Michael Sterling's eyes were squeezed shut.

His hands weren't just "on the railing." They were gripping it, his knuckles a bloodless, stark white.

The 75th minute. 2-1 to his "kids." A penalty. At Wembley.

Danny Fletcher, his [PA 91] his emergency center-back, was standing over the ball.

This was it. The moment. The 3-1. The "game-over" goal.

"Just... put it in, Danny," Michael whispered, his voice a hoarse, terrified, prayer.

"Please. Please, just... end this."

In his ear, the commentator was just... noise. He was a broken, hysterical, screaming man.

"I... I... I'M... I'M NOT... I CAN'T! I CAN'T DO THIS!" he shrieked. "THE KID WHO CHIPPED CHELSEA... IS STANDING OVER THE BALL! TO... TO END... MANCHESTER CITY!"

The Man City goalkeeper, Ederson, the £100-million-pound superstar, was on his line... dancing. He was doing a silly, "wobbly-leg" dance, pointing at Danny, laughing at him. He was trying to get in his head.

Danny... just... smiled.

A calm, cool, "Prince-like" smile.

He placed the ball. He took three steps back.

PHWEEEEEEEEET!

The referee's whistle. The world... stopped.

Danny ran up.

He didn't smash it. He didn't chip it.

He... placed it. A "Brain's" shot. Low, hard, perfect, aimed at the bottom-left corner.

Ederson... flew. He wasn't dancing anymore. He was a monster. He'd guessed... the right way.

He was at full, full stretch, his body a neon-yellow blur.

His fingertips...

TING!

A tiny, tiny, sickening sound.

The sound... of his glove... just... grazing... the ball.

It wasn't enough to stop it. It was... just... enough...

...to push it...

...onto the...

POST.

The ball... smashed... against the inside of the post.

And then...

...it... spun.

Wickedly.

Out.

It spun... across... the goal line.

And... away.

It... didn't... go... in.

...

...

...

Silence.

The 45,000 Man City fans... gasped.

The 45,000 Barnsley fans... let out a single, unified, soul-destroying...

...GROOOOOOOOOOOOOOAN.

"NO!" the commentator shrieked, his voice cracking with pure, unadulterated, agony. "NO! HE'S SAVED IT! HE'S... HE'S HIT THE POST! IT'S... IT'S OUT! I... I DON'T... I DON'T BELIEVE... IT! HE'S MISSED! THE 'PRINCE'... HAS MISSED! THE 'GODS'... ARE STILL ALIVE!"

Michael Sterling's... heart... just... stopped.

He opened his eyes.

It... it was... true.

Danny... was just... standing there. His hands on his head. His "calm"... his "smile"... gone. That... that was it.

That was the "magic" gone. That was the "fairy tale" ending.

You don't get... a second chance...

And the kings... who had been broken... who had been panicked...

...were suddenly... awake.

That save... that miracle... it wasn't just a "save." It was a shot... of pure, cold, adrenaline.

"GET... THEM!" the City manager roared.

And the "horror movie"... began.

The 76th minute.

The 77th.

The 78th.

The Man City players... were furious. The blue shirts... were a blur.

Bop. Bop. Bop.

One-touch, perfect, angry passes.

The "Barnsley Braves"... were dying.

They weren't "annoying" anymore. They were just... chasing.

Jamie Weston... his "Rocket" goal... it was a lifetime ago. His legs... were gone.

Raph, the 'Magician'... his "nutmeg"... it was a joke. He was just... limping.

Kai, the "Bouncer"... was just... walking.

A [CA 44] ghost, in a warzone of [CA 90+] monsters.

"They're... they're exhausted," Michael whispered, his heart a cold, heavy, stone.

"They're... they're done."

The 82nd minute.

Jérémy Doku. The "45-goal monster."

He got the ball. He wasn't "rattled" anymore. He was... hungry.

He exploded.

He blew past one exhausted red shirt. He blew past another.He was at the byline. He was trapped. He... just... stopped. He did a perfect, 360-degree, "ballet-dancer" spin. He was free. He looked up.

He... floated... a cross.

A high, curling, beautiful, perfect... insulting... pass.

It... hung... in the air.

As if... it was waiting.

Waiting... for the "God" to arrive.

Erling Haaland.

Danny Fletcher... the 'Brain'... the 'shadow'... was there. He was clawing. He was jumping. He was giving... everything.

But...

The king... just... rose.

And rose.

And rose.

He... levitated. He... hung... in the air, a foot... two feet... above Danny's desperate, outstretched, head. He was... just... waiting... for the ball.

THWACK!

Sam Jones, the "OP Keeper"... didn't even move.

He... just... watched.

The ball... smashed... into the top corner of the net.

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!" the commentator was screaming, his voice now just... sad. "IT'S THE ROBOT! IT'S THE GIANT! IT'S ERLING HAALAND! AND IT WAS... INEVITABLE! THE 'BRAVES' ARE BROKEN! THE 'PRINCE'... IS SHATTERED! 2-2! AND... THE 'DREAM'... IS... DYING."

Michael... just... sat down.

He felt... nothing. He was... empty.

Danny Fletcher... was just... standing. Staring at the spot Haaland had just ascended from.

He was... lost.

The game restarted. The 83rd minute.

The Barnsley players... were ghosts. A tired, hopeless, sideways pass.

De Bruyne. The other king.

He... just... stole it.

He... was running. He was running... at him.

The last man. Danny Fletcher.

The kid who... had missed... the penalty. The kid who... had lost... the header.

He... was broken.

De Bruyne... was just... gliding. He was... gliding... past him.

Danny...

...in a last, desperate, furious... act... of pure, red-hot... despair...

...just... kicked him.

He didn't "tackle" him. He just... swiped.

A clumsy, angry, "I-give-up," vicious... lunge... at his ankles.

CLATTER!

De Bruyne... went down. Hard.

PHWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

The whistle... was deafening. The referee... didn't run. He sprinted.

He didn't... hesitate. He reached... straight... for his back... pocket.

RED CARD.

DANNY FLETCHER... IS OFF.

"AND IT'S OVER! IT IS ALL... OVER!" the commentator was yelling, his voice now just... a eulogy.

"A RED CARD! A STRAIGHT... RED... CARD... FOR DANNY FLETCHER! THE 'PRINCE'... IS SENT OFF! HE... HE... HE JUST... SNAPPED! THE PRESSURE... THE MISS... THE GOAL... IT WAS... IT WAS ALL TOO MUCH! THE 'FAIRY TALE'... IS IN ASHES! BARNSLEY... ARE DOWN TO TEN MEN!"

Danny... didn't even look at the ref.

He just... walked.

Numb.

Michael... just... watched him go.

He watched his [PA 91] "star" his "future"... just... walk... past the giant, gleaming, FA Cup trophy... and... disappear... down the tunnel.

He felt... sick. His sister's voice... Is it better than us?

No... he thought. No... it's not.

The 89th minute.

10 vs. 11.

Barnsley... were dead.

City... were just... playing with them.

Bop. Bop. Bop.

Doku... got the ball. He just... skipped... past a tired, red shirt.

He... chipped... a pass.

Haaland.

GOAL.

3-2.

He didn't even celebrate.

PHWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

The final whistle.

It was over.

Michael Sterling... just... sat.

The 45,000 City fans... were roaring. The blue flags... were waving. The 45,000 Barnsley fans... were silent.

A sea... of red... sadness.

He... had lost. He looked down.

They were just... bodies.

Jamie Weston... was just... lying... on his back, in the rain, which had, of course, just started to fall.

Raph, the 'Magician'... was just... sobbing. His face... buried in his hands.

Kai, the "Bouncer"... was just... standing. Alone. In the center circle. Staring at the scoreboard. He... looked... confused.

Arthur... was just... leaning... on his cane. Staring at nothing.

Michael Sterling... 18 years old... had brought his "kids" to the "Cathedral."

He had... shown them... the kings.

And the kings...

...had won.

The "Horror Movie"... was real.

He... had lost.

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