Michael Sterling felt sick.

The "Kid Genius," the "Smartest Owner in Football," the "Revolutionary"... had just made the stupidest, most arrogant, most amateur mistake of his entire, short career.

He was standing in the tunnel at Oakwell, and for the first time, he was not enjoying the noise.

The stadium was a 25,000-seat sell-out, a roaring, bouncing, expectant sea of red and white.

Number one versus number two.

The "Barnsley Braves" versus the "Kings of the South," Portsmouth.

A match to decide who was the true king of the league.

And Michael, in his infinite wisdom, had sent his single most creative, game-breaking player—his [PA 93] magician—on a one-week, non-refundable, system-fueled "training camp."

He looked at his phone, his hand trembling with a mixture of rage and pure, uncut dread. Twitter was on fire.

"IT'S HERE! The Battle for the Top! Can Barnsley's 'Magic Trio' break down the Pompey defense?"

"This is it! Weston vs. Riley vs. Santos! The three-headed monster! Portsmouth has no chance!"

"Who wins? The 'Braves' or the 'Kings'? I've got my money on the Magician, Rafael Santos, to be the difference-maker!"

They didn't know. The press, the pundits, the fans... nobody knew that the "Magic Trio" was down to two. The official report was that Raphael had a "last-minute family emergency."

Only Michael and Arthur knew the truth.

Michael felt the bile rise in his throat. He was a fraud. He was the "lucky punk" his father had warned him about. He had gotten greedy, played king with his [System Shop], and now he was about to pay the price in front of the entire world.

He walked into the Gaffer's office. He was not, as Michael had feared, in a blind rage. H

"You realize," Arthur said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. He didn't even look up from the board.

"That their entire defensive strategy is built around stopping a 'Number 10'? They play a double-pivot. A 'shield' of two defensive midfielders. They are the most compact, anti-creative team in this league."

He looked up, his eyes like chips of ice.

"Raphael was the key. He was the one player who could dance between those lines, who could pull their 'shield' apart and create the space for Finn and Jamie."

"I... I thought it was Lincoln," Michael stammered, feeling exactly like the 18-year-old idiot he was. "The fixture list... I... I didn't check."

"You didn't check," Arthur repeated, the words a death sentence. "And now, I have to fight the most important war of our season, without my single most important weapon. All because my owner got greedy."

He slammed a magnetic marker onto the board. "Well, I hope the 'camp' is worth it, Michael. Because you've just made our jobs ten times harder."

The home dressing room was a pressure cooker. The players knew. They knew their 'Magician' was gone. The cover story of a "family emergency" felt thin. They felt his absence.

Arthur click-clacked his way into the center of the room, his cane thumping on the tiled floor.

He looked at his team, at their nervous, uncertain faces. And he yelled.

It wasn't the terrified squeak of Steve. It wasn't the cold rage he'd just shown

Michael. This was a performance.

"RIGHT!" he barked, his voice echoing off the walls, making the players jump.

"He's not here! Our magician is gone! So what?"

He hobbled over to his two remaining superstars, Jamie and Finn, and jabbed a finger in their chests.

"They're going to be all over you! They're going to be expecting you! They think you're nothing without him! They think he's the whole show!"

He turned to Danny Fletcher, his 'Brain.'

"And you, Danny! You're not just the 'brain' today. You're not just the 'link.' You have to do his job and your job! You have to be more than a genius! You have to be a leader! You have to be the man who fills that hole!"

He limped back to the center of the room, his eyes blazing.

"I've read the papers! I've seen the social media!" he roared. "They're all saying it! 'Barnsley are a one-man team.' 'Without the Brazilian, they fold.' They think we're a circus act that's just lost its star!"

"Are you?" he screamed. "Are you a one-man team? Are you going to let them be right?"

"NO, GAFFER!" Dave Bishop roared, his voice the first to break the silence.

"ARE YOU GOING TO FOLD?!"

"NO, GAFFER!" the whole room thundered, a single, unified, defiant voice.

"THEN GET OUT THERE," Arthur bellowed, pointing at the door, "AND SHOW THEM WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THEY MAKE US ANGRY!"

Michael was in his box, his heart hammering. The atmosphere was insane.

The whistle blew.

The radio commentator in his ear was already losing his mind.

"Welcome back to a pulsating Oakwell, where the atmosphere is absolutely electric! It is number one versus number two! The 'Barnsley Braves,' the story of the season, against the relentless, powerful machine of Portsmouth! But, ladies and gentlemen, I have to report... there is no Raphael Santos! The 'Magician' is not even on the bench! A massive, massive blow for the home side! Can the 'Wonder Twins' do it without their third man?"

The first twenty-five minutes were a war.

It was a horrible, cagey, brutal, midfield battle. Arthur's speech had fired them up, but Portsmouth were good.

They were first place for a reason. They were organized, cynical, and strong. They shut down every single Barnsley attack.

Jamie couldn't get a run. Finn was being double-teamed. Danny was being suffocated.

It was a 0-0 stalemate, a tactical, joyless grind. The 'Barnsley Way' had just hit a brick wall. Michael felt his stomach churning. His mistake was going to cost them. This was it. The fairy tale was over.

Then, the 29th minute.

A nothing-play. A loose ball in the midfield. A Portsmouth defender, trying to be too clever, was dispossessed by a furious, lunging tackle from Tom Harrison, the "Interceptor." The ball squirted loose.

The Portsmouth defensive midfielder, a 6'4" giant, went for it. But Finn Riley, in a blur of rage, got there first, nicking the ball away and getting clattered for his trouble.

The referee blew his whistle. A foul. A direct free kick.

Michael looked at the spot. It was... 30 yards out. Maybe 35. It was too far. It was a "waste-of-time" free kick.

The Portsmouth keeper didn't even look worried. He just started calmly, almost lazily, organizing his four-man wall.

Danny Fletcher stood over the ball, looking to chip it into the box.

But then, Jamie Weston walked up. He didn't touch the ball. He just... looked at it.

Michael's heart stopped.

"He's... he's going to try it," he whispered, his hands gripping the arms of his chair.

"He's going to try it from there."

The commentator was laughing. "Well, Jamie Weston is over this, but this is... wildly optimistic, to say the least. He's a long way out. Surely, he's just going to chip this into the mixer..."

Jamie looked at the goal. It was a tiny, distant target. He looked at the wall. He looked at his teammates, all of them marked, all of them struggling. He thought of his missing 'Magician.' He thought of his Gaffer's speech.

He took his run-up. He did not curl it. He did not chip it. He unleashed the Power Shot.

Michael saw it in slow motion. The sound was a sonic boom, a CRACK! that was so loud it was heard over the 25,000 screaming fans.

The ball did not go over the wall. It went past it. It was a red blur. The players in the wall, who had jumped, were still in the air when the ball was already by them.

The Portsmouth goalkeeper, a veteran with 500 games under his belt, saw it.

He knew it was coming. He dived. He was a professional athlete at the absolute peak of his physical powers.

He had no chance. He was still in mid-air, his arms at full, desperate, hopeless stretch...

...when the ball exploded into the top-left corner of the net.

The net didn't just bulge. It ripped. It tore from the stanchion, a sound of pure, beautiful, victorious violence.

For a single, solitary, stunned half-second, Oakwell was completely, totally silent.

25,000 people, Michael included, were trying to process the laws of physics they had just seen broken.

And then... the roar.

It was a sound of pure, unadulterated, primal madness.

Jamie Weston was already at the corner flag, his shirt off, his face a mask of pure, screaming, joyous rage. He was being buried by his teammates, by the substitutes, by the physios.

The commentator was just screaming, his voice cracking. "OH! MY! GOODNESS! I... I DO NOT BELIEVE WHAT I HAVE JUST SEEN! ABSOLUTELY, TRULY, UNBELIEVABLE! JAMIE WESTON! FROM... FROM ANOTHER PLANET! A ROCKET! A THUNDERBOLT! A GOAL OF THE CENTURY! OAKWELL HAS EXPLODED! AND BARNSLEY... THE 'BRAVES'... ARE 1-0 UP!"

Michael was on his feet, his hands on his head, just laughing. He was laughing, a high-pitched, hysterical, joyous sound.

The dread, the guilt, the panic... it was all gone, washed away in a wave of pure, unadulterated Power Shot glory.

His mistake... it didn't even matter. His team... they were just that good.

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