Michael Sterling felt sick.
The "Kid Genius," the "Smartest Owner in Football," the "Revolutionary"... had just made the stupidest, most arrogant, most amateur mistake of his entire, short career.
He was standing in the tunnel at Oakwell, and for the first time, he was not enjoying the noise.
The stadium was a 25,000-seat sell-out, a roaring, bouncing, expectant sea of red and white.
Number one versus number two.
The "Barnsley Braves" versus the "Kings of the South," Portsmouth.
A match to decide who was the true king of the league.
And Michael, in his infinite wisdom, had sent his single most creative, game-breaking player—his [PA 93] magician—on a one-week, non-refundable, system-fueled "training camp."
He looked at his phone, his hand trembling with a mixture of rage and pure, uncut dread. Twitter was on fire.
"IT'S HERE! The Battle for the Top! Can Barnsley's 'Magic Trio' break down the Pompey defense?"
