Michael Sterling's joyous, triumphant, champagne-soaked roar of "DON'T LEAVE!" echoed in the rapidly emptying Oakwell stadium.

He was a mess. His £1,000 suit was snagged on the hoarding, his hair was matted with sweat and a suspicious, sticky liquid (probably soda), and his expensive leather shoes were ruined from his sprint across the pristine, sacred turf.

A few thousand departing fans, hearing the commotion, had stopped in the exit tunnels, their faces a mask of pure, baffled confusion.

They were watching their 18-year-old owner, the "Kid Genius" of the back pages, sprinting, full-tilt, like a madman, away from the celebrating players and towards a random family.

"Liam! Liam Carter! Stop!" Michael yelled again, his voice cracking, his lungs burning.

The father of the 10-year-old in the "FLETCHER 9" jersey stopped, turning around, his face a picture of pure, unadulterated terror.

He instinctively pulled his son behind him. He thought his kid was in trouble.

"I... I..." Michael gasped, finally skidding to a halt in front of them, his hands on his knees, desperately trying to suck in air.

"I... I'm... Michael... Sterling..."

"We... we know who you are, sir," the father said, his voice trembling. He looked at Michael's wild eyes, his soaked, torn suit.

"Is... is my son... is he in trouble? He didn't... he didn't run on the pitch, did he?"

"What? No!" Michael panted, waving a dismissive hand.

"No, he's... he's... brilliant!"

The father just stared.

"He's... brilliant?"

"Yes!" Michael said, straightening up, trying to regain a shred of his "owner" dignity, which was difficult when he looked like he'd just survived a shipwreck.

"Liam! I'm... I'm the owner. I know... everything... that happens at this club. And I... I just wanted to say... you're a hell of a player, kid. A real... a real talent."

He was winging it. He was trying to sound cool, omniscient, like a football god who knew every fan's name.

Liam, the 10-year-old, peeked out from behind his father's legs, his eyes as wide as dinner plates.

"You... you know my name?"

"Of course I do!" Michael said, with a confidence he didn't feel. "You're... you're Liam Carter! You were... you were at our academy trial, weren't you?"

Liam's face, which had been bright with awe, suddenly fell. His eyes dropped to the floor.

"Yeah," he muttered. "But... they... they sent me home. They said I was... I was too small."

Michael's heart ached. My stupid, broken academy.

But his internal system was still screaming.

The golden [GENERATIONAL TALENT] alert was still flashing, a frantic, pulsing beacon.

[TARGET PROXIMITY: 20 METERS]

[TARGET PROXIMITY: 15 METERS]

Michael froze. He looked at Liam. He looked at the alert. He looked back at Liam. He was 20 meters away from Liam.

This... this wasn't the kid.

"Oh, God," he whispered. The system hadn't locked on. It had just alerted him. The 97 was near. It wasn't him.

He looked around, his eyes frantic. The crowd was almost gone.

Where? Where?

[TARGET PROXIMITY: 10 METERS]

He spun around.

And he saw him.

He wasn't in the crowd. He wasn't in a kit. He was leaning against the concrete stadium wall, under a dim, flickering exit sign, his arms crossed, his headphones on. He was tall, 16 at a guess, with sharp, intelligent features and a mop of messy, dark hair that fell over his eyes. He was wearing a faded, vintage basketball jersey and ripped jeans, and he was holding a scuffed-up basketball under one arm.

He was watching Michael... and he was smirking.

A lazy, amused, arrogant smirk, as if he was watching the most entertaining, most pathetic, one-man circus in the world.

Michael's system-vision snapped onto him, and the platinum-white, holy numbers burned themselves into his brain.

[KAI SORA. AGE: 16.]

[STATUS: CIVILIAN. NO AFFILIATION.]

[CA: 10 / PA: 97]

He turned from the stunned 10-year-old and his father. "Uh... great! Great chat! Keep... keep it up, Liam! You're... you're a star!" he stammered, and then he sprinted, his wet shoes squeak-squeak-squeaking on the concrete, towards the real target.

He skidded to a halt, a disheveled, soaking-wet, mad-eyed owner, right in front of the 16-year-old, who just looked at him with a lazy, bored, disdainful expression.

"You," Michael panted, his chest heaving.

"You're... Kai... Sora."

The kid, Kai, slowly, achingly slowly, pulled one headphone off his ear, the tinny sound of a complicated jazz beat leaking out.

"Can I help you, suit guy?" he asked, his voice a smooth, deep, utterly unimpressed drawl.

"You're kinda... wet."

"I... I'm Michael Sterling," Michael gasped, trying to straighten his ruined suit

. "I... I own this club."

"Cool," Kai said, his face blank. He didn't blink.

"Congrats. You want me to move? Am I in your... owner... spot?"

"No! I..." Michael took a deep, shuddering breath.

"I have to ask. Do you... do you play football?"

Kai Sora just stared at him. And then he did it.

He let out a short, sharp, ugly bark of a laugh. It was a sound of pure, genuine, mockery.

"Football?" he scoffed, gesturing with his head towards the pristine pitch.

"You mean... that? Kicking a ball? Running around in stupid, tiny shorts for 90 minutes? Why would I ever do that?"

He shook his head, his smirk returning. "It looks... incredibly boring."

Michael was floored.

He was speechless. A 97-potential. The next god of the game. And he thought it was boring.

"Then... then... why are you here?" Michael stammered.

Kai jerked his thumb back over his shoulder, towards the exit tunnel where the 10-year-old, Liam, was now being led away by his very, very confused father.

"My little brother. Liam. He's... obsessed... with this stupid game. I had to make sure he didn't get lost in the crowd." He looked Michael up and down. "And... you knew his name? You're a stalker?"

"No! I just... I... I'm the owner! I know things!" Michael said, defensively.

"Wait. Liam's trial. 'Rejected for being too small.' That was your brother?"

"Yeah," Kai's face hardened, the first sign of any emotion. "Pathetic. Kid's got more heart than all those players you just had on the pitch combined. But he's 'too small.' Whatever."

"But... you," Michael said, his mind racing, trying to compute the impossible. "Have you... have you ever played? Like, in a team? At all?"

Kai just shrugged, bouncing his basketball, once, on the concrete. "I've kicked a ball. It's... not hard. It's just angles. Physics. It's... simple. I prefer a challenge."

Michael looked at the basketball. He looked at Kai's tall, lean, athletic frame.

[CA: 10]. All raw, genetic, untapped talent.

This was his 'Butcher' Riley moment. This was the 'Short Fuse.' He hated being told he couldn't do something.

"You think it's 'simple'?" Michael asked, his voice suddenly quiet, a challenge. "You think it's 'boring'?"

"I know it is," Kai shot back, his arrogance a shield.

"Prove it," Michael said.

Kai stopped bouncing the ball. He raised an eyebrow.

"Prove it?"

"I'll offer you a contract," Michael said, his voice a low, intense whisper.

"A professional contract. Right now. You think this game is so simple? Come and win it. You think you're a genius who's figured it all out? Come and show a stadium of 25,000 people how 'easy' it is."

He leaned in, his eyes locking with Kai's.

"Come and be the best in the world. Or... are you just... scared?"

He saw it. The flicker. The lazy, bored look was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp, dangerous glint in his eyes. He had challenged the kid's pride.

"Scared?" Kai said, his voice a low, amused purr. "Of kicking a ball?" He looked Michael up and down, a slow, calculating, wolfish grin spreading across his face.

"You're trying to hustle me, suit guy," he said. "That's cute."

He bounced his basketball, once, twice. Caught it.

"Fine," he said, shrugging, as if he was just agreeing to do Michael a massive, boring favor. "I'm bored of basketball anyway. This... 'kicking'... it might be a fun little distraction for a while."

He looked at Michael, his eyes full of a supreme, almost insulting, confidence.

"I'll try your stupid little game. But... I'm not doing those stupid cone drills with the 10-year-olds. I'm not... 'academy.' I train with the first team. With your 'stars.' Or I walk."

Michael's heart was pounding. This kid... this [PA 97] monster... was the most arrogant, difficult, un-coachable person he had ever met in his entire life.

And he was, without a shadow of a doubt, the new cornerstone of his entire empire.

"You start Monday," Michael said, his voice miraculously steady, trying to match the kid's cold confidence.

"Welcome to the team."

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