The sun was beginning to dip below the old brick houses of Barnsley, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple.
Michael and Arthur walked away from the stadium, the weight of their audacious day settling around them. The adrenaline had started to fade, replaced by a buzzing, nervous energy.
"One day," Arthur mused, shaking his head with a look of wry disbelief. "One training session before our first match. It's a baptism by fire."
"There's no better way to learn how to swim," Michael replied, a tired but satisfied grin on his face. He felt a deep sense of rightness, a feeling that all the chaotic pieces were finally clicking into place.
They had decided to walk back to their respective temporary homes.
Michael to his tiny flat above the bakery, Arthur to a small hotel nearby.
The evening was mild, and the walk gave them a chance to decompress, to let the reality of their new life sink in.
The streets were quiet, filled with the everyday sounds of a town winding down—a dog barking, the distant laughter of children, the rattle of a train on a nearby track.
"Tomorrow morning, we'll see what we've really bought," Arthur said, his tone shifting back to the strategist. "Forget the balance sheets and the scout reports. We'll see them on the grass. We'll see their attitude, their fitness, their character."
"We'll see their numbers," Michael thought to himself, a thrill running through him.
He was about to get his first look at the raw materials of his empire. He would see the CA and PA of every single player on his payroll. He'd know who the cornerstones were, who the dead weight was, and who the hidden gems were, all in a single glance.
As they turned a corner onto a residential street, a sound cut through the evening calm: the rhythmic thud of a football, the frantic shouts of players, and the clang of a ball hitting a chain-link fence. It drew them in like a magnet.
Set back from the road, nestled between a row of terraced houses and an old community center, was a floodlit five-a-side pitch. It was a cage, really—a rectangle of worn-out artificial turf surrounded by high wire fences.
Under the buzzing yellow lights, a chaotic, fast-paced game was in full swing.
Ten young men, none older than twenty, were flying around the pitch with the kind of reckless energy that only youth can provide.
"Look at that," Arthur said, a rare, soft smile on his face as they stopped to watch through the fence.
"This is where it all begins, isn't it? Before the contracts and the agents and the television cameras. Just a ball and a bit of floodlit grass."
Michael nodded, but he was only half-listening.
His eyes were scanning the players, his unique vision automatically activating.
He saw a flurry of numbers, most of them unremarkable.
[CA 45 / PA 55], [CA 48 / PA 62]
Decent local-level players, boys having a kickabout after work. Nothing special.
And then he saw him.
He was on the team in yellow bibs, playing on the left wing.
He was slight of build, with a shock of messy, dark hair that flopped over his eyes as he ran. He moved differently from everyone else on the pitch. While the others charged and clattered, he glided. The ball seemed tethered to his foot by an invisible string.
[??? : CA 59 / PA 89]
Michael's heart stopped. He blinked, thinking his eyes were deceiving him. He focused again, and the numbers remained, glowing like a beacon in the sea of mediocrity. 59 Current Ability.
That was already good enough to be a squad player in League One.
He was already at the level of a professional.
But the other number… 89.
Eighty-nine.
That wasn't just good. That wasn't just Premier League potential. That was the potential to be one of the best players in the country. It was a number that belonged to superstars.
It was a diamond. And it was playing in a cage on a random Tuesday night.
"Arthur, look at that kid," Michael said, his voice a low, urgent whisper, trying to keep the shock out of his tone. He pointed subtly.
"The one in the yellow bib on the left."
Arthur's gaze followed Michael's.
"The little one? He's got quick feet, I'll give him that."
Just as he said it, the boy received the ball near the sideline.
Two defenders immediately converged on him, trying to box him in against the fence.
The boy didn't panic.
With a shimmy of his hips, he nutmegged the first defender—slipping the ball clean through his legs. The second defender lunged in, but the boy was already gone, a ghost, as he dragged the ball back with the sole of his foot and spun away into space.
It was pure, instinctive genius.
"Okay," Arthur said, his eyebrows raising in appreciation.
"That was… impressive."
The boy drove towards the goal, his head up.
The goalkeeper came rushing out to narrow the angle.
Without even looking down, the boy stopped the ball dead, shifted it onto his left foot, and unleashed a shot. It wasn't a blast; it was a guided missile.
The ball flew with ferocious pace and pinpoint accuracy, rocketing into the top corner of the net before the keeper could even react.
The fence behind the goal rattled from the impact.
It was a goal of breathtaking quality.
His teammates mobbed him, shouting and laughing, but the boy just gave a small, shy smile and trotted back to his position.
"Good heavens," Arthur breathed, all traces of casual amusement gone from his voice.
"That left foot is a cannon."
"Who is he?" Michael asked, his eyes locked on the boy, on the glowing PA 89 that was a secret only he could see.
"I have no idea," Arthur admitted.
"Probably just a local kid. Maybe plays for a pub team on the weekends. A talent like that… if he was in a professional system, we'd know about him."
"But what if he isn't?" Michael pressed, his mind racing.
"What if he's the one that slipped through the cracks? The one every scout in the country missed?"
They watched for another ten minutes.
The boy was a class above everyone else. His touch was immaculate, his vision was superb, and his ability to change direction was electric.
He scored another two goals and set up three more. He was a maestro conducting a chaotic orchestra.
The game ended, and the players started to file out of the cage, laughing and joking, grabbing their water bottles and gym bags.
"We can't just leave," Michael said, a fierce determination seizing him. This was it.
This was the first test of his new ability. He couldn't let a potential 89 just walk off into the night.
"Michael, what are you doing?" Arthur asked as Michael started walking towards the entrance of the cage. "We can't just accost some kid on the street."
"I'm not accosting him," Michael said over his shoulder.
"I'm introducing myself."
He saw the boy a few feet ahead, zipping up a worn-out hoodie.
He looked tired but happy. Michael took a deep breath.
"Excuse me," Michael called out, his voice sounding louder than he intended in the quiet evening.
The boy turned, a questioning look on his face. He was even slighter up close, and he looked nervous, unused to being singled out.
"That was some game," Michael said, offering a friendly smile. "That goal you scored, top corner? That was something special."
"Oh. Uh, thanks," the boy mumbled, ducking his head shyly.
"My name is Michael," he said, extending a hand. "My friend and I were just watching. We were impressed. What's your name?"
The boy hesitated for a second before shaking his hand. His grip was surprisingly firm.
"Jamie," he said. "Jamie Weston."