PHWEEEEEEET!

The final whistle was not just a sound. It was an explosion. It was a release. It was the single, beautiful, piercing note that confirmed the impossible.

Michael Sterling shot out of his seat in the director's box, his arms thrown wide, a raw, primal, inarticulate roar tearing from his throat. He was jumping. He was screaming. He was an eighteen-year-old kid who had just watched his tiny, patched-together team of misfits and miracles walk into the fortress of the league leaders and win.

Down below, the blue-and-white ocean of 30,000 Sheffield Wednesday fans was a vast, stunned, silent sea of disbelief.

They were just sitting there, their mouths open, staring at the pitch, unable to process the 2-1 scoreline.

But in the far, high corner, the 3,000 Barnsley fans were a volcano of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. They were tumbling over the seats, hugging strangers, their voices a single, unified, deafening roar of "BARNSLEY! BARNSLEY!"

On the pitch, it was pure, beautiful chaos.

The players, running on fumes and pure, adrenaline-fueled joy, had collapsed. Sam Jones, the keeper, was on his back, staring at the sky. Jamie Weston and Finn Riley were in a heap by the corner flag, having sprinted themselves into oblivion.

And then, the entire team, as one, staggered to their feet and sprinted towards the man of the hour. They piled on top of Tom Harrison, the [CA 55] kid, the 'Shadow,' the hero of the day. The boy who had been laughed at in the tunnel was now at the bottom of a 20-man pile, screaming with joy.

Michael watched, his eyes blurry. This was it. This was the 'why.'

He saw a commotion on the pitch. Marcus 'The Butcher' Riley, his face a mask of thunderous, dark fury, was storming across the pitch. He was heading straight for the celebrating Barnsley players.

"Oh, no," Michael breathed, his good mood vanishing.

"He's going to start a fight."

Captain Dave Bishop, seeing him coming, stepped out of the huddle, his hands up, ready to defend his young teammate.

"Hey, mate, the game's done. Back off."

'The Butcher' just stalked forward until he was standing over Tom, who was just getting to his feet, his face still split by a disbelieving grin.

The 6'5" giant stared down at the 18-year-old kid who had made his life a living hell for ninety minutes.

The stadium was silent, watching.

'The Butcher' didn't say a word. He just grunted, his face a mask of pure, frustrated rage. Then, in one aggressive, angry motion, he pulled his blue-and-white shirt off over his head and shoved it, hard, into Tom's chest.

Tom just stared at it, baffled.

"You... you little ghost," 'The Butcher' snarled, his voice a low growl of pure, grudging respect.

"You earned this, you little rat. Now give me yours."

Tom, his hands shaking, his eyes as wide as dinner plates, fumbled to pull off his own red shirt. He handed it to the league's most feared striker. 'The Butcher' snatched it, turned without another word, and stalked off down the tunnel, his bare, tattooed back a testament to his own humiliation.

Tom just stood there, holding the giant, sweat-soaked shirt of his mortal enemy, as if it were the Holy Grail. He had done it. He had earned the respect of the beast.

The away dressing room was a party. The players were singing, banging on the lockers, and spraying water everywhere. They were chanting Tom's name, "TOM! TOM! TOM!" until the kid's face was as red as his jersey.

The door click-clacked open.

Arthur Milton hobbled in, leaning on his crutch. The room fell into a respectful, buzzing silence. He looked pale, he looked exhausted, and he looked thrilled.

He let his quiet, proud smirk do the talking for a moment. He just looked at them. His 'Braves.' His 'Magicians.'

"Welcome," he said, his voice quiet, but carrying over the adrenaline.

"To the promotion race, gentlemen."

He pointed a shaky finger at them. "But I want you all to understand what just happened. That... that was the end of something. That was the end of us being a 'surprise.' That was the end of us being the 'plucky underdog.'"

He took a breath, his eyes hardening, the Gaffer returning.

"As of this moment, after what we did at Old Trafford, and what we just did here... We are not the surprise anymore."

He hobbled into the center of the room, his voice dropping, but full of a new, heavy warning.

"We are now the team to beat."

Michael drove home, his heart so full he felt like it was going to burst. He didn't even remember the two-hour drive. He just floated back to his small flat, the sound of the fans singing still echoing in his ears.

He sat on his small, second-hand sofa, the world quiet, the adrenaline finally fading. He was alone. He was exhausted. And he was, for the first time in his life, completely and truly happy.

His 'straight line' was back, and it was shining brighter than ever.

As he was about to get up and make a very-well-deserved cup of tea, the blue screen flashed, bright and celebratory, in his vision.

[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: 'TOP-OF-THE-TABLE TAMER']

[DESCRIPTION: You have faced the #1 team in the league, on their home turf, and proven that your philosophy is superior.]

[REWARD: +400 SYSTEM POINTS!]

Michael let out a low, satisfied laugh. Four. Hundred. Points. He was rich again. The shop was his oyster.

[SHOP UPGRADE: NEW ITEM UNLOCKED!]

['Full Recovery Potion (Single Player)'] (Cost: 200 pts): Instantly removes all fatigue and minor injuries from one player. Restores them to 100% peak physical condition.

"Oh, that's good," he whispered, his mind instantly calculating how he could use it. He could run Jamie Weston into the ground and then just... reset him. The possibilities were delicious.

He had a plan. He had a team. He had a genius manager, even on one leg. And now, he had a war chest of system points. Everything was perfect.

The next morning, he woke up to his phone buzzing off the table. The media was in an absolute, total frenzy.

He clicked on the TV.

"BARNSLEY STUNS THE LEADERS!"

"THE BRAVES ARE FOR REAL! CAN MILTON'S BOYS GO ALL THE WAY?"

"THE 'KID OWNER'S' INSANE GAMBLE PAYS OFF AGAIN!"

He sat there, sipping his coffee, soaking in the validation. It was the best it had ever tasted.

He pulled up the club's fixture list on his laptop, just to start planning his week. He saw their next league match, a simple home game. But his eyes were drawn to the date just three days from now.

A competition he had almost forgotten about. The FA Cup. Third Round.

His blood, which had been warm and triumphant, turned to ice. He'd been so focused on the league, on Arthur's crash, on surviving, that he had completely forgotten the draw.

His eyes scanned the line on his laptop screen, and his heart, which had been soaring, hit the floor and shattered into a million pieces.

[FA CUP, THIRD ROUND. 3 Days. Oakwell Stadium.]

[BARNSLEY FC vs. NORTHWOOD FC]

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