A few of the players exchanged confused glances.
This was not the fire-and-brimstone speech they were used to.
"We will not outspend our opponents," Arthur declared, his voice rising with conviction.
"So, we must outthink them. We will be more prepared, more organized, and more tactically flexible than any team you have ever played for. Every pass will have a purpose. Every run will have a reason. Your brain, gentlemen, will be the most important muscle you use this season. If you are not willing to learn, to adapt, and to think, then you will not play. It is that simple."
He stopped in the center of the room again, his gaze sweeping over every single face.
"I know what some of you are thinking," he said, his voice dropping to a more personal level.
"You're looking at me, a man in a tracksuit who looks more comfortable in a boardroom, and you are skeptical. I don't blame you. So don't trust my words. Trust my work. Judge me on the training pitch. Judge me on our preparation. Judge me on whether I make you a better football player."
He clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and final.
"The talking is done. The work starts now. Get your boots on. We're on the pitch in five."
With that, he turned and strode out of the dressing room, leaving a stunned silence in his wake. Michael watched the players.
The hostility was gone, replaced by a mixture of shock, intrigue, and a grudging respect.
Arthur hadn't tried to be their friend or their hero.
He had challenged them, intellectually and professionally. He had treated them like intelligent adults, and it had worked.
Before the players could fully process what had just happened, Michael stepped forward.
"One last piece of business, gentlemen," he said, his own voice now carrying the weight of ownership.
All eyes turned to him.
"This is Jamie Weston," he said, gesturing to the terrified-looking young man hovering by the door. "He's a local lad, and he's just signed his first contract with the club. He'll be joining you for training today. Make him feel welcome."
A few polite, if unenthusiastic, nods went Jamie's way.
Danny Fletcher, the club's golden boy, offered him a small, friendly smile, which seemed to put Jamie slightly at ease.
Arthur reappeared at the door, a contract and a pen in hand.
He gestured for Jamie to come to a small desk in the corner.
"Right-winger, you said?" Arthur murmured to Michael as Jamie nervously approached the desk.
"That's where he played last night," Michael confirmed.
"Let's see what he can do."
The signing was quick and unceremonious.
It was a simple youth contract, tying him to the club for a year, with the lowest professional wage the league allows.
For the club, it was a zero-risk gamble. For Jamie Weston, it was the entire world.
He signed his name with a hand that trembled slightly, the look of dazed gratitude on his face a powerful reminder of what this game meant to people.
Five minutes later, the squad was out on the training pitch, the green grass glowing under the morning sun.
The session that followed was unlike anything the players had ever experienced.
There was no long, boring jog around the pitch. No mindless fitness drills.
From the very first whistle, the balls were out.
The drills were sharp, intense, and tactical. Possession games were played in tight, suffocating spaces that demanded quick thinking and perfect technique.
Arthur wasn't a shouter. He was a teacher. He would stop the drill, walk a player through a specific movement, explain the geometric angles of a passing lane, and then restart.
Michael watched from the sideline, utterly captivated.
He saw the numbers of his players, and he saw Arthur's plan. He was targeting their weaknesses, forcing them to use their brains, rewiring their instincts.
And his two secret weapons? They were shining.
Danny Fletcher [CA 62 / PA 91] was a natural. His movement was fluid, his first touch was immaculate, and his football intelligence was obvious.
He understood Arthur's complex instructions instantly, executing them with an effortless grace that made him stand out.
Jamie Weston was different. His touch was sometimes clumsy, his positioning was often naive.
But then, he would do something utterly magical.
A sudden burst of acceleration that left a defender for dead.
A no-look pass that no one saw coming. A vicious strike with his left foot that nearly broke the net. He was a wild horse, full of untamed, breathtaking power.
The session ended two hours later.
The players trudged off the pitch, drenched in sweat, their legs heavy, but their minds buzzing.
They were exhausted, but they were also energized in a way they hadn't been before.
Michael met Arthur by the entrance to the tunnel.
"Well," Michael said, a wide grin on his face.
"That was quite the sermon, Gaffer."
Arthur allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.
"It's a start," he said, watching his new team head for the showers. "But the real test is tomorrow." He looked at Michael, his eyes sharp and serious. "The Tyke Shield. Our first match. One day to prepare a new team with a new philosophy. It's going to be interesting."
"Interesting," Michael agreed, his gaze drifting back to the empty pitch. "Is another word for fun."