Michael's heart was in his throat. His captain was gone. His best defender was gone.

And his genius manager had just thrown his youngest attacker onto the pitch at Stamford Bridge, down 1-0.

"Arthur, you beautiful, crazy, madman," Michael whispered, his hands gripping his seat.

"What have you done?"

In his ear, the commentator was having a full-blown meltdown.

"I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! I have never seen a tactical change like this! Arthur Milton is taking off a defender and putting on another playmaker! He's moving Danny Fletcher, a midfielder, to center-back to mark a £90-million-pound striker! This isn't just brave, folks, this is... this is clinical insanity! Chelsea must be licking their lips!"

The game restarted. And the commentator was right. Chelsea, seeing Barnsley's tiny, new, makeshift defense, pounced.

Their star striker, a man who cost more than Barnsley's entire stadium, got the ball. He saw he was being marked by Danny Fletcher—a skinny kid who looked more like a prince than a defender. The striker smirked. He tried to just push Danny off the ball.

But Danny, the [PA 91] "Brain," was too smart. He didn't fight him. He just... stepped away, stuck out a foot at the last second, and popped the ball away, clean as a whistle. The striker stumbled, suddenly without the ball, and looked around in pure confusion.

"WHAT A TACKLE!" the commentator shrieked. "Danny Fletcher just read his mind! He didn't fight the giant; he out-thought him!"

The ball rolled to Raphael Santos. His first touch. He was surrounded by two angry blue shirts. He looked terrified.

"Pass it, kid! Pass it!" Jamie Weston screamed from across the pitch.

Raph, in a panic, just did a little, no-look flick behind his own legs. It was a silly, playground move.

It also sent both defenders the wrong way, and the ball landed perfectly at Finn Riley's feet.

Finn let out a loud cackle.

"OI! I LIKE THIS ONE, LADS! HE'S GOT SPICE!"

The game was on. But Chelsea were getting angry. They were superstars, and these kids were making them look silly.

The 28th minute.

That superstar left-back, 'Rico,' the £100-million-pound man, bombed forward again.

He was furious.

But this time, Finn Riley, the 'Wild Fox,' was marking him.

Rico tried to push past him. Finn, fast as lightning, just stayed in his way. The ball went out of play. Rico grabbed the ball to take the throw-in, his face dark red.

Finn just skipped past him, grinning. "Careful, old man," Finn chirped, loud enough for the microphone to catch.

"You look tired already. Don't pull a hamstring."

Michael put his head in his hands.

"Oh, Finn, no..."

Rico snapped.

His eyes went wide. He dropped the ball and, with two hands, shoved Finn Riley straight in the chest. Finn went flying onto the grass, his hands in the air, looking shocked.

The linesman's flag shot up. The referee blew his whistle and sprinted over.

"OH, MY WORD! WHAT IS RICO DOING?!" the commentator was screaming. "HE'S LOST HIS HEAD! IT'S PURE, PETULANT, OFF-THE-BALL VIOLENCE! Finn Riley just... just broke him!"

The Chelsea manager was on the sideline, screaming, "NO! NO! NO!"

The referee didn't hesitate. He reached into his back pocket.

He pulled out the RED CARD.

Rico was off! He was gone!

"HE'S OFF! RICO IS OFF! CHELSEA ARE DOWN TO 10 MEN! Finn Riley, you absolute, beautiful, chaotic menace! He just got a £100-million-pound superstar sent off with a sentence!"

Finn got up, dusted himself off, and gave Michael a cheeky little wink.

Michael was speechless. His team was now 11 vs. 10. They had a chance!

But this... this just made Chelsea mean.

The game turned from a football match into a war. Tackles were flying. The Chelsea players were now trying to hurt the Barnsley kids.

It was the 35th minute.

Chelsea's £90-million-pound striker, the one Danny had been marking, finally found a yard of space. He was through! It was just him and the keeper!

But Tom Harrison, the "Interceptor," was covering. He'd been quiet all game, still angry at himself for the goal. He was sprinting back, his lungs on fire.

He wasn't going to make it. The striker was pulling his foot back to shoot...

Tom, in a last, desperate, glorious act of sacrifice, launched himself. He didn't get the ball. He just... clipped the striker's heels.

The striker went down in a heap.

PHWEEEEET!

The whistle was deafening.

The referee sprinted over. He didn't even think. He reached for his back pocket.

RED CARD.

"AND TOM HARRISON IS OFF!" the commentator screamed, his voice cracking. "IT'S 10-A-SIDE! A RED CARD APIECE! Tom Harrison sacrifices himself for the team! He knew he was going! He saved a certain goal! This game is... I don't even have words! It's pure, uncut, beautiful madness!"

Tom just jogged off, his head high, patting the Barnsley crest. Arthur Milton met him at the tunnel and clapped him on the back.

"Good lad. Good lad."

It was chaos. Ten players versus ten players. The pitch was wide open.

It was the 44th minute. Just before halftime.

Jamie Weston, his face a mask of pure effort, got battered by a Chelsea defender.

The whistle blew. Free kick to Barnsley.

Michael looked. It was... 30 yards out. Maybe more.

"That's too far, even for you, Jamie," he muttered.

"Well, folks, this is the last chance of the half!" the commentator announced.

"It's 10-v-10, it's 1-0... but this is surely too far out for a shot. They'll just chip it into the box..."

Michael watched as Jamie and Finn stood over the ball.

But then... they parted.

And walking up, his face pale with terror and excitement, was Raphael Santos. The 'Magician'. The [PA 90] kid who had been on the pitch for twenty minutes.

"Wait... no," Michael breathed. "Arthur, no, the kid will crumble."

On the sideline, Arthur was just pointing.

"TAKE IT, RAPH! SHOW THEM THE MAGIC!"

The Chelsea wall was a line of giants, all [CA 85+] superstars.

Their £100-million-pound keeper was yelling at them.

Jamie Weston leaned in. "You got this, 'Magician'?"

Raph just nodded, his eyes wide. "I... I think so."

"Good," Finn grinned, ruffling his hair. "Just... don't miss."

The referee blew his whistle.

Raph took a small, three-step run-up. He didn't smash it. He didn't hit it with power.

He caressed it. He whipped his foot around the side of the ball, giving it an insane, impossible, video-game amount of spin.

It started wide. So wide. The goalkeeper just watched it, a smug look on his face. It was going 10 yards wide, into the crowd.

But then... it just... didn't.

It was like Raph had it on a string. The ball hit an invisible wall, stopped, and just curved.

It bent through the air, defying physics. It dipped. It curled.

The goalkeeper, his smug look turning to pure, slack-jawed horror, finally dove.

He was too late.

TING!

The ball kissed the inside of the far post, the most beautiful sound Michael had ever heard, and rippled the back of the net.

GOAL. BARNSLEY. 1-1.

Silence.

The entire stadium—40,000 Chelsea fans, the superstars on the pitch, the managers—just stared. They could not believe what they had just seen.

Then, the 3,000 Barnsley fans exploded.

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL! I... I... I DON'T BELIEVE IT! I DO NOT BELIEVE WHAT I HAVE JUST SEEN!" The commentator was no longer speaking; he was just screaming. "THAT IS A WORK OF ART! RAPHAEL SANTOS, THE 'MAGICIAN,' HAS BENT THE LAWS OF PHYSICS! IT'S 1-1! IT'S 10-A-SIDE! THIS IS THE GREATEST FA CUP TIE IN HISTORY!"

Michael was on his feet, screaming, hugging the very confused, very old Chelsea director next to him. "HE DID IT! HE DID IT!"

Raph was just... standing there, his finger in his mouth, his eyes wide, as his entire team buried him in a massive, joyous, red-and-white pile.

The referee, his own mind completely blown, just blew his whistle for halftime.

The Barnsley kids were sprinting off the pitch, laughing and shoving Raph toward the tunnel.

The Chelsea superstars just stood there, hands on their hips, their faces a mask of pure, stunned confusion. They had no idea what had just hit them.

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