[Danny Fletcher (Striker): CA 62 / PA 91]
Ninety-one.
It was higher than Jamie's.
It was a number that signified a world-beater, a future international superstar.
And he was here, in a League One dressing room.
Michael felt like he had just scratched a lottery ticket and found he'd won the jackpot twice.
"Who is that?" Michael breathed, his voice barely a whisper.
Arthur looked over, a fond, knowing smile on his face.
"That," he said, "is the prince. His name is Danny Fletcher. His father, Mark Fletcher, is a club legend. Scored over a hundred goals for Barnsley in the nineties. Danny's been in our academy since he was eight years old. He's the one thing every fan of this club agrees on. He's the future."
The son of the club. Of course.
He had the pedigree, the local connection, the weight of expectation on his young shoulders.
And he had the talent to back it up.
A talent that no one, not even Arthur, truly understood the scale of.
They saw a great prospect. Michael, and only Michael, saw a future global icon.
The pieces were all there.
He had his brilliant general in Arthur.
He had his army of solid, dependable soldiers.
And now, hidden within the ranks, he had his two future kings.
One, a diamond he'd plucked from the rough.
The other, the crown prince who had been here all along, waiting for someone to build a kingdom around him.
Arthur stood up, clapping his hands together.
"Right then," he said, his voice now full of a manager's authority. "Let's go and meet the team."
Michael stood with him, his heart hammering with a feeling more powerful than anything he'd ever known.
It wasn't just business anymore. It wasn't just about proving his father wrong.
.....
Michael and Arthur stepped out of the glass-walled office and into the charged atmosphere of the first-team dressing room.
The low, buzzing murmur of conversation died instantly.
Thirty pairs of eyes—curious, skeptical, hostile—snapped towards them.
Michael felt a familiar surge of adrenaline, but this time, he was a spectator.
This was Arthur's stage.
He took a position against the wall, folding his arms and adopting an expression of quiet observation. He was the owner, the power behind the throne, but in this room, at this moment, the manager was the king.
Arthur walked to the center of the room, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence.
He didn't have the rugged, intimidating presence of David Wallace.
He didn't command respect through sheer volume or a storied playing career. He stood there in his fresh club tracksuit, calm and composed, looking every player in the eye, one by one.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he began, his voice not loud, but clear and crisp, cutting through the tension. "Let's not pretend this isn't an awkward situation. You arrived this morning expecting to see a familiar face, a man you respect, and instead you see me. David Wallace is a club legend, and his service to Barnsley will not be forgotten."
He let that sink in, a gesture of respect that immediately disarmed some of the hostility in the room. Michael saw the captain, Dave Bishop, give a slow, almost imperceptible nod. A small victory.
"But football," Arthur continued, his tone hardening slightly, "does not stand still. It evolves. And frankly, this club has been in danger of being left behind. The old ways, the reliance on passion and history, are not enough anymore. They are the foundation, but they are not the whole house."
He began to move, not pacing like a nervous man, but walking slowly around the room, making eye contact with different groups of players.
"So, what is the new way? I'm not going to stand here and promise you a promotion or a cup run. Promises are cheap. I am going to promise you a process. A smarter process. From this day forward, we will not aim to be the hardest-working team in this league; that should be a given. We will aim to be the smartest team in this league."