I’d spent the better part of the evening talking to Kowalski, bouncing between all the usual football-lifer topics: basic shapes, how a 4-3-3 only works if your wingers actually track back, whether double pivots are for cowards or geniuses, that sort of thing. He even pulled out a napkin to sketch a lopsided box-midfield like he was unveiling the Rosetta Stone. At some point he launched into a sermon about his club, Preston North End, and how they were this close to being a proper top-flight side again if only half their managers hadn’t been allergic to playing anyone under thirty. Parts of the talk got so technical that I thought I’d trigger some sort of quest, preferably related to coaching respect levels or unlocking numerical values. Nothing came of it.

  Around seven, Kowalski pushed back his chair with the sort of groan that belonged to men twice his age. “Boss’ll kill me if I’m not home by half past. Saturday dinner. Non-negotiable.”

  Saturday dinner . . . with his boss?

  For a moment my brain tried to picture Kowalski sitting stiffly at a dining table while some clipboard-wielding supervisor carved a roast and asked for his weekly productivity metrics.

  It took me a solid three seconds to remember he meant his wife, who he also called his boss, which in retrospect was obvious, but my head had already summoned an imaginary HR department serving Yorkshire puddings.

  “Right. Go. Before you’re written up,” I said, waving him off.

  I was left alone with my half-filled pint of Blonde Witch when the bar owner leaned over. “Fancy something stronger? Got a Benedictine here. Tastes like a cough syrup, but warms you through. Locals swear by it on a night like this.”

  “Next drink, if there’s one.”

  The owner laughed, then grabbed the remote, pointed it at the telly, and the screen lit up with the familiar Premier League jingle.

  7pm Saturday slot.

  The graveyard of football broadcasting.

  No one likes it. No team wants it. No fan respects it. It exists solely so broadcasters can squeeze one last drop of content out of the weekend before pretending to care about the Monday match no one watches.

  A 7pm Saturday kickoff is basically a threat: Hope you didn’t want to get home tonight. If you’re the away fans, you’re either sprinting for the last train like it’s an Olympic qualifier or resigning yourself to the motorway at half past ten, praying the service stations are still open and the caffeine hasn’t run out. Saturday public transport runs on the principle of ‘best of luck,’ and once the match ends, you’re on your own.

  Even the home crowd complains, and they live twenty minutes away.

  Still, the game was on: Fulham vs Burnley.

  And despite my righteous hatred of this scheduling atrocity, I wasn’t about to miss it.

  Callum was starting for Burnley. My brother, their creative outlet, the only member of the family who’d actually made it into football in the way people brag about on LinkedIn.

  The camera panned across the line-ups, and there he was, all sharp cheekbones and that ridiculously serious match face he only put on for televised games.

  I wasn’t the only one watching.

  A couple of Burnley fans were parked near the dartboard, the kind of blokes who looked like they’d been born wearing claret and blue and simply updated the shirt every few years. It wasn’t a full-on Burnley crowd—too far out for that—but there were enough dotted around to form a low rumble of commentary, the communal sort, where every misplaced pass earned a soft groan and every half-chance sparked hopeful swearing.

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

  It felt . . . almost comforting. Like being among people who’d had the same footballing childhood as me, even if they didn’t know it.

  One of them nudged the other when Callum’s name came up on the screen.

  “That lad’s coming on well,” he murmured, in the same tone people use to review used cars: appreciative, but cautious. Another pair sat at a high table, pints already half-finished, muttering in that resigned way Burnley fans specialize in, hopeful but pre-disappointed, like they’d emotionally prepared for a last-minute loss and an injury to someone important.

  The whistle blew for kick-off. Fulham in their usual white and black, Burnley in claret and blue, and the game immediately began to reveal the gulf in midfield composure.

  Even in these early minutes, my brain was on autopilot, scribbling tactical notes in real time on the back of a napkin and occasionally on my phone. This was partly why I rarely watched football during those years: I could never just watch it. The fans around me were free to get lost in the drama, cheering a good run or groaning at a bad pass, their emotions running up and down like a sine wave. Me? I was calculating angles, noting recovery stats, tracking pressing patterns, and logging positional shifts.

  Fulham’s midfielders were everywhere, recycling possession, probing, and pressing in perfect synchrony. That one lad, Rodrigo Bentancur—recently linked back to Spurs in some of the more credible transfer whispers—was already picking up the ball in deep pockets, turning under pressure, and distributing sideways and vertical passes with surgical precision. Every time Fulham lost the ball, he seemed to be the one nudging it back, regaining control in the blink of an eye.

  Fulham had set up in a 4-3-3, one midfielder sitting slightly deeper while Bentancur and the other, Joshua King, moved into half-spaces to receive the ball. Their wide forwards hugged the touchlines, stretching the Burnley backline, and yet Burnley were surprisingly disciplined. They hadn’t collapsed despite Fulham’s passing triangles winning most of the midfield battles.

  I jotted a note in my phone:

  “Fulham 4-3-3. Deep-lying CM sits, two half-space runners. Ball retention excellent; recoveries by #30 (Bentancur) 4 in first 5 mins. Burnley defensive block intact, compact 4-5-1, but slow lateral shift. Likely gap on right if Fulham overload with wide + half-space pass.”

  Fulham moved the ball quickly, crisp touches, probing, always looking for an angle. And yet, for all their possession dominance, Burnley’s defensive discipline was holding. The centre-backs were narrow, the full-backs were cautious, and the midfield pivot was smart about dropping between the lines.

  I added another note:

  “Burnley CBs disciplined. Block doesn’t crack with standard pass; must force pivot out wide to isolate. Likely first shot on target: exploit high pressing vulnerability if left flank full-back pulled out.”

  A few minutes in, one of the Burnley fans near the dartboard let out a low groan. “Can’t get a touch, can they? Not a sniff in midfield. Harrington’s usually so feisty; not sure what’s gotten into him.”

  I didn’t look up, too busy scribbling angles and player positions on the back of my napkin.

  “Mm-hm,” I murmured, making a quick note of the pivot’s positioning relative to Bentancur.

  “Oi,” the fan said, leaning over. “What’re you doing? You plotting how Fulham are going to beat us?”

  I glanced up, caught his eyes for a second, and shrugged. “Something like that. Semi-pro coach. Helps me . . . understand the game better.”

  The fan snorted, shaking his head. “Semi-pro, eh? Thought you were just a bloke with a pen and a napkin.” He leaned back, still watching the screen. “Well, you certainly make it look intense. Come on, then. If you’re a semi-pro coach, tell me why Burnley can’t get a hold of the ball. I’ve been watching all season and it just feels . . . clunky.”

  I stared at the prompt.

  I triggered a quest? How did this happen?

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