Her text was professional and minimal. It read:

  Hey. Just so you know, the panel’s at Southgate House, Thursday 6:30pm. Business casual. No club tracksuits, please. Thought I’d save you asking later.

  Then a second text came.

  That’s it. Go to sleep.

  Why would there need to be a second text, I thought. It could have been nothing. It probably was nothing. Or it could have been . . . something else; say, a familiarity she hadn’t bothered sanding down yet. I didn’t remember how any of our past texts went. Also, probably for the best.

  I turned the phone face down on the desk.

  There was no productive version of that thought, no branch of interpretation that led anywhere useful. Old muscle memory, that was all.

  Work, I told myself. The Plymouth notes were still too clean, and sleep could wait five more minutes. After some more watching and thinking, I added a single line at the bottom.

  Right side buildup works best when we commit an extra central midfielder. Needs repetition.

  I reread the page, nodded once, and finally shut the laptop.

  Mansfield was nowhere to be seen during Wednesday’s training. Maybe that red card on Sunday got him feeling some type of way, because his boots weren’t piled with the rest near the touchline and his car wasn’t in the gravel lay-by either. He also never sent in a text to Mitch.

  “Where’s Dave?” someone asked, half-joking.

  Mitch scanned the pitch, checked his watch, then shrugged. “He knows where we are.”

  That was it. No follow-up. No concern. Training moved on.

  Mitch let the drill run another thirty seconds before blowing the whistle. He didn’t look at me right away. Just watched Dom take a touch, hesitate, then drag a shot wide of the near post.

  “That,” Mitch said, lowering the whistle, “is exactly what I mean.”

  I waited.

  “I don’t think I share your philosophy, Jamie,” he went on. “You want instant changes. Bam—new shape. Bam—new responsibilities. Bam—new way of playing. That’s not how you instill discipline.”

  I nodded once, letting him finish.

  “Now,” he continued, “I hear you on Okafor. We do need more out of him. That’s why we’re dragging him higher. He’s got the engine, so we let him press. Let him win it back and give it to Dom.” He gestured toward the edge of the box. “That’s the structure. I’m mainly working on Dom’s shooting today. We need a more decisive end product.”

  I watched Dom line up another effort, body already leaning back like he’d made peace with missing. Live Assessment told me his shooting was 40, give or take. I said, “That’s fair. But we don’t really have the right tools for that exact setup. Dom’s shooting is . . . generously speaking, anemic.”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Mitch snorted.

  “Wait till you see McAteer’s finishing,” he said. “You haven’t seen the boy shoot yet, have you?”

  I shrugged.

  He rubbed his face with the heel of his palm “Look. I’ve also not been here for long, and I’m trying to apply my brand of football. This season? The playoff dream’s done. We’re not chasing miracles anymore. What we need is a foundation for next year, which means I need you on board with it. We just drew 2-2 to Plymouth and I’m changing the system against Portishead, what does that make us look like? Coward pricks who don’t trust their own shapes.”

  Portishead, right. This week’s match was a must-win.

  Mitch continued, “We make small tweaks, week after week. Adjust roles, not the whole shape. If my own assistant coach doesn’t agree with me, what do you think that looks like to the rest of the squad? Kowalski’s got a problem with me. If he thinks there’s daylight between us, he’ll drive a truck through it. And once that happens, discipline’s gone. And then we’re all fucked.” He slapped the clipboard with the back of his hand. “Not just me. We.”

  Fuck. Of all the times the man could be sensible, he chose now.

  I watched Okafor press again, exactly as Mitch had described. Higher and more aggressive. Not the role I’d drawn up, but not nonsense, either.

  He was right about that. It wasn’t like he wasn’t listening to me at all. He was just translating my ideas into a language he trusted. But that also meant he would not take my ideas into account until, like, months in. Which made that Collaborative Trial skill even more important. Mitch was headstrong, but stubborn. If things go disastrously wrong, that would be about the only way I get him to see my vision before too late.

  “Okay.” I nodded. “I’ll handle the backline.” If he said so. Not like I had the XPoints to unlock the skill yet.

  “Good talk. Now, you talk about Boras. Come have a look at Boras and you’ll see why I’ve frozen him out of the squad. The tosser could sit on his ass until his contract runs out for all I care.”

  We started with shape work, the same drills we always did, and I just swapped out Mansfield for our benchwarmer Boras. The problem was there were barely any reserve players showing up either, and with the kids only ever showing up to the big boys’ training sessions whenever Mitch felt like it, that left us with an awkward surplus of cones and exactly two spare bodies (me excluded).

  I waved Boras over with two fingers.

  “JBlock,” I called. “You’re in.”

  Boras refused to move. He stayed leaning against the fence, and his boots were still clean enough to tell their own story.

  “I’m sore,” Boras said.

  “Sore how?”

  Boras shrugged. “All over. Hamstrings, back. Little bit of everything.”

  I waited for him to jog on anyway. He didn’t.

  “Warm it out,” I said. “We’re walking through shape.”

  Boras huffed a laugh. “What’s the point?” He tilted his head toward the pitch. “Not like you lot are gonna let me play even if I train.”

  The words hung there, sharp enough to cut but wrapped in just enough deniability to pass as banter. From afar, Mitch gave me a knowing look.

  Kowalski came over to me and patted me on the back. “Don’t bother. We’ve got a development kid today. Put him in.”

  “You don’t want me to what,” I said. “Push him?”

  “Nah. Not our problem.” He jerked his chin toward Mitch. “Head coach’ll figure it out.”

  For a second, I wondered if it was a coincidence that both our best centre-backs had an issue with Mitch—or if they’d been talking. It wouldn’t have taken much. A few grumbles in the changing room, a shared eye-roll here and there, and suddenly you had a bloc.

  But the drill was already stalling. Cones were still where they’d been five minutes ago, and Portishead wasn’t going to care about our internal politics on Saturday. Minutes mattered more than managing egos. Interpersonal drama could wait.

  “Alright,” I said. “Get the kid in.”

  I looked at the CB kid we had with us today.

  His Overall Rating couldn’t even double his age. I sighed. Guess this would have to do.

  Released a chapter early because I’ve been more productive recently. More new chapters are on now, and the newest chapters are now twice the size of a typical chapter. Have a look!