The mood at the training ground the next morning was... weird.
Michael arrived early, taking his now-familiar spot in the glass-walled office overlooking the dressing room entrance.
He watched the players trickle in, and the boisterous symphony of the previous day's victory was gone. It had been replaced by a muted, polite hum.
The invisible wall Michael had read about in the newspaper was very, very real.
On one side of the room, the younger players were gathered.
Jamie Weston was surrounded by a small group, all of them buzzing, re-living his thunderbolt of a goal. Danny Fletcher was quietly stretching, but he was part of their orbit, the gravitational center of this new, youthful energy.
On the other side of the room, the veterans—the "Old Guard"—kept to themselves.
Captain Dave Bishop was methodically taping his ankles, his expression grim and focused.
The other senior players were talking in low, serious tones. They weren't hostile. They weren't unfriendly. They were just… separate. Professional, but distant. It was the quiet, polite tension of an office where everyone knows redundancies are coming.
Michael's heart sank. He could see the numbers above their heads.
Bishop [CA 68 / PA 69], the other veterans with similarly maxed-out potential.
They were the solid, dependable spine of his team, and they felt like they were being replaced.
All the money, all the secret knowledge in the world, was useless if his team was broken from the inside.
Just then, Arthur walked into the corridor, holding a clipboard. He paused, looking through the glass at the divided room, and his eyes narrowed. He had seen it too. He was the manager, and his team was fracturing before his eyes. He caught Michael's gaze and gave a single, almost imperceptible nod that said, 'I've got this.'
Instead of letting the players head out to the pitch for their usual warm-up, Arthur blew a sharp blast on his whistle, the sound cutting through the quiet chatter.
"Everyone," he called out, his voice sharp and authoritative.
"Video analysis room. Now."
A low grumble went through the squad. Video analysis was usually for dissecting defeats, not for celebrating victories.
The players filed out of the dressing room and into the small, dark theater, the atmosphere thick with apprehension. The veterans looked resigned, as if they were about to be shown all the ways they were now too slow, too old.
Jamie and the younger players looked nervous, as if their moment of glory was about to be picked apart for its flaws.
Michael followed them in, standing at the back, a silent observer.
Arthur stood at the front, next to Mark the analyst. He didn't say a word as the players took their seats. He just waited until the room was completely silent.
"Yesterday," he began, his voice calm and even, "we won. It was a good result, a result we earned in the second half. The newspapers this morning are full of praise for our two goal-scorers."
He nodded towards Jamie and Danny, who both shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
"And they deserve it. It took a moment of raw power and a moment of pure genius to win us that game."
He paused, letting his words hang in the air. "But the newspapers are lazy. They only tell the easy story. They don't tell the real story. The real story… is much more interesting."
He nodded to Mark. "Roll the first clip. Jamie's goal."
The big screen flickered to life. Everyone watched the now-famous sequence: Danny's incredible pass, Jamie's lightning run, and the thunderous finish. A few of the younger players smiled, reliving the moment.
"Beautiful," Arthur said when it was done. "A thing of beauty. Now, Mark, rewind it. Go back ten seconds before Danny even gets the ball."
Mark rewound the footage. The screen now showed a much more boring scene: the ball was deep in their own half, at the feet of the captain, Dave Bishop. A Rotherham attacker was charging him down.
"Right here," Arthur said, his voice sharp. "Stop."
He walked to the screen and pointed.
"Look. Dave is under pressure. The easy option, the safe option, is to pass it sideways to the fullback. 99% of players in that situation play the safe pass. But what does Dave do?"
He let the clip play. Bishop, with the calm that comes from playing 500 professional games, ignored the easy pass. He took an extra touch, drew the attacker in, and then played a firm, crisp pass forward into the feet of their central midfielder, Tommo.
"That," Arthur said, pointing emphatically at the screen, "is the most important pass of the entire sequence. That is not a pass of instinct; it is a pass of experience. A young player panics there. Dave doesn't. He has the courage and the composure to break the first line of their press. Without that pass, the goal doesn't exist."
Michael saw Dave Bishop, who had been slouched in his chair, sit up a little straighter.
"Now, look at Tommo," Arthur continued, as the clip played on.
"He receives the ball, and he immediately turns and plays a first-time pass forward to Danny. He doesn't take a safe touch. He doesn't hesitate. That takes bravery. That takes awareness. Without his vision, Danny never gets the chance to play his magic pass."
Arthur turned to face the room. "Danny's pass doesn't happen without Tommo's courage. Tommo's pass doesn't happen without Dave's calm. This goal," he said, his voice ringing with conviction, "wasn't scored by two players. It was scored by the whole team."
He let the message sink in before nodding to Mark.
"Next clip. Danny's goal."
The screen showed Danny's moment of genius: the sublime turn, the calm finish.
"Again, pure class," Arthur said. "But rewind it. Show me the off-the-ball movement."
The clip replayed, but this time Mark highlighted two other players with digital circles.
One was their veteran left-back, making a lung-busting, overlapping run that he had no chance of receiving the ball on. The other was another senior midfielder, making a diagonal run away from Danny.
"Look," Arthur explained, pointing to the screen.
"Their right-back is worried about our left-back's run, so he can't come in to help his center-back. Their defensive midfielder has to follow our midfielder's run, which means he can't drop in to cover the space in front of the defense. They are making thankless, selfless runs that they know are for someone else. They are creating the space for Danny to operate in."
He turned back to the squad, a fierce, proud look in his eyes.
"Danny is the genius who picked the lock," he declared.
"But you guys," he looked directly at the senior players, "built the ladder that got him to the door. This," he gestured to the screen, "is what I mean by being the smartest team. It's not just about the wonder goals. It's about the invisible work. The experience. The chemistry."
The atmosphere in the room had completely transformed.
When the lights came on, Dave Bishop stood up. He walked over to where Jamie Weston was sitting.
"That was a hell of a hit, kid," the captain said, a genuine smile on his face. He offered a hand. "Welcome to the team."
Jamie, his eyes shining, shook it firmly.
"Thanks, Cap. Couldn't have done it without your pass."
Michael leaned against the back wall, a huge, private smile on his face. He had his system. He had the numbers. He could see the potential in every player. But what Arthur had just shown him was something his system could never measure.
He could see the CA and the PA. But Arthur, with his tactical brain and his human heart, could build the invisible chemistry that turned a group of individuals into a team. And that, Michael realized, was a power all its own.