Michael wasn't going back to Barnsley. Not yet.

His heart was pounding, a new, different, terrifying kind of drum.

This was harder than facing Haaland. This was scarier than any 90th-minute penalty.

He got in his car. And he drove.

He drove... home.

An hour later, he was standing outside the giant, cold, marble-fronted mansion he had grown up in.

His "prison." It looked... smaller. And sadder.

He hadn't been here in almost a year. His old key... was still in his glove box. He... hadn't been able to throw it away. His hand was shaking so hard, he dropped it.

"Get... a grip, Sterling," he whispered to himself, his voice cracking.

He picked it up. He put it in the lock. It... turned.

He pushed open the giant, heavy, oak door.

The house was... silent. It was a mausoleum. A beautiful, expensive, tomb.

"Mom?" he called out, his voice a small, weak, echo.

Nothing.

"Dad...?"

Nothing.

He knew where he'd be. Where Jessica said he'd be.

He walked, his shoes squeaking on the pristine marble, down the hall, to the one room he... hated.

The study. His father's "war room." He pushed open the door.

And there... he was.

Steve Sterling. His father.

He was just... sitting. In his giant, leather, "throne" of a chair. In the dark.

Staring... at a blank, black... TV screen. He was... a ghost.

He looked... old. His sharp, 'shark-like' suit... was just... a crumpled, gray, bathrobe. His hair... was a mess.

Michael's heart... didn't feel anger. It didn't feel "I-told-you-so."

It just... broke.

"Dad?" Michael whispered, his voice cracking.

Steve Sterling... turned. Slowly.

His eyes... were hollow.

He... looked... at Michael. And he... blinked.

As if... he was seeing... a ghost.

"Michael...?" he croaked.

Michael... just... broke.

He didn't yell. He didn't argue. He just... cried.

"I'm... I'm sorry," he sobbed, the words he'd been holding for a year... just... spilling... out.

"I'm... I'm so, so... sorry, Dad."

"Sorry...?" Steve whispered, his voice... confused.

"Sorry... for... winning?"

"NO!" Michael yelled, swiping at his tears. "No! Never! I'm... I'm sorry... for this!" He gestured... at the room. At the darkness. At... him.

"I'm... I'm sorry... for... breaking... us."

Steve... just... stared.

For a long, long, silent... second.

Michael's heart... sank. It was... it was too late. He'd... lost... him.

And then...

...Steve... smiled.

It... it was a tiny smile. It was... rusty. It was... broken.

But... it was there.

"That... that chip..." Steve whispered, his voice a dry, unused, rasp.

Michael... blinked. "What...?"

"The... the Chelsea game," Steve said, his eyes... focusing. "That... that 50-yard... chip... from that... 'Prince' kid..."

He... shook his head.

"My... goodness."

He... he'd been watching?

"You... you saw that?" Michael whispered.

"I... I saw... all of it," Steve said. He... laughed. A short, dry, cough of a laugh. "That... penalty... you... you missed... today... That 'Brain' kid... he... he choked."

"Dad!"

"But... that..." Steve said, his voice... stronger. "That... Wembley... that... noise... those... fans... singing... after you lost..."

He... looked... at Michael.

And his eyes... weren't hollow. They... were shining.

"You... you didn't break... anything, son," Steve said, his voice thick. "You... you just... you just showed me... that I... I... I was building... the... wrong... thing."

He... reached... for the phone. "What... what are you doing, Dad?"

"I'm... I'm selling... it," Steve said.

"Selling... selling what? The... the chair?"

"The... team," Steve laughed. A real... laugh. "Northwood. I... I've had an offer. For weeks. Some... oil baron... loves the 'history.'" He scoffed.

"I... I was... holding on... to... what? A... a ghost."

"But... Dad... your... your legacy..." Michael whispered, his mind... reeling.

"THAT!" Steve roared, his voice suddenly back. He... pointed... at Michael.

"THAT... is a legacy! Your... 'Braves'! Your... 'Magician'! That... annoying... red-headed... kid... who... is... a menace! THAT... is... it!"

He... stood up. He... walked... over... to Michael. He... put... his hands... on his son's shoulders.

"I... I... I sold it... this morning," Steve said, his eyes... crying. "I... I transferred... the money. All... of it. To... the... Barnsley... holding... account."

Michael's jaw... dropped.

"Dad... you... you what?! That's... that's millions!"

"It's... 'investment,' son," Steve said, his voice... thick... with... pride. "I... I want in, Michael. I... I... I want... to build... with you. Not... not... not as the 'boss.' But... as your... partner? Your... dad?"

Michael... just... collapsed. Into his father's... arms.

A real... hug. For the first time... in... forever. "I... I'd... I'd like that, Dad," Michael sobbed.

"Well, it's about time!"

A new... voice.

Sharp. Clear. French.

Michael... froze.

He... turned.

She... was standing... in the doorway.

She... was beautiful. She... was crying. She... was holding... a suitcase.

"Mom...?"

Catherine Sterling... his mother... just... dropped... her suitcase.

"JESSICA... CALLED ME... IN PARIS!" she sobbed, running... across the room. "She... she said... you... you were... home!"

She... crashed... into them.

And... for the first time... in so long...

...the... Sterlings... were... a family.

A messy, crying, laughing... broken... beautiful... family.

"Right," Steve Sterling boomed, his voice full... and alive. He... clapped... his hands. "Enough... of this... crying! We... have... work... to do!"

"Work...?" Michael sniffled, wiping his eyes.

"Yes!" his dad grinned, a real, shark-like... Steve Sterling... grin.

"We... have a league... to win!"

One day... later.

The Director's Box... at Oakwell.

It was... insane.

25,000 Barnsley fans... crammed... into the stadium. They were bouncing. They were singing. They knew.

One. More. Win. Bradford City. The last... "boss."

Michael... was vibrating. But... he... wasn't... alone.

On his right... was his Mom. She... was beaming.

On his left... was his Dad. He... was wearing... a red-and-white... Barnsley... scarf.

And... next... to him... was Jessica. She... was wearing... a... brand-new... 'FLETCHER 9'... shirt.

"I... I'm... so... nervous," Michael whispered.

"Nervous?" his dad boomed, laughing. "Son... this... isn't war. This... this... is just... fun."

PHWEEEEEEET!

The "fun"... began.

And... it was a crushing.

The "Kids"... were angry. They... were furious... about Wembley.

And Bradford... were... the victims.

Minute 10: Raph, the 'Magician.' He was dancing. He got the ball... nutmegged... a defender... and just... bent... it... into the top corner.

1-0.

"My... word," Steve Sterling whispered, his eyes wide. "He's... he's magic."

"That's my 'Magician,' Dad," Michael beamed.

Minute 25: Finn Riley. The 'Wild Fox.' He... stole... the ball... ran... 50 yards... and smashed... it... into the roof... of the net.

2-0.

"He... he's a menace!" his Mom laughed. "That's my 'Wild Fox,' Mom!"

Minute 55: The 'Bouncer'! Kai Sora! Arthur... had... started... him!

He... got the ball. 40 yards out. He... didn't... move. He... just... passed.

A perfect, 40-yard, physics-defying, laser-beam... of a pass.

Jamie Weston... BOOM! [Power Shot].

3-0.

The... crowd... was... singing.

Minute 70: The 'Broken Prince.' Danny Fletcher. He... got the ball. He... glided.

Past one. Past two. Past three. He... just... walked... it... into the net.

4-0.

The entire... stadium... was... singing... his... name.

Michael... looked... at his... Dad.

His Dad... just... nodded. "He's... a champion."

Minute 88: A corner.

Jamie Weston... rose. A towering... angry... beautiful... header.

5-0.

The crowd... was... crying.

PHWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

The... final... whistle.

The... stadium... invaded.

A sea... of... red... joy.

Michael... wasn't... watching. He... was... hugging... his family. His Mom... was sobbing... into his shoulder. His Dad... was roaring... with laughter.

His sister... was... beaming. A giant, gleaming, silver... TROPHY... was... being... carried... onto the pitch.

The League One... Title.

The... real... thing.

Michael... looked... at his Dad. His... "partner."

"We... we did it, Dad," Michael whispered, his voice... thick.

Steve Sterling... put his arm... around his son. His... "Boss."

He... smiled.

"No, son," he said, his voice... full... of... pride,... as they watched... the "Kids"... lift... their... cup.

"We...

...we're just... getting started."

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