Michael stood in the corner, his heart hammering, watching his team. They weren't broken, like they had been at Old Trafford. They were angry.

"He shoved me! He just shoved me, flat out!" Tom Harrison was saying, his face red with injustice, as a physio checked his shoulder where he'd hit the turf. "The ref was right there!"

"Of course he was, son," Captain Dave Bishop grunted, toweling sweat from his face. "This is what they do. They bully you, and the refs let 'em. It's how they stay top."

The frustration was thick in the air. They had been the better team. They had executed the "Shadow" plan to perfection, and one moment of brute, illegal force had undone it all.

The door opened. Arthur Milton click-clacked his way into the center of the room, leaning heavily on his crutch. He was not angry. He was not frustrated. He was, to Michael's complete and utter astonishment, calm.

"The plan worked," he said, his voice quiet, but cutting through the noise.

The players stared at him.

"Gaffer?" Dave Bishop said, baffled. "It's 1-1. He... he scored."

Arthur gave a slow, dangerous smile. "He scored. One goal. A single, desperate, hopeful cross that he just managed to get his head on. But the plan..."

He looked at Tom. "Tom, you were magnificent. You had him so furious, so completely out of his mind with rage, that he took a yellow card just to touch you. He is playing on pure, raw, stupid emotion. He's not a footballer right now; he's a [Short Fuse]. He's a liability."

He turned to the tactics board.

"And because he's angry, he's cheating. He's pushing high. He's trying to get that goal back himself. He's not playing the system. He's leaving an ocean of space behind him."

He looked at his bench. His eyes landed on the "Wild Fox."

"Finn," he barked.

Finn Riley (PA 90) leaped to his feet.

"You're on for the midfielder," Arthur said, ripping a magnet from the board.

"We're switching to a pure counter. A 4-2-3-1. Jamie, Finn, Raphael, Danny. I want you four to be pure, unadulterated poison. I want you to sit, wait, and the second we win the ball... I want you to run. We stop absorbing the punches. It's time to hit them back."

The mood in the room flipped. The despair was gone.

Michael felt the old, familiar thrill. The Gaffer was back, and he was cooking.

Michael was back in his box, his heart pounding.

The 30,000 Wednesday fans were roaring, expecting their team to roll over the "lucky" kids from Barnsley.

The second half kicked off, and it was a different game. It was, as the radio commentator screamed, "chaos ball." It was wide open. It was end-to-end, a frantic, desperate, brilliant game of football.

Sheffield Wednesday, furious at being held 1-1, threw everything forward.

In the 55th minute, their star midfielder, a man with a £20 million price tag, found a pocket of space. He unleashed a shot that was destined for the top corner.

Michael's heart stopped.

But Sam Jones, Barnsley's young keeper, launched himself in an impossible, acrobatic, physics-defying save, just tipping the ball over the bar.

The entire stadium gasped. Michael let out a breath he didn't even know he was holding.

Ten minutes later, the inevitable counter-attack. A corner was cleared. The ball fell to 'The Butcher' Riley. He was 30 yards out. He looked up, his eyes wide with greed, and smashed a volley.

CRACK!

The crossbar rattled so hard Michael was sure the metal was about to snap. The ball bounced down, onto the line, and was desperately scrambled clear by a panicked Dave Bishop.

Michael sank into his seat, his legs like jelly.

And then, in the 75th minute, the moment Arthur had planned for.

'The Butcher' Riley, furious at hitting the bar, had pushed up for another attack. He lost the ball. Tom Harrison, the [Interceptor (Lvl 2)], was there. He stole it.

One touch. A simple pass to Danny Fletcher.

Danny, the 'brain' (PA 91), didn't even take a touch. He just cushioned a perfect, 40-yard, first-time pass into the vast, green ocean of space that Arthur had identified.

Finn Riley (PA 90) was already running. He was an absolute blur of red, a cheetah let loose. The Wednesday defenders, old and slow, were turned to stone. They couldn't catch him.

Finn was clear. He was bearing down on the goal. He could have shot. He was the 'Wild Fox.'

But he wasn't. He was Arthur's player. He looked up.

Jamie Weston (PA 89), who had sprinted the entire length of the pitch to join the attack, was steaming into the box. Finn, unselfishly, cut the ball back, a perfect, weighted pass.

Jamie met it, first time, 20 yards out.

He didn't think. He just unleashed the Power Shot.

The stadium held its breath.

The Wednesday goalkeeper, a seasoned international, made a miraculous save. He flew through the air, his body at full stretch, and just, just, got the strongest of fingertips to the ball. It was an impossible, world-class stop.

But the shot was too powerful. The ball wasn't caught. It wasn't pushed wide. It was just... deflected. It spun up, high, and landed six yards from the goal.

A defender was scrambling. The keeper was on the ground.

And Raphael Santos (PA 93) was there.

He had followed the play, his footballing brain seeing the future, his [Evasive Dribbler] trait pulsing in Michael's vision.

The defender, desperate, slid in, a two-footed, leg-breaking lunge.

Raphael just... juked.

He didn't even move the ball. He just... wasn't there. He dragged the ball back, his feet a blur, and the defender slid past, tackling nothing but his own teammate. The keeper was on the ground, his arms flailing.

Raphael had an open goal. He was a magician. He was a [PA 93] superstar.

He didn't smash it. He didn't panic. He just curled an intelligent, beautiful, arrogant, glorious shot into the far corner of the net.

2-1. TO BARNSLEY.

The stadium was silent. A vast, echoing, 30,000-person tomb of disbelief. The only sound was the high-pitched, screaming, insane roar from the tiny, distant pocket of Barnsley fans, who were now tumbling over each other in a wave of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.

Michael wasn't sitting. He wasn't standing. He was jumping. He was roaring, his voice cracking, "HE'S A GHOST! HE'S A GHOST! HE DID IT!"

Down on the touchline, Arthur Milton just leaned on his crutch, took a sip of water, and calmly gestured for his captain to come over, as if nothing at all had happened.

The 89th minute. The game was almost over. Sheffield Wednesday, in an act of pure, primal desperation, threw everyone forward for a corner. Their goalkeeper. Their giant center-backs. Everyone.

The cross came in. It was a perfect, looping, desperate delivery.

And rising above everyone, a giant, a monster, was 'The Butcher' Riley. He had out-jumped everyone. He was a foot taller than the defenders.

He met the ball with his head. It was a bullet. It was a guaranteed goal. It was past the keeper. It was heading for the net.

The 30,000 fans were on their feet, their arms raised, ready to celebrate the equalizer.

But he was there.

Tom Harrison. The shadow. The 'Interceptor.' He hadn't been marking the man. He had been marking the line. Just as Arthur had told him.

He leaped. Not with power. But with perfect, desperate, glorious timing.

He threw his entire, skinny, [CA 55] body at the ball.

THUD!

He headed it. Off the line.

The ball was cleared. Michael was clutching his chest, he couldn't breathe.

The referee, amid the chaos, looked at his watch. And blew the final, beautiful, glorious whistle.

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