"Lads! Gaffer! Boss! Get the telly on! The Carabao Cup draw is starting!"
A cheerful, rowdy groan went up from the players. The canteen was a happy place these days, the old divisions forgotten, replaced by a shared sense of purpose.
"Come on, Stevie!" Captain Dave Bishop yelled from his table.
"We just finished a killer session, let us eat our pasta!"
"It's the cup, Cap! This is where the magic happens!" Steve replied, fumbling with the remote control until the big television on the wall flickered to life, showing the live feed from the draw.
The players, laughing and joking, gathered around.
Michael stood at the back, leaning against a wall, sipping a bottle of water. Arthur was beside him, a mug of coffee in his hand, observing his team with the quiet satisfaction of a master craftsman.
"Alright, lads, what are we hoping for?" Steve asked the room.
"Accrington Stanley at home!" shouted one of the midfielders, to a roar of approval.
"Nah, give us Harrogate Town!" another yelled.
"I want a hat-trick!"
The mood was light, full of the casual confidence of a team on the rise. They were hoping for an easy draw, a chance to rest some legs and give the younger players a run-out. Michael smiled to himself. He wouldn't mind a nice, simple home game.
On the screen, the two ex-pros in suits began the process, pulling numbered balls from the velvet bag.
"And the first team out," the host announced, "is... Barnsley."
A loud cheer erupted in the canteen. A home draw! It was the perfect start.
"Yes! Get in!"
"Come on, easy win!"
"Give us someone small!"
Michael felt a small thrill. A cup run, even a minor one, would be great for morale and even better for the club's finances. He glanced at Arthur, who simply took a calm sip of his coffee.
On the TV, the second pundit was swirling the balls in the other pot.
"And Barnsley's opponents will be..."
He reached in, pulled out a ball, and began to unscrew it. The room fell quiet, the players leaning in, their jokes momentarily forgotten.
The pundit unfolded the small piece of paper. He paused for dramatic effect, a wide grin on his face, knowing he held a bombshell.
"...Manchester United."
The words dropped into the room like a bomb.
For a full, agonizing three seconds, there was no sound. No one moved. No one breathed. The cheerful, rowdy canteen was plunged into a dead, suffocating silence. A spoon slipped from a player's nerveless fingers and clattered onto the floor, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
Michael looked around the room. His players, his confident, giant-killing team, were frozen.
Their faces were pale, their eyes wide with a mixture of terror and disbelief. Jamie Weston, who had just been laughing, now looked like he was about to be sick.
Finn Riley, the 'bad boy,' had lost all his swagger, his face a mask of shock. Danny Fletcher was just shaking his head, a look of profound, almost tragic realization on his face.
But Michael's main concern was the man standing next to him.
He turned his head. Arthur was still.
He was staring at the television screen, where the words MANCHESTER UNITED were now displayed in big, bold letters. He was completely frozen, a statue in a club tracksuit.
"Arthur?" Michael said, his voice quiet.
The manager didn't respond. He was staring at his coffee mug, which he was gripping with such terrifying intensity that his knuckles had turned bone white. The mug was visibly shaking.
Then, Arthur spoke, his voice a low, strangled mutter that Michael had never heard before. It was the sound of a man who had just seen a ghost.
"The Theatre of Dreams..." he whispered, his eyes wide with a kind of nostalgic horror. "Old Trafford... My god. They're going to eat us alive. They'll... they'll destroy us. The players aren't ready. This is ten years too soon."
The panic was radiating off him.
This was the first time Michael had ever seen his general, his unflappable rock, truly, deeply afraid. The fear in the room was contagious, and it was about to spiral out of control.
Michael knew he had to act. He put a firm, steadying hand on Arthur's shoulder, forcing the manager to look at him.
"No, Arthur," Michael said, his own voice sharp and clear, cutting through the dread. He felt a strange, cold thrill run up his spine.
The system, his ambition, his entire purpose... it was all converging on this one, impossible moment. "You're wrong. This is perfect."
Arthur stared at him, his eyes baffled.
"Perfect?" he hissed, his voice trembling. "Michael, that is a billion-pound squad of global superstars. We are a small team from League One with a few kids and a prayer. It's a public execution!"
"Exactly!" Michael said, a wild, almost feral grin spreading across his face. The fear in the room was being replaced by his own manic energy.
"It's a public execution, live on television, with the entire world watching. Every sports channel, every journalist, every 'big club' scout who ever ignored us will be tuned in."
He gripped Arthur's shoulder tighter. "This isn't a match, Arthur. It's a stage. It's the biggest, fastest, most high-profile way to put our philosophy, the 'Barnsley way,' on the global map. We don't just have to beat them. We just have to show the world that we can."
He could see the spark returning to Arthur's eyes, the panic being slowly replaced by the dawning of a truly insane tactical challenge.
Just as the buzz of shocked conversation began to fill the canteen again, Michael's phone vibrated in his pocket. He looked down. It was an international number. New York.
His heart turned to ice. He knew who it was.
He stepped out of the canteen into the empty corridor, the stunned voices of his players fading behind him. He hit 'accept.'
"Ethan."
"Did you see it? Did you see the draw?" The voice that came down the line was not a greeting. It was a sneer, a sharp, joyous, venomous sound. His brother, Ethan, sounded happier than Michael had ever heard him.
"I saw it," Michael said calmly, his free hand clenching into a fist at his side.
"I hope they crush you," Ethan spat, the words dripping with bile.
"I hope they beat you 10-0, live on international television. I hope you are humiliated, you arrogant little brat. I hope you are ruined in front of the entire world! You deserve it for what you did to Dad!"
He was practically screaming now, a torrent of pent-up fury.
"Dad is definitely watching. We all will be. We'll be front row for your execution."
Michael stood in the quiet corridor, the receiver cold against his ear.
His brother's words were meant to break him, to fill him with the same fear that was paralyzing his team. But they did the exact opposite.
He felt no anger. No sadness. Just a cold, sharp, clarifying focus. This was no longer just a cup match.
He didn't say goodbye. He just hung up.
He put the phone back in his pocket and looked at his reflection in the glass of a fire-alarm panel. His eyes were cold and hard. He turned and walked back into the canteen, where his terrified, shell-shocked team was looking to their leaders for an answer.
"Right," Michael said, his voice booming with a confidence that defied all logic, making every player snap to attention. "Gaffer. We've got work to do."