The players sat, their heads in their hands, the 2-0 deficit an unscalable mountain.
Steve, the interim manager, was standing frozen, his grand, system-buffed tactical plan having just been vaporized by a single, terrifying reality check.
He was holding his phone in his shaking hand, the device suddenly feeling like a holy relic.
"G... Gaffer?" Steve whispered, his voice a disbelieving, terrified squeak. "Is... is that you?"
Michael's heart was pounding.
He was halfway across the room, his own phone in his hand, his screen showing Steve - Call in Progress...
He had been trying to call his interim manager, to give him... some kind of desperate, hopeless pep talk.
He hit the speakerphone button on his own device.
"Steve! It's Michael! What's going on?"
"Boss!" Steve's voice was a frantic yelp. "It's... it's the Gaffer! He's on the line!"
Michael's blood ran cold.
"What? Put him on speaker. Both of us. Now!"
