This quest forced me to explain my tactical thinking to other people. I wouldn’t have bothered with that otherwise, but I guess it could help me sharpen my communication skills. Explaining wasn’t the problem; the problem was that I had to explain it in a way that a civilian could easily understand.

  “I can,” I said. “Watch the game and I’ll show you.” The fan nodded and turned his attention back to the telly.

  This was a worry for later. Stella would have a better idea than me.

  A few more passes in, the groan from the dartboard fan deepened. “Seriously, can’t get a touch. Callum’s barely seen it.”

  “Look at Callum now.” I pointed at the screen. “See him? He’s in the left half-space, which is the spot between the wing and the middle of the pitch.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.” The words had just left the man’s mouth when Callum made an uninspiring side pass.

  I clicked my tongue. “Ah, the chance’s gone. Basically, he tried to turn with the ball. But Fulham’s No. 30 is already in the lane, pressing immediately. Callum can’t carry forward without someone closing him down, so he’s forced sideways. That’s why it looks like Burnley can’t hold anything.”

  The fan squinted. “So . . . it’s like he’s trapped?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “And it’s not just him. See the winger over there?” I gestured toward the left flank on the screen. “He’s barely daring to make a forward run whenever Callum has the ball. That leaves him isolated every time. Burnley’s structure is so conservative that even when Callum finds a second, there’s no one ahead to pass to.”

  “Okay, I’ve heard ‘conservative structure’ all the time,” the fan said. “What does that actually mean?”

  “It means we don’t commit bodies forward,” I replied. “Everyone stays a bit deeper, a bit safer. The idea is you don’t get caught out on the counter. The opposite would be an aggressive structure like Brighton. When they win it, you’ve already got a winger high, a number 8 making a third-man run, maybe even a full-back underlapping. They gamble.”

  “Number 8 making a run deep? Like McTominay?”

  “Yeah, bombing the box like McTominay. Hold on; hold on. Callum’s about to receive the ball now. Watch what happens.” I pointed at the telly. “He’s gonna scan for receivers, don’t see any, and try to pass back the moment Bentancur swoops in.”

  Callum received it, took a quick touch to shield the ball from the pressing Fulham midfielder, then turned slightly to look for a passing lane. The lone forward was tightly marked, the winger on his left barely budged from his position, while the right-sided midfielder had already dropped deep, trying to provide defensive cover.

  The fan leaned closer, frowning. “So . . . he’s not playing badly, then?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “This is a team problem, not an individual one. He’s making the right reads, trying to carry the ball, but the surrounding support isn’t there.”

  The fan let out a long, exasperated groan and shook his head. “It’s like the whole bloody team doesn’t even care about winning. Can’t get a sniff, and they’re just . . . standing there.”

  I glanced back at the screen, watching Burnley shuffle sideways under constant pressure. “Maybe that’s the point,” I said slowly. “They’re trying to survive the first 20 minutes. Fulham can’t press for the entire game.”

  I scribbled one last note:

  “Burnley: conservative, containment-first strategy under intense press. Sacrificing attack for security. Fulham pressing high, committing numbers, occupying half-spaces. Potential exploitable gaps as press fatigue later.”

  The quest pinged again in my mind:

  The fan stayed silent and observed. About ten minutes later, he let out a derisive laugh. “Survive the first twenty? Mate, they’re barely touching the ball. You might as well tell me the sky’s green while you’re at it.”

  I just shrugged, eyes glued to the screen. “Just watch.”

  Fulham were beginning to slow their relentless pressing. Burnley sensed it instantly. The full-backs pushed a little higher, the wingers tucked in closer to the half-spaces, and Callum dropped just a tad deeper to collect the ball and potentially lure Bentancur out of position. The formation morphed as the central midfielder Hannibal Mejbri pushed forward, moving from a rigid 4-5-1 into something more fluid, almost like a 4-1-4-1 in attack, giving them more options to move forward.

  “Now watch this,” I murmured. Burnley launched a sharp counter. The ball moved quickly from Callum out wide, dragging Bentancur out of position. After one-two exchanges with the right-sided midfielder, Bentancur was eliminated, then Hannibal Mejbri had a clever switch back to the left, freeing Callum in space just outside the box. He steadied himself, took the low shot . . .

  It skimmed past the post, agonizingly close.

  A collective gasp rolled through the few Burnley fans gathered near the dartboard, and even the quieter regulars by the bar leaned forward in sudden attention.

  “Oi!” one of the dartboard lads shouted, slapping the table, “That was so close!”

  The fan next to me’s jaw dropped. “Bloody hell. That’s nearly it! Nearly a goal!”

  “That’s the payoff for staying patient under pressure.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The fan nodded slowly, muttering under his breath, “Alright . . . maybe there’s something to this then.”

  I tapped my pen against the napkin:

  “Burnley counter: formation adapts dynamically under attack. Exploits press fatigue. Callum finds space, low shot just wide. Demonstrates patience + positional discipline paying off.”

  The quest pinged again:

  Mission accomplished.

  The moment the screen returned to normal play, the little ping in my head nudged me again.

  There we go. The quest I’d been wanting to trigger.

  I barely had time to scribble the previous notes before Burnley adapted once more. This time it wasn’t just a counterattack, but a subtle morph in defensive posture as Fulham pushed higher to recover the ball. Burnley’s back four spread slightly wider, the midfield compacted differently, and the wingers tucked just enough to create passing lanes for Callum and the deep-lying midfielder.

  I jotted fast:

  “Formation shift – defensive. Backline widens, midfield compacts, wings adjust to support pivot. Exploiting space created by Fulham’s high press. Readying next counter. Observe pivot + left-half space utilization.”

  I frowned, tapping my pen against the napkin. Probably has to be an actual formation change during live play, I thought. Not just a subtle positional adjustment.

  I settled back, letting the first half play out. Burnley remained conservative, containing Fulham’s attacks, and the few dartboard fans murmured quietly at every passing touch. Callum dropped deeper, wingers hugged half-spaces, Mejbri lurked in pockets between lines, but still no full-blown skeleton shift. Patience became the game in itself.

  Finally, just before the whistle for halftime, Fulham made the move I’d been waiting for. Their midfield pivot, sensing Burnley’s containment, pushed slightly deeper while their wide central midfielder drifted in, creating a compact diamond in the center. The back four stayed high, full-backs hugged the touchline, and the wingers slipped into half-spaces. Their CAM, Kostoulas, moved up to play almost like a second striker alongside Rodrigo Muniz, pressing the Burnley backline and offering a central focal point for attacking combinations. It looked like a last ditch effort to dominate the middle of the park and force something before the break.

  I had to jot it down now.

  “Fulham – last-minute midfield assertion. 4-4-2 diamond, pivot controlling tempo, central overload. Objective: regain possession dominance, probe compact Burnley block, force scoring chance pre-halftime.”

  Fulham failed to score a goal, then the break came. As the halftime whistle blew and the players trudged off, the dartboard fan who’d been muttering and groaning beside me all first half shuffled closer with a grin plastered across his face.

  “Oi, mate,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “I’ll give it to you, you actually made me see what was going on out there. That bit with Callum and the counter? Bloody brilliant. Fancy a pint with us for the second half? Don’t reckon I need to listen to your notes for this one, eh?”

  I hesitated for only a moment, then shrugged and smiled. “Sure, why not. Could be nice to watch without scribbling everything down.”

  He led me over to the small table by the bar where the others were gathered, already ordering a round. As soon as I settled into the chair, it felt like I’d been part of the group for ages. The lads cracked jokes, ribbed each other about missed bets and nearly scored goals, and somehow, within minutes, I was laughing along.

  “Oi, don’t tell me you’re one of them number-crunch types, eh?” one of them teased.

  “Maybe a little,” I admitted.

  “Ah, don’t worry about it,” another said, shoving a pint toward me. “If you like footy and a drink, you’re one of us already. Been watchin’ this lot long enough, you start to see patterns, don’t ya?”

  They laughed, and I laughed with them. Conversation bounced naturally between players’ quirks, near misses, and the odd bit of banter that had nothing to do with tactics. Within moments, it didn’t feel like I was an outsider—just another fan, pints in hand, sharing the highs and groans of a football match with people who seemed to know each other, and now me, like forever.

  Maybe I really just needed a few more friends and fewer minutes inside my own head. Preferably not with any quest popping up.

  Then a quest popped up.

  Really? Now? Guess even pints weren’t exempt from quests. I’d just said I didn’t want the system poking its nose into every interaction, and now it was telling me how to behave at a pub. Conversations like this were messy, spontaneous, and definitely weren’t meant to be guided. Slotting a checklist over friendly banter felt like social engineering, and I wasn’t in the business of manipulating people for XP.

  And yet . . . the reward flashed at me again, impossible to ignore. Morale Gauge. A new managerial skill: Motivational Speech (Lv1). All of it suddenly felt like a doorway I couldn’t afford to leave closed.

  Something else had caught my attention. Managerial Skill? That was new. In FMSim, I’d only ever seen the cheat codes that made money magically appear, financial takeovers, instant transfers. Never a proper skill like this. A few buttons here and there, some numbers changing—fun, sure, but nothing like actually earning something through gameplay.

  Could this . . . actually be a real tool? Something you use, not just exploit? There was only one way to find out.