The next morning, the rain had stopped, but a thick fog had rolled in over Yorkshire. It covered the training pitches in a blanket of white, making the goalposts look like ghostly skeletons.
Michael Sterling stood at the window of his office, holding a mug of tea. He was tired. Negotiating with three different continents in one day was exhausting. But he was also buzzing.
The deals were agreed in principle. Now came the boring part. The paperwork.
The door to his office burst open. There was no knock. There was never a knock when Arthur Milton was involved.
The old scout marched in. He looked dishevelled. His coat was rumpled, and there was a smear of ketchup on his collar, likely a souvenir from the Nando's meeting in London.
Behind him walked a boy.
Isaiah King.
