Michael Sterling stood on the balcony of his office, wrapped in a thick coat, watching the morning session.
Down below, the fog was swirling around the players, making them look like ghosts in red bibs.
"He is fast, Boss," Arthur Milton said, standing next to him with a steaming mug of Bovril. "He is very, very fast."
They were watching Isaiah King.
The new signing from London had only been at the club for three days, but he had already changed the energy of the training ground.
He sprinted. He did step overs. He did nutmegs. He played like he was on a concrete cage in South London, not a muddy field in Barnsley.
On the pitch, Isaiah received the ball. Shaun Higgins, The Butcher, was marking him.
Usually, young players were terrified of Higgins. They passed the ball away immediately to avoid being crushed.
Isaiah did not pass. He stopped. He put his foot on the ball. He looked at Higgins, who was twice his size.
Isaiah smirked.
