The next training session was on a Saturday, one day before our trip to Plymouth Parkway’s Bolitho Park. I already had Decisions and Composure unlocked, which let me judge how a player reacts under pressure and how calmly they execute tasks. That was helpful, sure, but to actually make training count, I needed more context. I needed to know where a player was meant to be and whether they were actually focusing on the right things.

  As I’d be following the 4-4-2 Defensive Shell drill regimen today, the most natural attributes to unlock would be Positioning and Concentration, stats that the drill actually improves. It would be annoying not being able to see the improvements of the guys you trained.

  I started with my best backline first. The two centre-backs, Kowalski and Mansfield, and two full-backs, Palmer and Reeves, went out first, cycling through the defensive shell drill. I watched their positioning carefully, noting how their spacing shifted with each simulated attack and how quickly they recovered after each break in play.

  I lined the four defenders up in the standard shell, just like the system suggested: compact, narrow enough to deny the central lanes, shifting laterally as a unit when the ball moved. The attackers were spread across the arc outside the box, ready to simulate crosses, cutbacks, and diagonal balls. Standard shell versus attacking lines, straightforward and reliable.

  Meanwhile, the substitutes weren’t just standing around. I set them up in shadow drills—small-sided games that mirrored the defensive scenarios, letting them practice timing their reactions and reading the ball without the pressure of the main drill. It wasn’t the same intensity, but it meant they were learning something, and it kept everyone moving. When one of the main backline players needed a break, a sub could slot in, already primed with the basics.

  Even with the familiarity, tiny missteps crept in. Reeves drifted too wide on one lateral shift; Palmer almost overcommitted to a forward run, leaving a gap behind him. I nudged the shell with a sharp hand signal, and Reeves huffed, “Oi, come on! I was covering the far post!”

  “Yeah, but you left the half-space exposed,” I replied, voice calm but firm. “If the winger drives into that lane, we’re toast. Trust the shape.”

  He grumbled, clearly not thrilled, but the logic hit. He jogged back into position, muttering something that sounded very much like a complaint.

  Before I could dwell too long on Reeves, Kowalski stepped up beside the shell with his arms crossed. “Cal, he’s right. You’ve got the half-space covered, but your pivot step timing is off. You’re letting the winger read your movements.”

  The veteran’s voice carried weight—not just because he was thirty-four and built like a tank, but because he genuinely knew his stuff. If he endorses me, that could swing the backline’s buy-in faster than any shouted instruction.

  “Well, if Luke says you’re good . . .” Reeves shrugged.

  One problem solved. But now I had a new one: the lads were clearly listening more to Kowalski than me. Any attempt to muscle authority over him would be stupid, a tactical self-sabotage.

  So I did the only thing that made sense: I leaned into the downtime, pulled Kowalski aside between cycles, and started asking questions. I made sure to make them specific and relevant, things like: “When you read a runner in the half-space, how do you judge whether to step up or hold the line? I notice you adjust your shoulder angle slightly before you commit.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Not many younger lads notice that. You’re watching carefully.”

  I leaned in a little closer, keeping my voice low. “Also, I noticed something with the half-space coverage. If the winger’s pivot midfielder shifts his weight before the run, you can force the winger to open up a different angle, one that buys you maybe half a second extra to slide and block the crossing lane. It’s tiny, but it can make the difference if the ball’s coming fast.”

  His eyes narrowed, like he was replaying the last few scrimmages in his head, and then he let out a slow whistle. “Huh. I’ve never consciously used that. That’s actually brilliant, coach. Really smart.”

  Even a thirty-four-year-old vet who had seen everything on a pitch had just learned something new from me. That was gold.

  Before I could step away, he paused, studying me with a faint squint. “By the way,” he added, almost too casually, “why didn’t you join the lads at the pub the other day?”

  My brain stalled. “Uh, I had something to sort out. Bit busy. Next time, maybe.”

  Luke gave me that unimpressed look. “Jamie, don’t get me wrong; your instructions are good. Better than good. But the lads want to know more than just a coach. They follow people they actually know. You might have more luck with them if you’re a bit more . . .” he searched for a word, shrugging, “personal.”

  He said it like it was an easy fix, like you could just flick a switch and know how to connect with twenty grown men who already had their own bonds and rhythms. I’d never been that guy. I wasn’t even sure how to start being that guy.

  At least the backline acknowledged my ‘instructional’ tips. The change was quiet. Reeves muttered less under his breath, and Palmer stopped making those little corrective gestures before I even spoke. Even Mansfield, who normally kept a polite distance from any advice that wasn’t his own, paused to adjust his positioning exactly as I’d indicated.

  A modest climb, but enough that I could finally feel the authority settling into place without forcing it. If only I could see the numerical values like I did with player respect, but this would do.

  With drills now unlocked, I could see a new progression bar next to the lads’ stats. I mentally noted down their changes:

  The percentage changes were probably their progress to the next attribute gain (or loss), and it made sense. Palmer was young so he’d grow faster, while Kowalski would be lucky if he didn’t drop a point after each session. Mansfield and Reeves were roughly the same age, but their gains told different stories. Reeves had clearly absorbed more from the session, while Mansfield, on the other hand, had probably already peaked in these fundamentals. I’d wondered why a solid full-back like Liam Hatherleigh never got picked for match squads, but it turned out he never went to training, so his potential was all theory.

  The subs and the youth development guys got some solid gains too.

  I got to join the subs in training, and brought my match sharpness up to 52% even though my attribution progress bar barely moved. Jason Boras was steady, Callen Rhodes improving, and the younger ones starting to show their edges. But one name really stood out: Maxim Redding. The kid was still a youth centre-back, just seventeen, yet his positioning and decision-making improvements were sharp. If he kept this pace, and with proper guidance, he could realistically push for a first-team spot next season.

  Just as the lads were dispersing, stuffing bottles into kit bags and peeling off bibs, Mansfield drifted toward me. With hands behind his back, he shuffled over and said quietly, “Coach. You got a minute?”

  I nodded.