The first few minutes were mostly filler. We drifted through the usual small talk that men use to fill awkward silences: a muttered comment about how chilly the evening had gotten, a joke about the dressing room’s ancient heating system, complaints about how muddier the pitch was at this time of year, and a shared nod toward the floodlights that had barely survived the last storm. Nothing important, just the kind of banal chatter people default to when they don’t know each other yet.

  “Hey,” I start, “earlier today, when I was giving pointers, how were you taking that in? Too much, not enough?”

  Luke shrugged lightly. “It was fine. Clear; direct; maybe a bit quick at times. You jump from one correction to the next faster than some lads can process, but the substance was good. Better to have too much good info than none.”

  I nodded, scribbling a mental note, and then—just like that—the UI chimed in again.

  Okay. That was . . . actually specific.

  A new gauge appeared next to Luke’s profile:

  And the skill description popped up:

  I stared at it. Huh. Rapport. Not Respect. That was different.

  Respect was about authority, about being acknowledged as the one who knew more than they did on the pitch. Players could respect you without actually liking or trusting you. Rapport . . . that was probably about being on the same wavelength and knowing what actually motivated them beyond the drills, the tactics, the spreadsheets.

  And now it clicked. If I could somehow combine high respect with high rapport on a single player, then when I eventually gained a skill that gave me a boost based on Respect (surely they had to exist if this system had a skill for bloody Rapport), they’d improve faster. If the system worked like I thought, I could . . . double-dip these stats and make a player practically a mini-me on the pitch. That would be powerful.

  I should lead with football. That was a safe topic.

  “Back in Dunsvale,” I started, “I used to know a lad who swore he could trap any ball first time. Every pass came at him like it had a vendetta, and he’d still try to take it down with one touch. Mostly ended with him flat on his backside, or the ball rolling into a completely different postcode.”

  Luke chuckled, and I could tell the corner of his mouth was twitching, just enough to give him away. “Sounds like someone I’d want on my team,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Brilliant at arguing with refs, though,” I added. “I think that’s where I learned it’s sometimes easier to talk your way out of a problem than dribble past it. Saved a few matches that way.”

  Luke laughed again, then squinted at me. “Honestly, with that accent, I’d have pegged you for someone from further north, not Dunsvale.”

  I grinned. “Guilty as charged. Hawthorn Vale originally; developed a bit of a hybrid accent now I’m here.”

  Luke nodded slowly, like he was piecing something together. “Ah, that makes sense. So . . . why move all the way down here then? Work?”

  I didn’t want to admit I was the Jamie Harrington who’d played for Dunsvale, so I went with the next best truth, “Yeah, kinda like that. Stock handler—stacking shelves, moving boxes. Not glamorous, but it keeps the lights on. Figured I’d give it a shot here rather than stay put and get stuck.”

  Luke’s eyes lit up, curiosity mixed with a little amusement. “Which company?”

  “Just a local one. Harvey & Sons,” I said.

  He snorted, shaking his head. “Ah, small timers. Treat you better than us at Global Logistics? Don’t even get me started . . . We have this conveyor that jams every Friday morning. The managers act like it’s a holiday tradition. Then they send someone down with a clipboard to ‘inspect workflow efficiency,’ and everyone’s supposed to look busy while the system’s basically on strike. And the break room? One vending machine with three choices. Three. And half the time it eats your coin.”

  I grinned, more from the confirmation than from the conversation. “Sounds like the life, but at least you get paid for it.”

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  “Barely. Someone calls in sick? Good luck, mate. You’re suddenly doing double shifts while the boss fawns over some ‘efficiency improvement.’ Some days it’s like they built the place to make us run ragged on purpose.”

  I nodded, letting him get that off his chest. “Aye, I get that. Me? Same deal. I took the gaffer’s offer because being on the pitch is the bit I actually look forward to. Beats slinging crates or dealing with the boss nagging you every ten minutes, that’s for sure.”

  Luke’s shoulders relaxed like he’d been waiting for someone to say this. “Aye, that’s the thing. Out here? No missus naggin’ at me, no conveyor belt cursing your soul. Just the pitch, the lads, the ball. Can breathe for a bit.”

  I shoved my hands into my pockets and started strolling toward the pub, now visible in the distance. “Course. So, this is the place?” I said, nodding toward the old brick building with faded paint and a sign that had seen better days.

  “Yep. I’ve taken to the darts here. It’s like a little ritual.”

  “Darts? Didn’t peg you for that.”

  “Eh, something to do when you’ve got a couple hours before your feet hit the floor again,” he said.

  I didn’t even have to push; he’d volunteered it without realizing. Just one of those moments where rapport did its work while we weren’t even thinking about it.

  We pushed through the door, and Luke nodded toward a couple of empty stools at the far end of the bar. “Grab those?” he asked.

  “Perfect,” I said, sliding onto one and brushing off my jacket. Luke followed, settling in beside me.

  The bartender ambled over. “Evening, lads. Pints?”

  “Yeah, one lager for me. And him?” Luke gestured at me.

  “Bitter’s fine,” I said.

  “Two it is,” the bartender said, already pulling the taps. We thanked him as he set the glasses down with a clink.

  Luke leaned back, taking a sip of his pint. “I’ve gotta say, you’re easier to talk to than I thought you’d be, coach. Thompson is way too stuck-up, but don’t tell him that. Makes it easier to listen—and believe me, I’ve had a few gaffers that made it hard to care about their tactics, though I really wanna learn more from ‘em.”

  “Good to hear. So, tactics? You thought about coaching yourself?”

  He snorted, half-laughing, half-sighing. “Yeah, I’d like to. But, eh . . . doesn’t pay the bills, you know? And even if I tried, who’s gonna listen to a bloke stuck in regional tier seven football for ten years?”

  “Doesn’t matter that,” I said. “There’s always a way in. Take the FA coaching courses, or start with FIFA licenses, youth coaching, whatever’s around. You can get your foot in the door.”

  “Been thinking about it, but . . .” He clicked his tongue. “Life. Too late for me now. Got the kids, the wife . . . no way I could start now. If only I could coach for my kid’s school. I’d do that for free.” He clicked his tongue again. “Maybe I can even convince the missus for some time off so I could pursue it. She won’t like it though. Second child, mortgage down payment . . . all that.”

  That was his aspiration? Becoming a coach, huh. Mundane, really, when you stripped it down to words on a page. He didn’t even dream of getting into the big leagues. He just wanted to coach whoever that’d listen to him.

  But then I reminded myself: I hadn’t really known what I was expecting in the first place. Maybe something grander. Maybe a ‘world-class manager in the making’ type dream. But then, I had never dreamed that big myself. That type of aspiration was reserved for those with actual talents, like Callum.

  I set my pint down and let the words hang for a moment, thinking carefully. “Look, man. It doesn't matter what tier you’re stuck in. What matters is that you actually care, that you want to teach, and that you understand the game. That’s worth more than any flashy résumé or big-league title. You’ve got the insight and the patience. You can start small, build it up, and actually make a difference. I’m sure your missus wouldn’t mind seeing you happy that way.”

  His voice wavered just enough to show he was a bit choked up. “Fuck, man. I thought you’d be bad at this. Guess I wasn’t wrong. You really are bad—just in a different way. Who says that in a pub full of people?”

  I laughed. He laughed. We didn’t say anything for a moment.

  Finally, Luke lifted his glass. “But . . . cheers, mate. Not many would say that straight out.” Then he took a swig.

  “So . . . you tied down, then?” He asked. “Didn’t hear you talk about a missus.”

  I shook my head. “Nah. Been too busy for that, really.”

  Luke gave me an amused look, as if sizing me up. “See, from first glance? I’d’ve pegged you as the type. Out every weekend, big clubs, big nights, whole show.”

  I snorted. “Was like that when I was younger. Everyone’s got a phase, but guess the look stuck with me.”

  “Well, you got out clean enough. Some don’t, y’know.” He raised an eyebrow. “Couple years back, there was this girl, barely a teenager. Used to hang ‘round the shops after school. Good kid, polite. Then one day she’s gone, next she’s mixed up with blokes twice her age, doing things no kid should even know about. Heard she’s on the streets, selling herself for drugs now.” He shook his head. “World chews some people up early, mate.”

  I took a sip to buy myself a second. He seemed the ‘world’s gone to shit’ type. He sounded just like my old man, but at least this version came from somewhere honest.

  I nodded slowly, letting his words sit without committing to the conversation he clearly wanted to have. That kind of talk always wrenched something in my chest like someone had swapped my ribs for a vice clamp. Never knew what to say to it, never liked the way it lingered.

  I steered the wheel back where I was actually comfortable. “Anyway, you mentioned the coaching thing. I’ve been thinking about it myself. Some of those UEFA badges don’t look too impossible. The C Licence’s the proper first step, and from what I’ve read it’s . . . well, not exactly rocket science. Bit of coursework, bit of pitch work. You get chucked into a couple weekends of practical sessions while some tutor watches whether you can keep a session running without balls going everywhere. Then there’s the theory bits: planning match objectives, development phases, all that. And they test you on how you communicate too, which is the part I’d probably bollocks up. Costs a few hundred quid only.”

  Luke stared at me for a long time, took another sip, and set his glass down. “You’ve still got the passion for it, and no missus to take it away from you. If you do this . . .” He gave a small, earnest nod. “You’ve got a supporter in me.”

  The UI didn’t chime this time, but it didn’t need to. I could feel that one landed on its own.