Michael hated suits.
He stood in the bright, sterile, aggressively modern green room of a London television studio, and he felt like a fraud.
The suit was a dark, perfectly tailored charcoal wool—a necessary purchase for his new "owner" status.. but it felt stiff, like a costume.
"Mr. Sterling?" a young, frantic producer with a headset whispered, "We'll be live in five. You'll be on the left, Mr. Shearer on the right. Just follow the host's lead. And... just... have fun!"
Have fun. Michael just nodded, his stomach a tight, acidic knot. He wasn't here to "have fun."
He was here because the league, and the TV network, loved the "story." The 18-year-old kid who beat his dad 5-0. He was a gimmick. A circus clown, just as he'd feared.
"You're the Barnsley kid, aren't you? Michael?"
