS HE DOING?!" the commentator shrieked. "HE HAD THE SHOT! HE'S PASSED IT!"

The ball rolled, perfectly, to Raph.

He was 45 yards out.

The goalkeeper... Ederson... was still sprinting, scrambling, diving... back towards his empty goal. He was... 10 yards out. He was... stuck.

Raph... didn't take a touch.

He didn't hit it hard.

He didn't try to curl it.

He just...

Popped it.

A tiny, delicate, insulting, beautiful... CHIP.

The ball... just... floated.

It went up... up... up... a tiny white dot in a sea of red and blue.

The £100-million-pound goalkeeper... was on the ground. He had dived, full-stretch, backwards. He was... just... a pile of neon-yellow sadness.

The ball... floated...

It floated... over his fingertips...

It... hit the grass...

...and bounced, once, twice, and rolled, slowly, gently, pathetically, into the back of the empty net.

...

...

...

Silence.

90,000 people. Dead. Silent.

Michael Sterling... was standing up. His hands... were on his head. His mouth... was wide open.

No.

He didn't.

He... did.

And then...

EXPLOSION.

The 45,000 Barnsley fans... erupted. The sound... it shook the stadium.

"I... I... I'M... I'M DONE!" the commentator was just... screaming. He was no longer a person. He was just... noise. "HE'S DONE IT! HE'S DONE IT AGAIN! HE MISSED THE FREE KICK... TO SET UP... THE CHIP! IT'S A... IT'S A... CHIP-A-CLE! IT'S A WEMBLEY-WONDER! I DON'T... I CAN'T... I... IT'S 1-0! BARNSLEY! THE 'MAGICIAN'... HAS JUST MADE... WEMBLEY... HIS... PALACE!"

Michael Sterling... just... fell back into his seat.

He wasn't laughing. He wasn't crying.

He was... numb.

His 17-year-old, [PA 90], "Magician"...

...had just chipped the best team... on Earth.

At Wembley.

And it... it was only... minute 30.

Oh, God, Michael thought, a slow, hysterical, terrified grin spreading across his face.

We... we're going to win this, aren't we?

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.