Michael Sterling stood alone in the director's box, his hands flat on the cool glass window.
He was breathing heavily, as if he had been on the pitch himself. He looked down. His players were a single, joyous, screaming, bouncing red mass in front of the traveling Northwood fans... who were applauding them.
They had been beaten so thoroughly, so beautifully, that all the arrogance was gone, replaced by a simple, profound respect.
His team was celebrating. His Gaffer, Arthur, was being held aloft by two substitutes, his crutch raised in the air like a conquering staff.
But Michael... Michael was just watching.
He was watching the other director's box, across the pitch. His father, Richard Sterling, was still there. He hadn't stormed out for good. He had returned, and he had sat, alone, and watched. He had watched the fourth goal, the fifth goal.
He was just sitting there, his face ashen, his hands clasped on his lap.
