The problem with having an assistant like Arthur Milton wasn't his addiction to jelly babies or his tendency to faint when VAR checked a goal. The problem was that Arthur Milton had the hearing of a bat and the deductive reasoning of a panicked squirrel.
It was Wednesday afternoon. The War Room was quiet. The rain was lashing against the windows of the Barnsley training complex, turning the pristine pitches into a muddy soup.
Michael Sterling sat in his leather chair, feet up on the desk. He was on the phone with his mother.
"I know, Mum," Michael sighed, rubbing his temples. "But it's costing me a fortune. It's making weird noises. I think the engine is gone."
He was talking about his car. An old, battered Toyota Yaris he had affectionately named 'The Beast' during his League One days. Despite being a multi-millionaire manager now, he hadn't had the heart to scrap it.
