Michael stood in the doorway, his heart still hammering a furious rhythm against his ribs from the injustice he'd just witnessed.
The scene inside was pure chaos. Players were fuming. One of the reserve defenders, not even in the squad, kicked a medical crate, sending bandages and tape flying across the room.
"He was five yards onside!" he roared, a sentiment echoed by everyone.
Then, Arthur Milton walked in.
The room fell silent, the rage simmering down, replaced by an anxious, expectant hush.
The players looked at their gaffer, their faces a mask of frustration and anger, desperate for leadership. They expected him to be just as furious as they were.
Arthur was not furious. He was ice-cold.
He walked calmly to the small, greasy tactics board, picked up a marker, and stood there for a second, his back to the room.
When he turned, his eyes were not angry. They were sharp, analytical, and almost amused.
