The 4-0 victory over Portsmouth—a top-of-the-table team—had been a statement.
But the way they had done it, without their star magician, Raphael, had been a declaration. They were not a one-man team.
Michael stood in the doorway, a silent, proud observer, as his team celebrated.
"I'm telling you, Danny," Jamie Weston was yelling, his face red with joy as he unlaced his boots,
"that rocket from 30 yards... I didn't even see the goal! I just... I just hit it! I think my boot's still smoking!"
Finn Riley, lying on his back on the floor, his arms spread wide, laughed, a rare, genuine sound.
"Yeah, we noticed, mate. You nearly took out a fan in Row Z. And my goal," he said, a smug grin spreading across his face, "that little... stop-and-wait move? The keeper looked like he was about to cry. Serves 'em right."
"He was crying?" Jamie said, his eyes wide.
"Nah, but he should have been," Finn shot back. "That was just rude."
