I glanced at the quest prompt again.

  Three topics. If I opened with football, I’d corner myself immediately. I’d have two topics left, and both would have to be non-football, during a damn football game. High risk. Better to start wide, something neutral. Something social, say, a pub thing.

  Right. I had one.

  I raised my pint and leaned toward the group. “Cheers for the invite, by the way. Didn’t realise this was the loudest table in the pub until I sat down near you lot.”

  The table cracked up.

  “Loudest?” one of them barked.

  “We call it passion, mate,” another said, clinking his glass against mine.

  “Passion for misery, more like,” someone else muttered, earning another wave of laughter.

  “You lot always sit here by the dartboard?” I asked, keeping the momentum. “Feels like you’ve staked your claim on the place.”

  “Damn right we have,” one of them said proudly. “Eight years. This corner’s ours. Don’t care who walks in.”

  “Except the landlord,” someone added. “He gets first pick if he asks nicely.”

  Good. Topic one: the pub atmosphere. Quest progress secured.

  Before I could ask anything else, the roar around the pub rose. The second half had kicked off. The lads immediately leaned forward in unison, like a herd of sheep reacting to a shepherd dog. I took my cue and faced the telly as Callum jogged into frame, already shaping up for his first touch.

  “Oi, Jamie, innit?” one of the lads said with a grin, nudging me with his elbow, “you gonna need another napkin for your notes, professor?”

  I held up the very crumpled, ink-scarred one in my hand. “Yes, actually,” I said. “I’m trying to learn.”

  A ripple of laughter. “He’s keen, this one.”

  “Here,” another lad said, reaching under the table and pulling out a small spiral notebook, well-worn with beer stains on the cover. He slid it toward me. “I keep this for my acca picks and the odd stupid thought I don’t wanna forget. You’re free to take a couple pages.”

  “You sure?” I asked.

  “’Course,” he shrugged. “Better than watchin’ you massacre that napkin.”

  They laughed more. The lad next to me clapped me on the shoulder. It felt weirdly nice.

  Should I tell them? That the midfielder on the screen—the one they’d been dissecting all match—was actually my brother?

  No. Not when I’d just gotten comfortable. I didn’t want to be treated like some local celebrity because of somebody else’s success. Maybe one of them would remember the brother who’d been a pro before. The match-fixer.

  I pushed the thought aside and focused back on the pitch.

  The second half saw a subtle but important shift in how Callum linked play. In the first half, he had been largely isolated, forced to drift sideways or drop deep with only Mejbri offering any kind of outlet. His options were limited, and his passes were mostly sideways or backward to maintain possession under pressure.

  In the first half he’d been stuck between being the link and the outlet, which meant he wasn’t fully succeeding at either. Now he was dropping earlier, almost pre-emptively, turning the block into a kind of false double pivot whenever Fulham pushed bodies forward.

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  “See that?” I said, half to myself, half to the table.

  Burnley’s full-backs were also edging five, maybe six yards higher during buildups. They weren’t bombing forward (Burnley players didn’t bomb anywhere unless their house was on fire), but just enough to give Callum and Mejbri two extra pass angles.

  The block compressed differently too.

  Instead of a flat five across midfield, they’d tilted it so the right-sided midfielder crept narrower while the winger held width. It created a diagonal passing chain that Fulham suddenly had to respect.

  “Hannibal Mejbri’s getting braver with the ball too,” I said. “Hopefully he’ll play a pass forward soon.”

  Hannibal had become a much better passer than a few years ago, or maybe he’d gained more confidence. Right on cue, Mejbri checked his shoulder, received the ball on the half-turn, and, without even taking a controlling touch, pinged a gorgeous diagonal out to the left touchline.

  “Bloody hell, you’re right!” A lad breathed as the winger, Jacob Larsen, brought it down in stride. “Where’d that come from?”

  Burnley pushed up again, working the ball down the flank. Larsen took his first touch beautifully . . . and then immediately lost the plot.

  He drove forward with his head down, legs pumping like he was chasing a bus. The space narrowed with every stride. Fulham’s full-back matched him step for step, the covering midfielder angled in, and Larsen—ignoring every passing option—kept going until he had successfully run himself into a triangle-shaped coffin. He tried a desperate cutback, lost his footing, and the ball was nicked clean off his boot.

  Groans exploded around the table. I forced my eyes up from the pitch to see the guys groaning.

  “For fuck’s sake, Larsen! Pass the bloody ball!” one of the lads snapped, throwing his hands up. “Get him off! I’ve had enough of this lad trying to dribble through brick walls.”

  Another one shot back, “And play who? Banel? What’s he gonna do; trip over his own laces slightly closer to goal?”

  A chorus of snorts and muttered swearing followed.

  I glanced at the quest prompt again.

  ‘Positive’, it said. The dartboard lads had gone straight into complaints about Larsen. Not exactly the ‘positive’ tone the quest seemed to want.

  “Well,” I said, raising my hand, “look at the midfield now. They’re holding the ball much better than in the first half. Burnley aren’t just hoofing it forward anymore. They’re actually keeping possession.”

  A few of them glanced at me, eyebrows raised.

  “See Mejbri there?” I continued, pointing at the screen. “He’s dictating the tempo, finding space before the opposition can close him down. Even Harrington’s dropping earlier now to create angles. It’s subtle, but it makes a world of difference. Watch what happens now when Josh King goes forward.”

  I followed the ball as Josh King drove past the midfield line with the kind of speed I’d never seen him display before. I’d been pointing out Burnley’s improved control, expecting the pair in the center to intercept, shepherd, or at least slow him down.

  They didn’t.

  King danced between them like a needle through fabric.

  Mejbri tried to block the passing lane, Harrington angled in to cover, and yet, King had already threaded a perfectly weighted through ball into the path of the striker, Lyle Foster.

  The striker took it first time. The shot screamed toward the goal . . . and slammed against the post. My stomach flipped.

  The table erupted.

  “Bloody hell!” one of the lads roared, fists slamming on the table.

  “Tuanzebe was asleep!” another bellowed. Tuanzebe was Burnley’s right centre-back for today. “Wake up, you daft bastards!”

  “Well . . .” I started slowly, “at least the midfield’s trying to press higher.” And at least the pub guys were too busy cursing at players to notice the sheer irony of me defending Burnley’s organization right after they’d been carved open like a roast chicken.

  Nonetheless, the fans weren’t listening to me anymore. A couple of the lads grumbled, shaking their heads, muttering about ‘lads who can’t tackle’ and ‘missed chances.’

  Right. This wasn’t going to be easy. But I had to frame it as progress, improvement, and tactical intent, even if the results weren’t perfect yet. Now, if only the Burnley team actually back me here . . .

  Then, I found the next thing to latch onto. Josh Cullen came in for Hannibal Mejbri.

  A ripple of groans went around the table. Hannibal Mejbri had been one of the standout performers so far, driving attacks, threading passes, and generally outshining even Harrington. One lad waved his pint in the air. “Callum’s playing rubbish! Gaffer’s too scared to take him off, I tell ya.”

  I kept quiet for a moment, letting their frustration hang. They were venting, sure, but I could see the opening. Cullen, I knew, could bring something different. More balance in midfield, better defensive awareness, and the calm to shield the ball under pressure. He wouldn’t dazzle the crowd, but he’d let the team breathe, recycle possession, and support the attack in a measured way.

  “Alright,” I said, raising my voice over the chatter, “let’s give Cullen a chance to settle. He’s a much more balanced midfielder. He can cover, shield the ball, and keep the lines connected. If Burnley plays it smart, the next ten minutes could see them regain composure and control the tempo.”

  The lads muttered, some skeptical, some grudgingly curious. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to convince them, but at least I had something positive to point to. Hopefully, Cullen wouldn’t play like shite.