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 costu.
"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?"
Michael turned. A man he had only ever seen on television was standing there, holding two mugs of tea. Alan Shearer, the Premier League’s all-ti top scorer, a living legend, was looking at him with a curious, friendly smile.
"Mr. Shearer," Michael stamred, his professionalism evaporating, replaced by the 18-year-old fanboy underneath.
"Sir. It’s... it’s an honor."
"Ah, none of that, son, call Alan," Shearer said, handing him one of the mugs.
"Nervous?"
"Terrified," Michael admitted, his voice a squeak.
Shearer laughed, a deep, genuine sound. "Don’t be. It’s just pulling balls out of a bag. It’s the easiest job in football." He took a sip of his tea, his eyes sharp. "Tell , what on earth are you and Arthur feeding those kids of yours? I’ve been watching. My old club (Newcastle) is struggling to score one, and you’re knocking out Premier League teams for fun. What’s the secret?"
Michael looked at the legend, this icon of the "old way" of English football—all power, passion, and headers.
"Just... hunger, I guess," Michael said, relaxing, just a fraction.
"And a lot of data."
"Hunger and data," Shearer mused, a respectful glint in his eye. "I like it. Well, good luck out there, kid. Just... try not to drop the balls. The press will have a field day."
"Thirty seconds! Live!" the producer yelled.
The lights were blinding. The studio was a blaze of flashing screens and smooth, white surfaces. The host, a man with teeth so white they looked like they’d been Photoshopped, was beaming at the cara.
"Welco back to the live draw for the FA Cup Quarter-Finals! We have a packed studio, and a very special guest to conduct the draw.
The cara’s red light locked onto Michael. He felt his face freeze into a stiff, terrified, corporate smile.
"Michael, welco!" the host gushed.
"You must be living in a dream! You’ve beaten Wolves, you’ve beaten Northwood... you’re the story of the season!"
"It’s... it’s just an honor to be here," Michael said, his voice coming out flat, a robotic, pre-programd line. "We’re just... taking it one ga at a ti."
He sounded like an idiot. He saw Alan Shearer next to him, trying to hide a smile.
"Oh, co on, Michael!" the host laughed. "You just beat your father’s team 5-0! You’re not just ’taking it one ga at a ti’! The fans are calling you a revolutionary!"
Michael took a breath. He looked at the cara. He thought of his team, of Arthur in the hospital, of the sheer, beautiful madness of the last few months. And he decided, to hell with it.
"Okay, you’re right," he said, his stiff smile relaxing into his natural, wry, half-smirk. "To be honest, I’m just happy to be here. My manager is still recovering, my team is facing the hardest part of the season, and the FA invited ." He shrugged.
"I’m pretty sure I’m just the ’lucky charm.’ They just wanted to rub the mascot’s head for good luck before the draw."
The studio erupted. Alan Shearer let out a huge, appreciative laugh. The host was clapping,
"I love it! The ’Lucky Mascot’! Well, let’s hope you’re lucky for your own team!"
As Shearer and the host began to tell an old FA Cup story, Michael’s gaze drifted. To his left, a massive monitor was displaying the live social dia feed for the broadcast. The "live chat."
His eyes scanned the frantic, scrolling comnts.
Kev_BFC_1904: THAT’S MY OWNER! LOOK AT HIM! GO ON, MICHAEL!
Sarah_J_LFC: Wait, is that really him? He’s... 18? And he did that to Northwood? Respect. He’s actually kind of funny.
TrueBlue99: This kid’s a joke. Just a rich daddy’s boy. #Fluke #LuckyMascot
FootballDaily: I’m telling you, what he’s done with Barnsley is revolutionary. That ’Holy Trinity’ (Fletcher, Weston, Riley) is the real deal. He found them. He built that.
Mark_P_Utd: But can he win the LEAGUE? That’s the real test. FA Cup is just a distraction. #BarnsleyCollapse
BFC_Til_I_Die: WE ARE GOING UP! WE ARE WINNING THE LEAGUE! STERLING IS A GENIUS!
Analyst_Dave: People are laughing, but this kid’s "data" model is working.
He sold his [CA 67 / PA 71] winger and bought three [PA 90 ] kids.
It’s the smartest business in football.
Michael stared at the feed. The praise, the doubt, the one, burning question.
Can he win the league?
The "mascot" feeling evaporated, replaced by the cold, sharp, calculating ambition of the "Kid Genius." He wasn’t a charm. He was an architect.
"...alright, Michael! It’s ti!" the host said, snapping him back to reality.
"The velvet bag. The ho teams. Let’s see who you pull."
Michael’s hand, now steady, reached into the bag. He fumbled, grabbed a ball, and handed it to the host.
"Ball number 5!" the host announced.
"Barnsley! The ’Braves’ are out! Michael, you’ve drawn your own team!"
"Well," Michael said, his voice smooth and confident now, "I can’t be accused of rigging it, then."
"Alright, Alan!" the host said. "Over to you. The away teams. Who will Barnsley be facing...?"
Shearer, with a showman’s flourish, swirled the balls and pulled one out. He unscrewed it. He looked at the paper. He stopped. His eyes widened. And then, he just... smiled. A predatory, "good-luck-with-that" grin.
He showed it to the cara.
"Ball number 1..." the host’s voice was a squeak.
"Chelsea!"
The studio exploded in gasps.
"OH! MY! GOODNESS!" the host yelled. "THE GIANT-KILLERS HAVE DRAWN CHELSEA! AT STAMFORD BRIDGE! Michael Sterling... you do not do things the easy way, do you?"
Michael just looked at the cara. He thought of his father. He thought of his brother. He thought of the "Lucky Punk." He thought of his [PA 90 ] kids.
He just... laughed. A short, sharp, "of-course-I-did" laugh. "Just another day at the office," he said.
An hour later, Michael was in a black cab, speeding through the London rain back to the train station. The high of the draw, the thrill of the studio, was already fading.
The "Chelsea" draw was a distant, glorious, future problem.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. It wasn’t a text. It was a calendar alert. A cold, hard, dose of reality.
[FIXTURE REMINDER: Barnsley vs. Derby County (AWAY). 2 Days.]
The Chelsea draw was the "fun." The Derby match was the war.
His mind flashed to the league table. 1st:
Reading (88 pts). 2nd: Derby County (86 pts). 3rd: Barnsley (85 pts).
It was a six-pointer. A loss, and they’d be four points behind Derby, the promotion dream in tatters.
A win... a win would leapfrog them. A win would put them in the automatic promotion spots.
This was the real ’Ga of the Century.’ He had just been paraded as a "lucky mascot" in London... while the biggest, most important, season-defining match of their entire lives was 48 hours away.
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