The English summer usually promised two things: rain and disappointment.
But this August, the sky over Barnsley was a terrifying, brilliant, cloudless blue.
Michael Sterling sat in his Audi, his hands gripping the steering wheel, but the car wasn't moving. It couldn't move.
Outside his tinted windows, the world had turned red.
"This… is insane," Michael whispered, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
A month ago, they had buried Steve Sterling. A month ago, the town had mourned. But grief, Michael had learned, was a strange fuel. It burned hot, and then it turned into something else.
It turned into belief.
Twenty-five thousand people were in the streets.
A sea of red shirts, red scarves, and red smoke bombs clogged the roads leading to Oakwell.
The "Fortress" was no longer a cute nickname for a League One stadium. It was a destination.
Michael rolled down his window. Immediately, the sound hit him like a physical wave.
"STER-LING! STER-LING! HE'S ONE OF OUR OWN!"
