Match day.
Oakwell was a different beast today, a creature Michael had never seen before.
Every single fan who walked through the turnstiles was a soldier in their army.
Michael stood in the home dressing room, his heart a frantic, pounding drum. He looked at his players. They were vibrating. The usual pre-match music was off.
There was no laughing, no casual jokes. There was just a low, humming, unified anger.
They had all seen it. They had all read the papers. They had all watched Richard Sterling, Michael's father, sit in his gilded press room and call them a "hobby."
A "pretty, exciting toy."
Finn Riley, the "Wild Fox," was not being chaotic.
He was sitting on the bench, methodically, silently, taping his wrists, his eyes a cold, hard, green.
