The "Honorable Defeat" at Old Trafford had done something magical to the club.
When Michael arrived at the training ground the next day, the entire atmosphere had changed.
The "Lucky Punk" headline and his father's cold text message didn't matter. What mattered was the vibe.
It was electric.
The players, who had just been through a physical and emotional wringer, were training with an intensity Michael had never seen.
There was no post-defeat hangover, no moping. There was just a sharp, focused energy. They had tasted what it was like to play on the big stage, and they were desperate for more.
Even Finn Riley, the wild fox, was tracking back in drills.
Even Jamie Weston, the new hero, was practicing his defensive positioning.
Arthur's philosophy, baptized in the fire of Old Trafford, had been forged into an unbreakable belief.
Into this cauldron of new, hardened professionalism, walked Raphael Santos.
