The players sat, their heads in their hands, the 2-0 deficit an unscalable mountain.

Steve, the interim manager, was standing frozen, his grand, system-buffed tactical plan having just been vaporized by a single, terrifying reality check.

He was holding his phone in his shaking hand, the device suddenly feeling like a holy relic.

"G... Gaffer?" Steve whispered, his voice a disbelieving, terrified squeak. "Is... is that you?"

Michael's heart was pounding.

He was halfway across the room, his own phone in his hand, his screen showing Steve - Call in Progress...

He had been trying to call his interim manager, to give him... some kind of desperate, hopeless pep talk.

He hit the speakerphone button on his own device.

"Steve! It's Michael! What's going on?"

"Boss!" Steve's voice was a frantic yelp. "It's... it's the Gaffer! He's on the line!"

Michael's blood ran cold.

"What? Put him on speaker. Both of us. Now!"

Steve, his hands trembling, fumbled with the phone and jabbed the speaker icon. A

voice, weak, papery, and as dry as a dead leaf, filled the stunned, silent dressing room.

It was Arthur Milton.

"...Steve..." the voice rasped, and the entire room, every player, every coach, every physio, took an instinctive step closer to the small, tinny speaker.

"Arthur!" Michael said, his own voice sharp, cutting through the awe.

"Gaffer! I'm on the line, too. We're all here. We're... we're listening."

There was a long, wheezing pause. Michael could hear the faint, steady beep of a hospital heart monitor in the background.

"...Good," the voice whispered, and it sounded angry. "Because... I've... I've been watching. And you're... you're all... playing like... idiots."

It was the most beautiful, most motivating, most wonderful insult Michael had ever heard. A few of the players let out a shocked, half-hysterical laugh.

He was alive. And he was mad.

"Steve..." Arthur rasped. "Stop... being a fool. Stop... trying to be me. They're... complacent. They're lazy. They think the game... is won."

"Gaffer, they're... they're too good," Steve whimpered, his temporary tactical genius completely gone, replaced by the terrified [CA 55] assistant.

"They're... arrogant," Arthur corrected, a trace of his old, icy strength returning.

"Their right-back... the Portuguese one... he's... he's a disgrace. He's playing... like a winger. He's... left a space... an ocean."

Michael's eyes widened. He knew that speech.

"Steve," Arthur commanded from his hospital bed, his voice a low, painful groan.

"Subs. Now. Take off... the tired midfielder. Get... Finn... on."

Finn Riley, who had been sitting on the bench, his head down, snapped to attention.

"Finn... on the left wing," Arthur ordered. "Tell him... to run. Just... run. Into... that space. He'll... be... a ghost. They won't... even... see him."

"And... Tom," Arthur continued, his voice fading. "Get... Tom... on. The wall. We need... the wall. We stop... their attacks. We hit... the space. It's... that... simple..."

The line was filled with a sudden, pained, choking cough. A nurse's voice, frantic and distant.

"Sir, you need to rest! You're not supposed to be... Give me that phone!"

The line went dead.

The dressing room was silent for a full, ten-second eternity. The players just stared at the phone in Steve's hand, as if it were a smoking relic.

They had just been given a tactical briefing... from the intensive care unit.

Steve looked at Michael, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. Michael looked back, a wild, insane, truly villainous grin spreading across his face.

"Well?" Michael said, his voice booming in the small room. "You heard the man! He's in a hospital bed, and he's still a better manager than all of us! Let's not make him regret it! Let's do it!"

Michael was back in his box, his heart hammering so hard he was sure it was visible through his shirt.

This was the most ridiculous, most "circus" thing they had ever done. Managing a team via a remote, three-way conference call from an ICU. His father would be horrified. It was perfect.

The teams walked out. The Wolves players looked casual, arrogant. They were strolling. The Barnsley subs were made immediately.

Finn Riley and Tom "The Interceptor" Harrison were on.

The Wolves manager, Amorim, just laughed, turning to his bench and making a "crazy" gesture with his finger.

He was bringing on kids?

The whistle blew.

The first fifteen minutes were different. Barnsley was stable.

Tom Harrison, his [The Interceptor] skill glowing in Michael's vision, was a wall. He was a [CA 45] kid, but he was playing with the brain of a 30-year-old veteran. He broke up one attack. Then another.

The Wolves midfield, so dominant, suddenly found their "easy" passes were being read, were being stolen.

And in the 60th minute, it happened. Exactly as the ghost in the machine had ordered.

The Wolves' superstar right-back, João Veloso, pushed up high. He was lazy, arrogant, not expecting a threat.

Tom stole the ball. A clean, simple tackle. He just laid it off to Captain Dave Bishop.

Bishop looked up. He saw it. The ocean of space. And he saw a red blur starting his run.

He launched a 50-yard, glorious, diagonal pass over the top.

Finn Riley [PA 90] was on his bike. He was on the "wrong" wing, the left, and he was flying. He out-sprinted the fullback. He out-sprinted the center-back. The ball dropped perfectly over his shoulder.

The Wolves keeper, their £40 million backup, came rushing out, his eyes wide with panic.

Finn didn't even look at him. He was on his "weaker" foot, but he didn't care. He let the ball bounce once, and then, with a stroke of pure, unadulterated confidence, he hit a low, hard cross.

Danny Fletcher [PA 91] was there. He'd read the play, the brain of the operation. He met the cross at the near post and slammed it home.

2-1!

The Oakwell crowd erupted. It was a roar of disbelief. Michael was roaring, "YES! YES! HE SAW IT! THE GAFFER SAW IT!"

Wolves were stunned. And they were furious. Their manager was on the touchline, screaming. He'd been embarrassed. He put his star striker back on. The press was on. The game was hell again.

But Barnsley, fueled by a miracle, was defending with their lives. Tom was a monster, making eight, nine, ten interceptions.

Then, the 85th minute. Wolves were camped in their half. A desperate, hopeful clearance.

The ball was hoofed up the field...

It fell to Jamie Weston [PA 89].

He was 35 yards out. He was exhausted. He heard the crowd roar, "SHOOT!" He heard his Gaffer's voice in his head. He pulled his left leg back.

CRACK!

The sound of the Power Shot echoed around the stadium.

The Wolves keeper, a world-class athlete, launched himself in a desperate, acrobatic dive. He got his fingertips to it...

...and tipped it...

...onto the crossbar.

The thwack! of the bar was a sound of agonizing, collective despair. The ball looped high, impossibly high, straight up into the air, spinning.

The keeper was on the ground. The defenders were all ball-watching, their necks craned.

Jamie Weston had never stopped running. He was following his own shot, his heart pounding.

The ball came down... down... down...

He leaped. He was a 5'7" winger. He had no right to win a header. But he was the only one who wanted it.

He flung his entire body at the ball. He didn't even head it. It hit him, somewhere on his face, his shoulder... it was the scrappiest, ugliest, most desperate goal Michael had ever seen.

The ball looped, in slow motion, over the sprawling keeper, and bounced, almost apologetically, into the empty net.

2-2!

The stadium was not just cheering. It was madness. Jamie was buried under a pile of every single player, every single substitute.

Steve, the interim manager, was running down the touchline, his suit jacket flapping, looking like a man who had just seen a ghost.

Michael was just laughing, his head in his hands. He was crying, he was laughing. It was the most beautiful, most ridiculous thing he had ever witnessed.

The game was over. They had done it.

But it wasn't.

It was the 90th minute. 2-2. The Wolves players were broken.

The ref signaled 5 minutes of added time.

Barnsley wasn't sitting back. They could smell blood.

Raphael Santos [PA 93], who had been a quiet, dancing ghost all game, picked up the ball in the center circle. He saw the space. He saw the broken defenders.

He went on a mazy, [Evasive Dribbler] run. He beat one. He beat two. He was flying. He was a 17-year-old [CA 48] kid, and he was humiliating a Premier League team.

A third defender, the giant Belgian center-back, saw the danger and just clattered him.

A brutal, cynical, desperate foul, right on the edge of the box. The whistle blew. A yellow card. And a direct free kick.

25 yards out. Dead center. The last kick of the game.

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