Michael Sterling sat, slumped in his expensive director's box seat, his £1,000 suit completely ruined, soaked through with a mixture of cold London rain and probably a bit of his own nervous sweat.

His brain had just... stopped.

Down on the pitch, his "kids," his "Barnsley Braves," were a single, sprawling, joyous pile of red shirts, mud, and tears, right in front of the 3,000 traveling Barnsley fans, who were no longer cheering. They were just... screaming.

A single, unified, hysterical wall of noise that was the only sound in the 40,000-seat stadium.

The 37,000 Chelsea fans? They were just... gone. They had vanished, silent ghosts in a stunned, blue graveyard.

PHWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

The final whistle was still echoing in his ears.

3-2.

Danny Fletcher, his [PA 91] "Prince," his emergency center-back, had just won the FA Cup Quarter-Final with a 50-yard chip goal.

Michael let out a sound. It wasn't a laugh. It wasn't a sob. It was a weird, choked, hysterical

"Haaaaaa..."

He had done it. They had done it.

"Sir?" The very old, very rich Chelsea director next to him, the one Michael had been accidentally hugging, cleared his throat.

"A... a truly... spirited... performance from your chaps."

"Thanks," Michael croaked, his voice cracking.

"It was... yeah. Spirited."

He stumbled out of the box, his legs like jelly. He didn't walk down the stairs to the tunnel. He ran.

He needed to be in that locker room.

He sprinted past stunned Chelsea security guards, his ruined shoes squeaking on the marble floor. He got to the door of that tiny, "hospital-green" away locker room and threw it open.

The smell hit him first—a wave of pure, beautiful victory: mud, sweat, rain, and... yup, someone had definitely smuggled in champagne.

The sound hit him second. It was pure, joyous, beautiful chaos.

"I'M TELLING YOU! I DIDN'T EVEN SEE YOU!" Finn Riley, the 'Wild Fox,' was shirtless, swinging his wet jersey around his head. He was screaming at Danny Fletcher, who was sitting on a bench, his head in his hands, just... laughing.

"I THOUGHT YOU WERE JUST CLEARING IT! I WAS ALREADY ANGRY AT YOU! AND THEN... AND THEN... IT WENT IN! YOU... YOU... 'BRAIN'!"

"I... I don't know!" Danny was yelling back, his face bright red, his "Prince-like" calm completely gone. "I just... I saw him! He was so far off his line! I just... I just kicked it! I thought it was going over!"

"IT WAS BEAUTIFUL!" Jamie Weston roared, popping a bottle of champagne and spraying it all over the ceiling (and Raph).

"BUT MINE WAS BETTER! TOP CORNER!"

"NO, MINE WAS!" Raph, the 'Magician,' squeaked, his hair now soaked with champagne.

"MINE HAD... CURVE!"

"WHO CARES!" Finn roared. "WE ALL SCORED! WE'RE ALL LEGENDS! WE'RE... WE'RE... WE'RE GOING TO WEMBLEY!"

The room erupted.

"WEMBLEY! WEMBLEY! WE'RE THE FAMOUS BARNSLEY AND WE'RE GOING TO WEMBLEY!"

"BOSS!"

Michael was suddenly grabbed, his feet lifted off the floor, by Jamie Weston, who was strong enough to lift a car. He was pulled into a massive, soaking-wet, muddy, champagne-drenched group hug.

"BOSS! DID YOU SEE IT?! DID YOU SEE DANNY'S GOAL?!"

"I saw it! I saw it!" Michael was laughing, pounding on Jamie's back.

"I think I died for a second! I can't believe you... any of you... I..."

"BOSS! ARE WE GETTING A BONUS FOR THIS?!" Finn screamed, his eyes wide and greedy.

"A bonus?!" Michael laughed. "Finn, after a win like this, you can have whatever you want!"

"I WANT A FERRARI!"

"You're not getting a Ferrari!"

The door to the manager's office creaked open. Arthur Milton click-clacked his way into the center of the room, his cane tapping on the wet floor.

The room, which had been a wall of noise, went dead silent.

The players snapped to attention, their faces still buzzing, but full of respect.

Arthur just... looked at them. One by one. His eyes, usually so sharp and fiery, were... soft. He looked... proud.

He just... nodded.

"Well," he rasped, a tiny, almost-invisible smirk on his face. "That... was fun."

The room exploded again. The tension broke, and the players were cackling.

"Fun, Gaffer?! It was a heart attack!"

"I think I lost a year of my life!"

Arthur held up his hand. Silence.

"That," he said, his voice a low, gravelly, emotional rumble, "was the Barnsley Way. You fought. You bled. You thought. And you won."

He paused.

"Now, get in the showers. All of you. You smell... and you're getting my floor wet."

He turned, click-clack, and went back into his office, closing the door, leaving a room full of stunned, grinning, adoring players.

The two-hour bus ride home was... weird.

For the first hour, it was a party. The music was blasting, the kids were singing songs (mostly about Danny Fletcher), and Michael just sat in the front, his heart full.

For the second hour... it was silent.

One by one, the adrenaline had vanished, replaced by pure, bone-deep exhaustion. Michael looked back and saw his team of "heroes," his "giant-killers"... were all just kids.

Finn was fast asleep, his mouth wide open, drooling on the window.

Jamie and Danny were slumped against each other, their heads touching.

Raph was curled up in his seat, using his backpack as a pillow.

They were just... kids. His kids.

Michael, too wired to sleep, pulled out his phone. The world had, apparently, exploded.

His phone had 400 new messages. The team's social media was on fire. He clicked on a link to a sports news show.

The TV studio was all sharp suits and bright lights. The pundits, usually so calm, looked... shaken.

"I... I'm just... I'm speechless," one pundit, a famous ex-player, was saying. "I have never... never... seen a football match like that. I've been in this game for thirty years. I thought I'd seen it all. I was wrong."

"It's unbelievable!" another one jumped in. "Forget the 'cupset.' That's an insult! This wasn't a 'lucky punch.' This was a 90-minute tactical masterclass from Arthur Milton, and a display of pure, joyous, fearless football from those kids!"

"And let's talk about the goal!" the first one said, his eyes wide. "The goal! Danny Fletcher! From his own half! In the 90th minute! At Stamford Bridge! In the rain! That's not Goal of the Season! That is, without a doubt, the greatest FA Cup goal that has ever been scored! It's unbelievable!"

Michael just... smiled. He closed his phone, his heart so full it felt like it might burst.

The next afternoon, the training ground canteen was buzzing. The players were all there, still walking on air.

"I'm telling you, I'm a legend now," Finn was saying, his mouth full of toast. "They're gonna build a statue of me. For getting that £100-million-pound guy sent off."

"They're not building a statue of you, Finn," Danny said, sipping a coffee.

"They're building one of me."

"Oh, shut up, 'Brain'!"

"Shhh! It's starting!" Jamie hissed, pointing at the big TV on the wall.

It was the live draw for the FA Cup Semi-Finals. The road to Wembley.

Michael stood in the back, his arms crossed, a nervous smile on his face.

Arthur was next to him, just... watching.

"And now," the TV presenter said, "for the draw. Four balls left. Four teams... one cup."

A famous old player drew the first ball.

"Ball number one... is... BARNSLEY!"

The room roared. The players were cheering, pounding the tables.

"The giant-killers are in! And Barnsley will play..."

The old player's hand went back in. He swirled the balls. He pulled one out. He opened it.

He paused. He actually... chuckled.

"Oh, my word," the presenter said. "What a draw."

"Ball number two... is... MANCHESTER CITY."

The cheering in the canteen... just... stopped.

Michael's stomach dropped through the floor. Man City.

The other billion-pound team. The unstoppable, treble-winning, blue machine.

The TV cut to a highlights package. A giant, blond, long-haired monster of a man, just... smashing goals in. Over and over.

"SO THERE IT IS!" the TV presenter yelled. "THE 'BRAVES' HAVE DONE THE IMPOSSIBLE! AND THEIR REWARD... IS TO FACE THE UNBEATABLE! THEY'RE GOING TO WEMBLEY... TO FACE ERLING HAALAND!"

The room was still silent. The kids looked... pale. They had just beaten one giant... and now they had to face the final boss.

Michael looked at Arthur. Arthur was just... staring at the TV, his face a mask of pure, tactical concentration.

Then, the silence was broken.

By Finn Riley.

He just... snorted. A loud, disrespectful, 'Wild Fox' snort.

All eyes turned to him.

He was leaning back in his chair, his arms behind his head, a slow, lazy, arrogant grin spreading across his face. "Haaland, eh?" Finn said, his voice full of a sudden, dangerous, joy.

"Cool. He looks fast."

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