Michael Sterling, the "Lucky Mascot," stepped off the train from London, his cheap souvenir FA Cup keyring feeling heavy in his pocket.

The high of the Chelsea draw, the bizarre, surreal experience of being on national television next to Alan Shearer, had already faded. It was a sugar rush, a media-fueled fantasy.

Now, it was time for the vegetables.

He had just been paraded as the face of the fairy tale, the 18-year-old "Kid Genius" with the magic touch.

But as his cab drove him back to Oakwell, the cold, hard reality of their situation settled in his stomach like a block of ice.

He looked at the league table on his phone for the hundredth time.

Reading FC - 88 pts

Derby County - 86 pts

Barnsley FC - 85 pts

The Chelsea draw was a distant, glorious dessert. But this... this was the whole meal. This was the grind. They were one point behind Derby, three points behind Reading. Two games. Two season-defining, legacy-making, heart-stopping finals.

He was the "Lucky Mascot," but he was running out of luck. He needed his Gaffer.

He walked onto the training ground, the new, pristine, £1.5 million "carpet" feeling wasted on his own nervous feet.

The vibe was... wrong.

It wasn't the joyous, celebratory party of the Northwood win. It wasn't the grim, shattered despair of the post-crash, pre-Tom Harrison miracle.

It was tense.

The players were training, but their movements were sharp, almost violent. Their passes weren't friendly; they were angry. Their tackles were on the edge.

Arthur Milton was standing in the center circle, leaning on his cane, his face a mask of pale, grim focus. He blew his whistle, a short, sharp, angry blast.

"EVERYONE IN!" he barked, his voice still a rasp, but with a new, hard, steel edge.

The players jogged in, their faces slick with sweat and concentration. They were no longer the "Braves." They were soldiers, and they were looking at their one-legged general.

Arthur waited, his eyes scanning every single face.

He didn't care about the press. He didn't care about the FA Cup draw.

"I have just been informed," he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl, "that I have won 'Manager of the Month.' Again."

A few players started a half-hearted clap. Arthur held up his hand, silencing them instantly.

"It's a joke," he snarled. "A pathetic, sentimental joke. They're giving me a participation trophy because I almost died. They're treating us like a 'good story.' They're all out there," he jabbed his cane towards the imaginary cameras, "talking about Chelsea! The FA Cup! The 'magic'!"

He took a step, his bad leg dragging, his face a mask of pure, controlled fury.

"Forget. The. FA. Cup. That is a distraction. That is a circus. We are not a circus."

He pointed a shaky finger at the fixture list, pinned to the tactics shed.

"That," he said, "is all that matters. Derby County. In two days. At their place. In front of 30,000 screaming fans who think we are a fluke. And then," his finger moved, "Reading. At home. The 22-game undefeated 'Machine.'"

He looked at his team, his eyes burning with a fire that made Michael feel small.

"A two-game war that will decide our entire season. It will decide if we are a 'good story,' or if we are champions. I don't care what you do. You can crawl off that pitch. But you will not lose."

The next 48 hours were a blur of pure, uncut anxiety. Michael couldn't sleep. He just paced his office, watching Arthur (who was now basically living in the video analysis room) and his team of "butterflies with switchblades" prepare for their "war."

Michael, the "face of the club," had one job: the pre-match press conference.

He had been dreading it. He was the mascot.

But when he walked in, the questions weren't for him. Arthur had insisted on coming, cane and all. He hobbled to the podium, his face a mask of pained, weary, humility.

A journalist, the same one who had called Steve an "idiot," was the first to ask.

"Gaffer, a massive game. Second vs. Third. But after knocking out two Premier League teams, you must be supremely confident? Derby are just another League One side, after all."

It was a trap. The exact same trap Steve had fallen into.

Arthur just looked at the man, his eyes wide with an almost fearful respect.

He shook his head, a slow, sad, weary motion.

"Confident?" Arthur said, his voice a low, humble whisper.

"Son, have you seen Derby? Have you seen their stadium? Their history? Their squad?"

He leaned into the microphone, his voice full of a sudden, profound awe.

"They are the benchmark. They are a Premier League club, in all but name. We... we are just a small team from Barnsley. We are a team of kids. We are the massive underdogs. We're just... we're just going to go there, try our best, and, frankly, we'll be lucky to get a point."

Michael, sitting in the front row, almost choked. He had to hide his face, pretending to cough, to hide his sudden, violent, joyous smirk.

The press, who had come expecting arrogance, were baffled.

"But... but you beat Northwood 5-0!" another journalist stammered.

"A fluke," Arthur said, with a dismissive wave.

"A lucky day. This... this is Derby. This is the real test. We're just... we're just going to try and survive."

He was playing the humble, terrified, one-legged mouse. He was lulling the bear to sleep. He was a genius.

Match day. Pride Park. The stadium was a sea of 30,000 hostile, screaming, black-and-white shirts. The noise was a physical wall, a roar of arrogance from a "benchmark" club that knew they were going to win.

Michael stood in the corner of the tiny, cramped, away dressing room, his heart a frantic, pounding drum.

His players were hyped. They were nervous. They could feel the arrogance from the home crowd.

"Right," he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

"You all saw what I told the press."

The players nodded, their eyes locked on him.

"I told them we're 'lucky,'" he sneered.

"I told them they are the 'benchmark.' I told them we are 'underdogs' who are just here to 'survive.' I told them we're scared."

He paused, a dark, terrible, beautiful smile spreading across his face.

"That," he whispered, "was for them."

He slammed his cane onto the floor.

CLACK!

"This... is for you."

He looked around the room, his eyes blazing.

"They're in that dressing room, right now, laughing! They're reading the papers! They think we're the 'lucky mascots'! They think we're the 'FA Cup circus'! They think we're 'just kids'! They think we're soft!"

"They think they are the 'benchmark'? They think they are the 'standard'? They are yesterday's news!"

He turned to the whole team, his voice rising to a roar.

"Today... we show them the new benchmark! Today, we show them the Barnsley Way! We show them our speed! Our hunger! Our philosophy! We show them what a real machine looks like!"

Michael felt the goosebumps ripple up his arms, his heart pounding in his chest.

"They think we're 'lucky'?" Arthur roared.

"Go out there... and make them afraid to play us again! Go out there, and take their promotion spot! Go! Win this war!"

The roar from the dressing room was so loud, Michael was sure they could hear it in the stadium.

Michael followed them, his heart in his throat.

He took his seat in the director's box, a tiny red dot in a vast, black-and-white ocean. The noise was deafening.

The whistle blew.

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