Arthur Milton stared at Michael, his face a perfect mask of utter disbelief.
The silence in David Wallace's recently vacated office was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. For a moment, Michael thought he might have pushed the brilliant, unflappable man too far.
"Of all the reckless, insane, preposterous things you have done in the last forty-eight hours," Arthur said finally, his voice a low, strangled whisper, "this is, without a doubt, the most certifiably bonkers."
"Is that a no?" Michael asked, a faint smile playing on his lips.
He had the numbers. He had the certainty.
All he needed was for Arthur to see what he saw.
"A no? Of course it's a no!" Arthur exploded, his composure finally shattering.
He began to pace the small office like a caged tiger.
"Michael, I am a Chief Executive Officer! I operate in boardrooms and back channels. I negotiate contracts! I analyze spreadsheets! I haven't worn a tracksuit in twenty years! I don't give rousing half-time talks; I write scathing performance reviews!"
"The game has changed, Arthur," Michael said, his voice remaining calm, a steady rock against Arthur's storm. "It's not about rousing talks anymore. It's about strategy. It's about data. It's about finding the small advantages that no one else can see. It's a numbers game, and you are the best numbers man I've ever met."
"That doesn't make me a football manager!" Arthur shot back, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up for the first time since Michael had known him.
"Doesn't it?" Michael pressed, standing up to meet him eye-to-eye.
"Who was it that designed Northwood's scouting system to identify undervalued talent in the Scandinavian leagues? Who was it that argued with my father for three years to invest in a proper analytics department? Who sees the game three moves ahead from the director's box while everyone else is just watching the ball? You, Arthur. It's always been you."
He took a step closer, his voice dropping slightly, filled with conviction. "My father had a tactical genius working for him, and he used him to balance the books. He wasted you. I'm not going to make the same mistake. I didn't buy this club to be safe. I didn't sell everything I own to finish mid-table. I did it to build an empire. And I need a general to lead my army, not an accountant to count the swords."
Arthur stopped pacing. He stared at Michael, his chest rising and falling.
The anger in his eyes was slowly being replaced by something else, something Michael recognized because he felt it too: a dormant, long-suppressed ambition.
A fire being stoked back to life.
"I'm not a manager," Arthur said again, but this time it was quieter, less certain. It sounded less like a statement of fact and more like an admission of fear.
"You are now," Michael said simply.
"Or you can walk away. But I think we both know you won't. Because you see it too, don't you? The potential. Not just in the players, but in this. In us."
For a long minute, Arthur was silent. He looked past Michael, out the window at the pristine green pitch waiting below.
Michael could almost see the gears turning in his brilliant mind, the initial shock giving way to calculation, the calculation giving way to a thrilling, terrifying possibility.
The anger had vanished, replaced by a glint in his eye that Michael hadn't seen before.
It was the look of a man staring at the greatest challenge of his life and loving every second of it.
A slow, wry smile spread across Arthur's face. "Good heavens," he breathed, a hint of laughter in his voice.
"You're serious. You really are going to burn the whole thing down and build it again from the ashes." He straightened his jacket and looked at Michael, his eyes now shining with a newfound energy.
"Alright, Mr. Sterling," he said, the title now carrying a new weight of partnership.
"Let's go and inspect our new kingdom."
The tension in the room evaporated instantly, replaced by a giddy, infectious excitement.
They walked out of the manager's office—Arthur's office—and down the corridor, the sense of purpose radiating from them.
They didn't talk; they just walked, side-by-side, the owner and his new gaffer.
They stepped out of the tunnel and onto the edge of the pitch. The afternoon sun was warm, and the smell of the grass was rich and invigorating. The empty red seats of Oakwell Stadium rose around them like a sleeping coliseum.
It was quiet, but Michael could almost hear the roar of the crowd, the thud of the ball, the shrill blast of a whistle.
"It looks different from down here," Arthur said, his voice filled with a quiet awe.
"It's where you belong," Michael replied.
They spent the next hour touring their new domain.
They walked through the dressing rooms, which were clean but dated. They inspected the gym, which had equipment that looked ten years old. They visited the staff offices, a rabbit warren of small rooms filled with hardworking people who all looked up with a mixture of fear and curiosity as the new owner and his mysterious right-hand man walked past.
In the coaches' room, they found what was left of David Wallace's backroom staff.
A friendly, stout man with a kind face and thinning hair stepped forward.
"Mr. Sterling? I'm Steve, the assistant manager."
Michael shook his hand, his eyes instantly seeing the numbers.
[Steve (Coach): CA 55 / PA 60]
Loyal, reliable, knew the club inside and out, but had reached his peak. A good soldier.
Another, younger man with a laptop under his arm and a keen, intelligent expression introduced himself next. "Mark. Head of Performance Analysis."
[Mark (Analyst): CA 62 / PA 75].
A promising talent. Someone they could build with.
"A pleasure to meet you both," Michael said warmly.
"There are going to be some changes, as you know. The first is that Mr. Wallace will be leaving us."
A somber mood fell over the room. Steve looked genuinely heartbroken.
"The second change," Michael continued, gesturing to Arthur, "is that I'd like to introduce you to your new manager, Arthur Milton."
If Steve and Mark had been shocked before, they were utterly dumbfounded now. They stared at the impeccably dressed, silver-haired man who looked more like he belonged in a bank than a dugout.
Arthur, to his credit, took control instantly.
The CEO was gone, and the manager had arrived. "Gentlemen," he said, his voice calm and authoritative.
"I know this is sudden. I know you have questions. All I ask for is your trust and your hard work. We have a mountain to climb, and we start today."
He spoke with them for a few minutes, his natural intelligence allowing him to connect with both the old-school heart of Steve and the new-school data of Mark.
Michael watched, a grin on his face. He'd made the right call. The numbers didn't lie.
"So, what's the immediate schedule?" Arthur asked Steve.
"When are the players in?"
Steve, still looking a little dazed, blinked.
"Uh, tomorrow, gaffer. Eight a.m. sharp. First training session of the pre-season." He then glanced nervously at a calendar on the wall. "And we have to be ready. The day after tomorrow is the first match of the Tyke Shield pre-season tournament."
Michael and Arthur exchanged a look. The friendly competition. They had completely forgotten.
"So let me get this straight," Arthur said, a dangerous glint in his eye. "We have one training session to prepare this team for our first match?"
Steve nodded grimly. "That's right, gaffer. One day."
Arthur let out a short, sharp laugh. It wasn't a sound of despair. It was the sound of a man who had just been handed an impossible challenge and couldn't be more thrilled.
"Excellent," he said, rubbing his hands together. "No time to waste, then."