Mansfield took his near-post position for the corner, and he was actually properly scanning the box now. The whistle blew, and the ball arced in low. He met it with another solid header, this time clearing it just past the near post, and the danger was neutralized. He seemed to have a very respectable jumping power and good timing, so as long as the game was static, he would dominate. I nodded at him—steady hands, steady head.

  But the reprieve was brief. The ball ricocheted out to our left-back, who tried to keep the pressure high. He lofted a low cross into the box, aiming for Roberts to head it back to the attacking midfielder. The head back was fine, but the attacking midfielder couldn’t control the ball, and it squirmed free under Thatcham’s noses. I could hear Mitch shouting right after that, “If you can’t handle it, pass safe, for God’s sake!”

  The Thatcham winger snatched it up instantly, cutting toward the space the miscontrolled ball had left behind. I recognized the rhythm immediately: our attack was breaking down. That put a lot of pressure on our backline, especially when the right flank had immediately advanced way too high.

  There was an obvious imbalance in the squad. Our right central mid, Chinedu Okafor, had to keep drifting wider and wider just to plug the gaps Evans left when the overlap fizzled out. It wasn’t even his fault. His job was supposed to be simple: receive, recycle, and reset the tempo.

  And every time Chinedu slid out to cover, I had to step higher, almost level with the defensive midfielder, just to stop a canyon from opening between our lines. That was also because every time their attacking midfielder so much as looked up, Mansfield flew out of the line like he was auditioning for the role of an aggressive stopper.

  It completely ruined the stagger we were supposed to keep. With him charging forward, the back line kept tilting and collapsing in weird angles, and I had to keep shouting at him, “Track back! Stay level with me!” because if he didn’t, we’d end up defending with a diagonal slash instead of an actual line, basically forming a shape you’d get if you asked a toddler to draw a straight fence while on a trampoline.

  The Thatcham winger surged forward, but it quickly became obvious their attacking rhythm was patchy. He carried the ball at speed, but his touches were heavy, and every time he tried to cut inside, he telegraphed it just a beat too early. Their supporting runners were either too slow to close the gaps or clustered awkwardly, leaving predictable passing lanes. I stayed alert, guiding Mansfield and the center-backs into position. “Shift left! Don’t get sucked in!” I barked. The winger tried to thread a pass across the box, but Evans had anticipated it and slid in cleanly, shepherding the ball out for a goal kick.

  I caught a quick glance at him as he jogged back into position, and his huffing told me everything.

  Each half of this scrimmage match only lasted for 30 minutes, and the first half wasn’t even done. Mitch had tasked him with covering wide defensively, overlapping into attack, and supporting the midfield when we pressed. It was too much for a lad his age.

  Mitch hadn’t told us to deviate from the plan, and I couldn’t blame him. This was literally the first session with this formation; we needed to stick to the blueprint to drill the rotations into muscle memory.

  The corner came in low and fast. The small Thatcham forward, still smarting from the last few scrambles, slid in to try and nick the ball again. I was already there, meeting him shoulder-to-shoulder as he tried to shove past, then smashed the ball upfield to Roberts.

  “Got lucky that time, didn’t you?” The forward spat, still bristling.

  I shrugged, jogging alongside him. “Lucky five times in a row? Nah. Positioning. You should try it sometime.”

  He huffed. “You’re a pain in the arse, you know that?”

  I tapped the side of my shorts. “Only because I forgot to leave pockets for you to hide in.”

  The man let out a sharp laugh, then tried to sneak behind me again. Damn it, I realized, I’d fallen for the small talk. I wouldn’t be fast enough to intercept the through ball. But I had another plan.

  “Drop back, Mansfield,” I called.

  Mansfield shifted just enough to block the natural passing lane. Perfect. I just needed to focus on not losing the man I marked.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  When the little forward reached the ball, I was already there, cutting off his shooting angles and forcing him wide. He swung a shot, but it skidded harmlessly beside the net like a damp gym sock.

  I gave a quick shrug and muttered under my breath, “Angles, lad. Always the angles.”

  By this point, our own right flank had completely lost the appetite for pushing high. After coughing up possession three or four times on the overlap, nobody wanted to be the next culprit.

  Then came Thatcham’s offensive, which was the same story: over-eager runs down the right flank, sloppy touches, and simple patterns we could read and cut off. They were clearly picking up on Evans’ fatigue, but I was there to cover for him. I didn’t let a single runner get past me. Every time a Thatcham player tried to exploit the channels, I was already there. I forced them wide, intercepted passes at the last possible moment, and nudged Mansfield or the center-backs into position whenever the angle got messy. Our midfield pair even clapped as I snapped an interception just as a Thatcham runner thought he had an opening.

  When the ball went out for another Thatcham corner, Mansfield squared himself near the near post, then muttered under his breath in disbelief, “Fuck me sideways, you’re a machine.”

  The gauge popped up in my mind:

  I allowed myself a tiny grin. That wasn’t a full seal of approval, but a damn sight better than the muttering scowl I’d walked into the changing room with.

  The whistle blew for half-time, and the lads trudged back toward the sideline, huffing and wiping sweat from their brow. Even Evans managed a tired smile as he slumped onto the small bench tucked under the lean?to shelter. Mitch was pacing nearby, barking a few instructions, but the edge in his voice had softened slightly.

  “Not bad, lads. Keep it up after the break,” he muttered, though his eyes lingered a fraction longer on me and Mansfield. No words, just a glance that said he’d noticed who was keeping the backline solid.

  The central midfielder, Okafor, nudged his teammate. “Oi . . . Harrington’s been solid, huh? Didn’t even let that winger get a sniff down our right.”

  His mate grunted in agreement, tossing a glance toward me. “Yeah, old man’s everywhere. Didn’t even break a sweat when Evans started flagging. But let’s see if that body breaks down before full-time.”

  I let the comment slide into a small nod. “Cheers. Just don’t go putting me on a pedestal yet.”

  Half-time dwindled down, and the rest of the lads were chatting and grabbing water. I slipped past the shelter and found Mitch pacing near the sideline, muttering some thoughts to himself.

  “Mitch?” I called.

  “Yeah?”

  I tried to keep it measured. “You gonna consider moving the right side back? Evans is struggling a bit with the workload. Could have Okafor drift wider on the ball and use him almost like a pseudo right wingback when we build up instead. Let Evans stay a step deeper, save his legs.”

  Mitch shook his head, frowning. “No. First half’s what it’s supposed to be. I need to see the new attacking formation work with everyone in position. You shift him back now, and we won’t know if the system functions.”

  I nodded, already expecting that. “Right. Then what if we shifted to a back three? I can slot in as right-side CB, help the lads adjust to the shape and cover the channels. Keeps Evans fresher, and we don’t lose the balance.”

  Mitch’s eyes narrowed, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Jamie, this team’s never played with a back three before. You’re throwing a wild idea out there, and I’m not gonna switch from a new formation to a newer one and make us look clueless.”

  I nodded, feeling the sting of a reality check. Fair. I was probably nowhere near high enough in his ‘coach respect’ stat to push something this drastic. Still, it was good to test the waters. “Aight coach.”

  I trudged back to my spot, grabbing a swig of water, but my mind was already racing. Mitch had declined the idea—fair enough—but that meant the second half wasn’t going to get any easier. This was going to be a real test on my body, and it had been ages since I’d played a full ninety minutes.

  I shook my head and looked up at my own stamina gauge.

  I was still in good shape. No point whining now.