This was not Oakwell.
Michael Sterling stood in a room that looked less like a press-conference room and more like the command center of a spaceship.
It was at Stamford Bridge, the home of Chelsea FC.
The walls were a sleek, corporate blue, the lighting was a soft, expensive white, and the room was packed with international media. The cameras weren't just "press"; they were broadcast quality.
This was the FA Cup Quarter-Final. This was the big time.
Michael sat at the podium, a bottle of sparkling, ridiculously expensive Italian water in front of him. He felt like he was in a movie. Next to him, leaning on his cane, Arthur Milton looked utterly, beautifully, bored.
"Gentlemen, we'll start with questions for the away team," the press officer said.
A dozen hands shot up. A sharp-dressed reporter from a major network got the nod.
