CHAPTER 37: MAGICIAN IN THE DEN [1]

The away dressing room at The Den, Millwall’s famously hostile stadium, was not a dressing room. It was a concrete box, painted a sickly, pale green color that seemed specifically chosen to make people angry and nauseous.

It was cramped, it was damp, and you could already hear the roar of the home crowd through the thin walls, a low, animalistic sound that seemed to vibrate in your teeth.

Michael stood in the corner, trying to make himself small.

The vibe in here was the polar opposite of the triumphant bus ride home from Old Trafford.

His "Barnsley Braves" looked less like braves and more like a group of very young, very nervous kids about to be fed to lions.

And all their nervous, worried glances were being directed at one person.

Raphael Santos.

The kid looked even smaller and thinner than usual, his [CA 48] body practically swimming in the official Barnsley red kit.

He sat on the bench, his feet not quite touching the floor, nervously taping his wrists, his eyes wide and darting around the room. He looked, Michael thought with a twist of dread, like a single, terrified, brightly-colored piece of candy about to be thrown into a shark tank.

The players were worried. Dave Bishop, the captain, kept shooting concerned, almost paternal, glances at the kid.

Even Finn Riley, the wild fox, had a look of genuine concern, as if he was about to tell a small child not to play in traffic.

They were a team, and they were collectively terrified for their new, fragile teammate. They knew what Millwall was. "Millwall The Butchers," the papers called them.

A team of giants whose entire philosophy was to physically intimidate, mentally break, and, if necessary, simply kick their opponents off the pitch.

And Arthur, in his infinite, mad wisdom, was starting a 17-year-old Brazilian ghost against them.

The door shut with a grim finality. Arthur Milton walked into the center of the room. The low, anxious chatter stopped.

"Right," Arthur began, his voice calm, but with an edge of steel Michael hadn’t heard before. "Let’s talk about what’s happening out there."

He pointed a thumb towards the door, towards the roar.

"Right now, in that dressing room, our opponents are not talking about tactics. They’re talking about us. They’re reading the papers. They’re looking at you, and they are seeing ’kids.’ They’re reading about our ’honorable defeat’ at Old Trafford, and they’re thinking, ’Fluke.’ ’Lucky.’"

He walked around the room, his gaze landing on each player. "They think you’re a circus act. They think you’re a flash in the pan. They think that if they hit you hard, just once, you’ll shatter. They think they’re gonna bully us. They think they’re gonna break us."

He let the ugly words hang in the air, charging the atmosphere.

"They’re going to come out in that first ten minutes and try to prove it. They’re going to hit us with everything they have. They want to see us crumble."

He stopped, his walk taking him to the end of the bench, right in front of the smallest player in the room. He stopped and looked down at Raphael.

The kid looked up, his big brown eyes full of pure, unadulterated terror.

Arthur put a hand on Raphael’s small, bony shoulder. The entire room held its breath.

"And they think," Arthur said, his voice dropping to a low, personal, almost gentle tone, "that they’re gonna break this kid in particular. They see a 17-year-old, a hundred pounds, from halfway across the world. They think he’s the weak link. They think he’s the one they can snap."

He squeezed Raphael’s shoulder, a look of fierce, protective pride in his eyes. "But they don’t know what we know, do they? They don’t know what I’ve seen in training."

He looked at Raphael. "Strength isn’t always about muscle, son. They are going to come for you. They are going to try and kick you. Don’t fight them. You’re not a brawler."

"You’re a magician."

He gave the kid a small, confident shake. "Go out there... and show ’em how the magician dances."

A shiver went through Michael. It was a line from a movie, a line from a legend. It was perfect. A small, shaky, but determined smile appeared on Raphael’s face for the first time. "Okay, Gaffer. I dance."

The tunnel was a nightmare. It was narrow, dark, and the noise from the stadium above was a deafening, physical wave of sound. The Barnsley players, his young ’Braves,’ were trying to look focused, but they were rattled.

And then, the Millwall players filed in next to them.

It was almost comical. They were huge. Hulking, bearded, tattooed men who looked like they’d just come from a Viking longship. Their faces were set in permanent, angry scowls. And as one, their gazes, their glares, their daggers, all landed on the 5’5" Brazilian kid at the end of the line.

They were leering at him. Their captain, a man with a broken nose and a neck as thick as a tree trunk, openly pointed at Raphael and said something to his teammate, who barked out a cruel, sharp laugh.

Raphael looked terrified. He was visibly trembling. But Michael, watching from the tunnel entrance, saw him close his eyes, his lips moving, muttering to himself in a rapid, desperate stream of Portuguese. He was praying, or... he was casting a spell.

The referee’s whistle shrieked. It was time.

Michael sprinted up the stairs to the director’s box, his heart in his throat. He sat down just as the teams were lining up. The Den was a cauldron of pure, distilled hatred. The noise was violent.

The referee blew his whistle. The match kicked off.

Millwall’s captain, a man the fans called "The Butcher" Harris, charged forward.

The Barnsley kick-off, a short, simple pass, went from Danny Fletcher... straight to Raphael Santos.

It was a planned move. Arthur was throwing down the gauntlet.

He was putting his priceless, fragile diamond on display from the first second.

Raphael received the ball just inside his own half. And, as if shot from a cannon, "The Butcher" Harris was on him.

This wasn’t a tackle. Michael saw it in slow motion—a 220-pound freight train, his studs raised, his face contorted in a snarl, coming in with the clear, malicious, career-ending intention of splitting the 17-year-old in two.

"NO!" Michael screamed, halfway out of his seat.

He gripped the armrest of his seat so hard his knuckles turned a bloodless, stark white...