"Danny, you're the future of this club. You know it, the fans know it, and now, I know it. Arthur is going to push you harder than anyone else because he sees what I see. Don't shy away from that pressure. Embrace it. We're going to build this team around you."
Danny Fletcher didn't smile, but a look of fierce determination hardened his young face. "I won't let you down, sir," he said, his voice quiet but firm.
Michael left the training ground feeling like he was floating.
He drove home, the windows down, the evening air cool on his face.
He got back to his flat, showered, and heated up a microwave meal that tasted like cardboard and victory. He switched on the TV, flicking to the 24-hour sports news channel.
And there it was. His new life, broadcast in high definition.
The headline scrolled across the bottom of the screen in bold yellow letters:
BARNSLEY FC: NEW OWNERSHIP ERA BEGINS WITH A BANG.
The presenter, a woman with a dazzling smile, was talking a mile a minute.
"…a truly dramatic twenty-four hours at Oakwell, as eighteen-year-old Michael Sterling, son of Northwood FC owner Richard Sterling, has completed a surprise takeover. In his first act, Sterling has sacked club legend David Wallace and appointed former Northwood executive Arthur Milton as manager. And we're just getting word that star winger Marcus Thorne has been sold to Championship side Blackwood Rovers for an undisclosed fee, believed to be in excess of two million pounds…"
It was real. It was happening. He had made waves, and the whole world was watching.
As if on cue, his phone began to ring. It was an international number, from the United States. He frowned, wondering who it could be, and answered.
"What have you done?"
The voice was cold, sharp, and instantly familiar. It was his older brother, Ethan.
He was a high-flying investment banker in New York, the sensible, successful son.
"Ethan," Michael said, his good mood instantly evaporating.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Don't play games with me, Michael," Ethan snapped, his voice crackling with transatlantic fury. "I've just gotten off the phone with Dad. He's a broken man. Do you have any idea what you've done to him? To the family name?"
"I bought a football club," Michael said flatly. "It's what our family does."
"You spat in his face!" Ethan's voice rose.
"You sold everything Grandad left you—your entire future—to buy some tinpot club in the middle of nowhere just to spite him! I saw the news. You sacked a club legend! You're making us a laughing stock!"
"I'm running my business my way," Michael said, his voice turning to ice.
The warmth of his earlier victories was gone, replaced by a cold resolve.
"This isn't a business, it's a temper tantrum! Grow up, Michael! You're an eighteen-year-old kid playing with money you didn't even earn. You're going to fail, and you're going to drag our name through the mud when you do."
Michael was silent for a moment. The words stung, but they didn't penetrate.
They were echoes from a life he had already left behind.
That family, that name, it didn't feel like his anymore.
"I have to go, Ethan," he said calmly.
"Don't you hang up on me, Michael! I'm your brother! You need to fix this—"
Michael ended the call. He put the phone down on the table and stared at the blank TV screen.
His brother's anger, his father's disappointment… it all felt a million miles away.
They didn't see what he saw. They didn't have the numbers.
He went to bed, but not to sleep. He lay awake, his mind already on the green grass of the pitch. On the whistle. On the roar of the crowd.
The next morning, he woke up, put on his new club suit, and drove to the stadium.
It was match day. It was day one of his new world.