The 4-0 victory over Portsmouth—a top-of-the-table team—had been a statement.

But the way they had done it, without their star magician, Raphael, had been a declaration. They were not a one-man team.

Michael stood in the doorway, a silent, proud observer, as his team celebrated.

"I'm telling you, Danny," Jamie Weston was yelling, his face red with joy as he unlaced his boots,

"that rocket from 30 yards... I didn't even see the goal! I just... I just hit it! I think my boot's still smoking!"

Finn Riley, lying on his back on the floor, his arms spread wide, laughed, a rare, genuine sound.

"Yeah, we noticed, mate. You nearly took out a fan in Row Z. And my goal," he said, a smug grin spreading across his face, "that little... stop-and-wait move? The keeper looked like he was about to cry. Serves 'em right."

"He was crying?" Jamie said, his eyes wide.

"Nah, but he should have been," Finn shot back. "That was just rude."

Even the 'Old Guard' was in on it. Captain Dave Bishop walked over, his face a mask of gruff, fatherly pride, and clapped Danny Fletcher on the shoulder.

"That header, son. That was a proper goal. That was a striker's goal. Pure instinct."

Danny, the 'Brain,' who was usually so calm, just looked at his captain, his face split by a massive, infectious grin.

"Thanks, Cap. You... you guys just... gave us the space."

Michael watched them.

The veterans and the kids, the 'geezers' and the 'geeks,' they were no longer two separate groups. They were one single, unified, unstoppable team.

He caught Arthur's eye across the room. The Gaffer was leaning on his cane, his face pale and exhausted from the stress of the 90 minutes, but his eyes... his eyes were shining.

He gave Michael a single, almost imperceptible nod. It's working.

But the high of the 4-0 victory, Michael was learning, couldn't last forever.

Football was not a fairy tale. It was not a series of glorious, dramatic explosions.

Football... was a grind.

The next month was the hardest of Michael's life.

The "Barnsley Braves" were no longer the plucky, surprising underdog. After humiliating Northwood and dismantling Portsmouth, they were a target. They were the 'team to beat.' Every match, every single team they played, from mid-table hopefuls to relegation-battling thugs, played them like it was the FA Cup Final.

The "straight line" to promotion, which had looked so clear, became a wobbly, jagged, heart-stopping mess.

It was a month of rainy, cold, Tuesday nights in places Michael had never even heard of.

It was a 1-0 loss to a 19th-place team that just... parked the bus.

They put eleven men behind the ball for 90 minutes, kicked Jamie and Finn's ankles, and scored on their one counter-attack of the game.

It was a scrappy, ugly, 2-1 win against a team of cynical veterans, where Barnsley had been outplayed for 80 minutes but won on a late, controversial penalty.

It was a 0-0 draw that felt like a loss, where their "Holy Trinity" just... couldn't... score.

The 'Magic' was gone, replaced by the grim, slogging, muddy reality of a 46-game season.

Michael was living on his nerves. He was a wreck. He wasn't the "Kid Genius" anymore. He was the "Tired Kid." He was pacing his small flat at 3 AM, re-watching matches, his heart in his throat. He was staring at his System, his 300 points a burning temptation. He'd find himself opening the [Shop], his finger hovering over the [Full Recovery Potion], only to stop himself.

He had to save his points. He had to trust the process.

He'd go to the hospital to visit Arthur—who was now, to Michael's immense relief, out of his brace and doing light, cane-assisted physiotherapy—and his Gaffer would just look at him with that same, infuriating, calm smile.

"This is the job, Michael," Arthur had told him, as Michael ranted about a bad refereeing decision.

"This is the grind. This is where you find out if you're a real club... or just a good story. Stop panicking. Trust the players."

So he did. He held on. He held his nerve.

And now... it was the final stretch. One month left in the season. Four games to go.

Michael was in his office, late at night, the new, high-tech training ground silent below him. He was rubbing his temples, a headache pounding behind his eyes. He had the 24-hour sports news on, the sound muted, as he stared at the league table.

It was so close... but so, so far.

He unmuted the TV. The pundits were on, their faces serious.

"...and we have to talk about the race for promotion in League One!" one of them said, his voice full of manufactured drama. "It is white hot, Jeff! And the 'Barnsley Braves,' the fairy tale of the season... I don't know, Gary. It feels like they're stalling."

"You're right, Jeff," the other pundit said, a grim look on his face. "That high-flying, 'total football' we saw against Northwood has hit a brick wall. They've had a tough month."

A graphic flashed on the screen.

BARNSLEY: LAST 4 GAMES - 1W, 2D, 1L.

Michael winced.

"And that, Jeff," the pundit continued, "has allowed the real stories of the season to take over."

The league table appeared. Michael's heart sank.

1- Reading FC - 88 pts

2- Derby County - 86 pts

3- Barnsley FC - 85 pts

4- Portsmouth - 83 pts

Third place. They had slipped. They had slipped out of the automatic promotion spots. They were in the playoffs... but after everything, it felt like a failure.

"And you have to look at that team in first, Jeff," the pundit said, his voice now full of awe.

"Reading. They just... they just don't lose. They are on a 22-game... undefeated... run."

Michael stared at the screen. A new "machine." A new "wall."

"They don't have the flash of Barnsley, they don't have the 'Wonder Twins' or the 'Magician,'" the pundit gushed, "but they are relentless. They are a machine. They just... grind... out 1-0 wins. And that, Gary, is what gets you promoted."

Michael felt his new, glorious "title" dream slipping away. He was going to fail.

"But..." the presenter said, a new, excited glint in his eye.

"This isn't over. Not by a long shot. Because the fixtures, Gary... the fixtures are just delicious. In two weeks' time, in a match that will surely decide the season... Barnsley, in 3rd... will play Reading, in 1st. It is a must-win. It is, quite literally, the 'Game of the Century' for this division."

Michael's heart was pounding. A final. He had a final.

"It's the ultimate test, Jeff," the pundit said. "The 'Braves' vs. the 'Machine.' The 'Kids' vs. the 'Grinders.' And speaking of the Braves, the 'Kid Owner,' Michael Sterling, who has been so quiet during this tough month... he's finally breaking his silence."

Michael's brow furrowed. "What? I didn't... I haven't scheduled any..."

The screen cut. It wasn't a live press conference. It was a slick, high-budget promo, full of flashing lights and dramatic, soaring music.

A graphic.

LIVE TOMORROW: THE FA CUP SEMI-FINAL DRAW.

"That's right!" the presenter's voice boomed.

"Don't forget, folks! The 'Braves' aren't just in a promotion fight! After knocking out two Premier League teams, they are in the Quarter-Finals of the FA Cup! And tomorrow... their 18-year-old owner, Michael Sterling, the 'face' of this entire fairy-tale run, has been invited to London..."

The screen cut to a smiling, official host. "And we're thrilled to announce he'll be conducting the draw, live, on national television, with England legend, Alan Shearer!"

Michael just stared, his face draining of all blood.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.