Michael Sterling sat in his office at the Sterling Era Training Complex. His desk was covered in tabloids. The headlines screamed in big bold letters.
THE CLOWN CAR CRASHES.
MISFITS? MORE LIKE MISS-HITS.
THE END OF THE PURPLE DREAM.
STERLING SILVER? NO, JUST RUST.
Arthur Milton was sitting on the floor. He was surrounded by empty wrappers of chocolate bars. He looked like a man who had given up on life and decided to live in a confectionery shop.
"Do not read them Boss," Arthur whispered. "They are toxic. One paper said our defense has more holes than a sieve. Another said Diego Nunez turns like a cruise ship in a swimming pool."
"They smell blood Arthur," Michael said calmly. "We lost two games. We conceded eight goals. To them we are frauds. They were waiting for this. They hate that we disrupted their party."
He pushed the papers away.
"Where is the team?"
