Michael didn't even go down the tunnel. He just stood in the director's box, his hands on his head, his heart pounding a wild, joyous drum solo against his ribs.

He was laughing. He was actually, genuinely laughing.

His team were down in that tiny, ugly, "insulting" green room, 1-1 at halftime against the champions of Europe, with both teams down to 10 men. I

He finally forced his legs to move, walking into the private lounge, his hands shaking so hard he could barely pick up a bottle of water. He needed to see Arthur. He needed to see them.

He sprinted down the stairs and pushed open the door to the locker room.

"I'M TELLING YOU, I DIDN'T EVEN SEE IT!" Finn Riley was screaming, his face bright red, his 'Wild Fox' energy at a fever pitch. He was re-enacting the free kick, badly. "I just heard this fwoosh sound, and then I looked, and the ball was... like... bending! Like in that movie! With the... the... magic!"

Raphael Santos, the 'Magician' himself, was bright red, sitting on a bench while a physio massaged his leg. He was just... giggling. He was trying to look serious, but he'd just giggle, then hide his face in his hands.

"It... it just went in!" Raph squeaked, his English perfect but his voice full of pure, stunned joy.

"I just... I just kicked it!"

"You just 'kicked it'?" Jamie Weston cackled, throwing a rolled-up sock at him. "You 'kicked it' past a £100-million-pound keeper! I've been trying to do that for 40 minutes! You're making us look bad, kid!"

The door to the manager's office opened. Arthur Milton click-clacked his way into the center of the room.

The laughter stopped. Instantly.

Every player, even Finn, snapped to attention.

Arthur just... smirked. It was a tiny, terrifying, beautiful smile.

"Right," he rasped, his voice full of a low, dangerous energy.

"Well. That was... fun."

The room exploded in laughter.

"Silence!" he barked, and the room was quiet again.

"They are angry," Arthur said, his eyes scanning every player. "They are superstars. They are champions. And they are furious because a bunch of kids they've never heard of are embarrassing them on their own pitch. An angry superstar is a stupid superstar. They've already lost one. They're going to make more mistakes."

He pointed at Danny Fletcher.

"Danny. You are a center-back now. I don't care what your [PA] says. You're a natural. You're a wall. You haven't let that £90-million-pound gorilla breathe. Keep. Doing. It."

Danny, his 'Brain' whirring, just nodded.

"Yes, Gaffer."

Arthur turned to Raph.

"Kid. 'Magician'. Whatever they're calling you."

Raph sat up straight. "Yes, Gaffer?"

"You got another one of those in your pocket?"

Raph just went bright red and squeaked, "I... I hope so?"

"Good," Arthur grinned.

"Go out there. Have fun. And make them angry."

He turned to the rest of the team. "They are just men in blue shirts! Go... and win this war!"

The roar from the locker room was deafening.

PHWEEEEET!

The second half was underway.

Michael was back in his seat, his heart rate already at a dangerous level.

"AND WE ARE BACK!" the commentator shrieked in his ear. "It's 1-1! It's 10-a-side! I've had an energy drink and two coffees at halftime, and I'm still shaking! This is, without a doubt, the greatest FA Cup tie I have ever seen! And it is wide open!"

He was right. With both teams down a man, the huge Stamford Bridge pitch looked like an empty park. There was space everywhere.

It was chaos. It was end-to-end.

One minute, Sam Jones had to make a flying save to stop a Chelsea rocket.

The next minute, Finn was leading a 3-on-2 counter-attack that ended with a shot just wide.

Michael felt like he was watching a tennis match played with a hand grenade.

Then, the 52nd minute.

Raphael, the 'Magician,' got the ball.

He did a little spin, a roulette, leaving a World Cup winner spinning in a circle.

He looked up and played a perfect, curling pass into the path of Finn Riley.

Finn was off!

"THE 'WILD FOX' IS IN!" the commentator yelled. "HE'S GOT JAMIE WESTON WITH HIM! IT'S TWO-ON-ONE!"

Finn didn't even look at the goal. He just slid a perfect, square pass to his 'Wonder Twin.'

Jamie Weston, his [Power Shot] trait humming, didn't even take a touch.

BOOM!

The ball exploded off his foot. The goalkeeper didn't even move.

The net bulged.

2-1, BARNSLEY!

The 3,000 Barnsley fans lost their minds. They were spilling into the aisles!

Michael was on his feet, screaming, hugging the old director again!

"YES! YES! YES! 2-1! I TOLD YOU!"

But... wait.

The Chelsea players weren't walking back to the center. They were shouting at the linesman.

The linesman... his flag was up.

The referee was jogging over. He blew his whistle.

No goal. Offside.

"NO!" the commentator roared. "NO! IT'S OFFSIDE! THE GOAL HAS BEEN CHALKED OFF! Oh, my heart! The Barnsley players are stunned! Jamie Weston is claiming he was on! Arthur Milton has just thrown his cane onto the pitch! It was nanometers in it! Oh, that is the definition of heartbreak!"

Michael slumped into his seat, his head in his hands. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me. That was... that was the goal."

Chelsea, woken up by the shock, pounced. They were furious.

The 55th minute.

Their star striker, the £90-million-pound man, got the ball. He saw Danny Fletcher marking him.

He tried a quick step-over. Danny, the 'Brain,' read it perfectly.

But the striker... he was clever. He knew Danny was a midfielder. He just... stopped. He let Danny run into him.

Danny, his momentum carrying him, just grazed the striker's ankle.

The striker went down like he'd been shot.

PHWEEEEEEEEET!

The whistle was deafening. The referee pointed, without hesitation, to the penalty spot.

Penalty to Chelsea.

"OH, NO!" the commentator gasped. "IT'S A PENALTY! Danny Fletcher, who has been a wall all day, just makes one tiny mistake! It's a moment of inexperience! The striker was looking for it, he bought it, and the referee has given it! Oh, that is so soft! But it's a penalty!"

Michael couldn't watch. He physically covered his eyes with his hands.

"Come on, Sam... 'OP Keeper'... one more time, son. One more time."

The Chelsea captain, a £100-million-pound superstar, placed the ball.

The stadium was silent.

He ran up. He smashed it. Hard and low, to the left.

Sam Jones guessed... the right way! He dove!

HE'S GOT A HAND TO IT!

But the shot... it was just too powerful.

Sam's glove just... wasn't strong enough.

The ball spun off his hand and into the side netting.

Goal. 2-1, Chelsea.

The stadium erupted. The blue scarves were waving. The sound was a wall of pure, triumphant noise.

"AND CHELSEA ARE BACK IN FRONT!" the commentator yelled. "Sam Jones got a hand to it, but it wasn't enough! The power was too much! And just like that... the 'Braves' hearts might just be broken. 2-1, to the favorites."

Michael felt all the air leave his body. That was it. The offside goal, the soft penalty... the magic was gone.

The Barnsley players looked shattered. They kicked off, their heads down.

But as the ball rolled back, Finn Riley looked up. He was furious.

He took the pass. He wasn't doing step-overs. He wasn't smiling. He just... ran. He ran at the first blue shirt. He dropped his shoulder and blew past him. He ran at the second, a World Cup winner. He just... kicked the ball past him and ran around him, his [PA 92] speed a total blur.

"FINN RILEY IS ON A MAD RUN!" the commentator screamed.

"HE'S NOT DRIBBLING, HE'S... HE'S ANGERY! HE'S BEATEN TWO!"

He was at the edge of the box. The giant mountain-man defender, the one he'd embarrassed in the first half, came flying in. He was going for the man, not the ball.

It was a desperate, angry, clumsy, two-footed lunge.

CLATTER!

Finn went flying into the air, spinning, and landed in a heap, right on the edge of the penalty area.

PHWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

The referee, who was right there, blew his whistle so hard it almost burst.

The entire stadium—40,000 people—just froze.

The referee... was pointing. He was pointing...

TO THE PENALTY SPOT!

"A PENALTY! A PENALTY! A PENALTY FOR BARNSLEY!" the commentator was just a wall of noise. "I DON'T BELIEVE IT! I HAVE NEVER SEEN A GAME LIKE THIS! IT'S PENALTY-PALOOZA! Finn Riley, on a run of pure, red-hot fury, is scythed down! And the referee has given it! IT'S 10-A-SIDE! IT'S 2-1! IT IS THE 59TH MINUTE! WHO... IN... THE... WORLD... IS GOING TO TAKE IT?!"

Michael was shaking. He was literally vibrating.

"Jamie. It has to be Jamie. Get the ball, Jamie."

The Chelsea players were screaming at the referee, their faces purple.

Finn was still on the ground, but Michael could see him. He was winking at Raph.

Jamie Weston, his face pale, his jaw set, walked over. He picked up the ball.

The £100-million-pound Chelsea goalkeeper was on his line, a giant, neon-yellow monster, waving his arms, trying to make himself look huge.

Jamie placed the ball on the spot. He took two steps back.

The world stopped.

Michael held his breath.

The referee raised his whistle to his lips.

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