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.
