Michael Sterling just... sat.

He was a statue, a block of ice, in the posh, plush, director's box at Wembley.

The rain was lashing down, but he didn't feel it.

The 45,000 Man City fans were roaring, their blue flags a triumphant, waving sea.

He didn't hear them.

All he heard... was his own heart, a slow, heavy, thud... thud... thud...

It was over. 3-2. They had lost.

Jamie Weston was flat on his back, his arms spread, just... staring, lifelessly, into the rain.

Raph, the 'Magician,' was sobbing. Huge, body-wracking, 17-year-old sobs, his face buried in his hands.

Danny Fletcher... wasn't even on the pitch. He was gone. Sent off.

Michael felt a cold, gray, emptiness.

"...Oh, Barnsley... Oh, Barnsley... is wonderful... Oh, Barnsley is wonderful... it's full of tits, fanny, and Barnsley... Oh, Barnsley is wonderful!..."

Michael's head... snapped up.

The 45,000 Man City fans... were leaving.

But the 45,000 Barnsley fans...

...were staying.

They were all... standing.

They were all... clapping.

They were... all... singing. They were so, so, proud.

Michael... just... stared. He looked down at the pitch.

Kevin De Bruyne.. who had broken their hearts... walked straight... to the sobbing, broken, little... Raphael Santos.

He... helped him up.

He put an arm around his shoulder. He said something, and ruffled his hair.

Erling Haaland... the giant, blond, robot...

...was walking straight... to Sam Jones.

The two "monsters"... just... stared at each other.

Haaland just... nodded. He took off his shirt. He... offered it... to Sam.

Sam, his face a mask of pure, stunned, exhaustion... just... took it. He swapped shirts.

The robot... patted him on the back.

And then... Michael... smiled.

Jérémy Doku... the "45-goal monster"... was limping.

He was limping... straight... to the Barnsley dugout.

Where Finn Riley... was also... limping, his hamstring wrapped, his face a mask of pure, grumpy, defeat. Doku... just... pointed at him.

Finn pointed back.

They both... just... limped... towards each other.

"You..." Doku said, his voice full of a pained, respectful, grudging... awe. "You... are the most... annoying... man... I have ever... met... in my life."

Finn... just... grinned.

A slow, pained, "Wild Fox" grin.

"Thanks, mate!" he chirped, his voice cracking. "You're... you're really fast! Like... stupid fast. Good... good for you."

They swapped shirts.

Michael... just... laughed.

A single, wet, beautiful, proud... laugh.

His "kids"... were... heroes.

He watched as Jamie Weston, his face stained with tears, finally... got up. He walked over... to the 45,000 screaming, singing, crying... red-and-white fans.

He just... clapped.

A slow, painful, thank-you... clap.

Michael Sterling... 18 years old... had never... ever... felt... anything... like it. Is it worth it?

He just... nodded. "Yeah, Jess," he whispered, to no one. "It is."

The Wembley locker room... was a tomb.

The "perfect" room... was now... a mess. Muddy shirts... half-eaten oranges... the smell of defeat.

The players... were just... sitting. They were ghosts.

Jamie... was just... staring at Haaland's shirt, which was draped over his lap. It was... huge.

Raph... was just... sniffling, his face red and puffy.

Kai, the "Bouncer," was back in his corner... reading his physics book... but his foot was tapping. Thump-thump-thump. He was... annoyed.

And in the furthest, darkest, corner...

...was Danny Fletcher.

He was still in his full, muddy, kit. He hadn't showered.

He was just... staring... at the floor. His "red card"... his "missed penalty"... his... failure... was a heavy, cold, fog... in the room.

Michael... just... stood by the door.

He... didn't know what to say.

Click... clack...

The door to the manager's office... opened.

Arthur Milton, his sharp, black, "General's" suit... now slightly damp with rain... stepped out.

He looked... calm. He... click-clacked... his cane... on the pristine, red, carpet.

The players... looked up. Their eyes... dead.

Arthur... just... scanned... the room. His eyes... found... Danny. He... stared... at him. For a long, long, long... second.

Then... he... looked... at all of them.

"So," he rasped, his voice... quiet.

"We lost."

...

...

...

"Good."

Michael... blinked.

The players... blinked.

"Gaffer?" Jamie whispered, his voice a hoarse, confused, croak.

"I said... good," Arthur repeated, his voice... stronger.

"You... lost. You... failed. You... went to war... with Gods... and you... bled."

He... smiled.

A tiny, sharp, proud... smile.

"And... they... are the ones... who are limping... back to their 'palace'!" he roared, his voice suddenly full of fire. "I... have never... ever... been prouder... of a loss... in my entire, miserable, life!"

He... limped... over... to Danny.

He... stood... over him.

Danny... didn't look up. "You," Arthur snarled.

Danny... flinched.

"You... 'Prince'... 'Brain'... 'Hero'..." Arthur rasped.

"...you missed... a penalty."

"I... I know, Gaffer," Danny whispered, his voice breaking. "I... I'm..."

"And... you lost..."

"I... I know..."

"And... you snapped."

"I'm... I'm sorry..."

"Good," Arthur said.

Danny... looked up. His eyes... wide. Confused.

"Gaffer...?"

"Good," Arthur repeated, his voice... soft. "Now... you're human. Now... you're a footballer. Now... you know... what it feels like... to fail."

He... patted... Danny... on the head.

"So... get... over it. We... have work... to do."

He... turned... to the entire... room.

"That," he said, pointing to the door... "was the dessert. It was... tasty, wasn't it? It was a nice, big, expensive... piece of 'cake.' But... I... am still... hungry."

The fog... in the room... was... lifting.

The players... were... sitting up. "The 'circus'... is over," Arthur roared. "The 'fun'... is done."

He... pointed... at a calendar... he'd had a physio... tape... to the wall.

"We... have one... more... game."

"We... win... that... and we... are Champions. We... win... that... and we... have won... our... WAR!"

"We... lose... that... and all of this..." he waved his hand around the "perfect" Wembley room... "...all of this... was... for nothing."

He... limped... to the door.

"Now... get... in... the shower. You... all... stink... of 'glorious failure.' And I... hate... the smell."

He... left.

Click... clack...

The room... was silent.

For... one... second.

And then...

Jamie Weston... just... smiled.

A slow, tired, angry... beautiful... smile.

He... looked... at Danny.

"So..." Jamie said, his voice a rumble. "You... are... human. Huh. That's... boring."

Danny... looked up.

And a tiny, tiny, broken... laugh... bubbled out of him.

"Shut up, Jamie," he whispered.

The "Kids"... were back.

Michael... just... beamed.

He... walked out... of the locker room... his heart... full. He... was proud. He... was ready. His... phone... buzzed.

He... looked... at it. A text. From... Jessica. His... heart... stopped. He... opened it.

One... sentence.

"...I saw... the fans... singing...

...I...

...I get it, Michael.

...I... I'm... I'm proud of you.

...Now... go... and win... the real thing."

Michael... just... stopped.

He... leaned... against the "hallowed" Wembley wall.

And a single, perfect, happy... tear... rolled down his face.

He... had... won.

One more game.

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