Michael stood in the corner, his heart hammering, watching his team. They weren't broken, like they had been at Old Trafford. They were angry.
"He shoved me! He just shoved me, flat out!" Tom Harrison was saying, his face red with injustice, as a physio checked his shoulder where he'd hit the turf. "The ref was right there!"
"Of course he was, son," Captain Dave Bishop grunted, toweling sweat from his face. "This is what they do. They bully you, and the refs let 'em. It's how they stay top."
The frustration was thick in the air. They had been the better team. They had executed the "Shadow" plan to perfection, and one moment of brute, illegal force had undone it all.
The door opened. Arthur Milton click-clacked his way into the center of the room, leaning heavily on his crutch. He was not angry. He was not frustrated. He was, to Michael's complete and utter astonishment, calm.
"The plan worked," he said, his voice quiet, but cutting through the noise.
The players stared at him.
