I swiped through the next clip, focusing on Plymouth’s central midfielder. He threaded through a corridor of defenders with the kind of vision that made the numbers pop in my head. The lad looked pretty calm and determined too, but since it was rather difficult to judge mental attributes based on a few clips, passing seemed like a natural choice for me.

  Next up, the left striker. Quick on the eyes, sharp in movement. I watched his positioning, his first touch, his timing for runs. He knew how to fake his shot and could retain possession, though he didn’t excel in either of those. I watched him take a couple of first-time shots and I went with finishing. It just felt right. The numbers confirmed it.

  Sometimes the most obvious answer was the right answer.

  I got the quest complete in under two minutes, which almost got me to high-five myself if Mitch wasn’t here. I resisted, of course.

  Mitch raised an eyebrow and commented despite knowing absolutely nothing about what was going on inside my head, “Keen eyes still working, I see. Don’t tell me you’re actually enjoying this part of coaching.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. Truth was, it felt good. Spotting patterns and knowing what to expect felt the world slowed down for a second and I could actually breathe in the chaos.

  He swiped over to the goalkeeper clips. “Right. What do you notice about him? Strengths, weaknesses?”

  I leaned closer, watching the big man loom over his line. The lad was tall, commanding, and had some of the most solid hands you could see at this level, but all that height made him a bit slow to get down. His legs were long but bulky and heavy; he should’ve skipped leg days. He reached a couple of low shots from his weak side—left from his perspective—a fraction too late, sprawling awkwardly. That had cost him at least two goals, judging from the clips I saw.

  “Low left,” I said. “Weak side. Can’t get down fast enough.”

  Mitch tapped the screen once more. “Exactly. That’s what I’ve been seeing too. If we can’t breach their back pair, Roberts can ping it back to Dom, just outside the box. Low shots. Test the keeper’s feet.”

  I nodded. “If Dom’s quick, that’s our angle. We can force him to commit early and open space for the wingers. We need Palmer to send in some of those early balls more often. Could be our edge today.”

  “Sounds like we’ve got it mapped,” Mitch said, a little impressed. “Now let’s hope Dom’s feet are on point.”

  Mitch swiped back to the lineup screen, and the team selection for today showed up.

  A 4-4-1-1. leaned right, just as practiced. The left existed to behave. Donovan held width, tracked back, did the honest work.

  Mitch then gave me a sidelong look. “And don’t think you can just focus on the outfield stuff, Jamie. You’re our defensive brain—you’ve got to help Mike and Raj too. They’re not terrible, but a little guidance from someone who’s seen the patterns can save a few headaches.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Me? A goalie coach?”

  “Not exactly. But you’ve got the experience reading plays and anticipating shots. You know what’s coming before it hits the keeper. Use it.”

  I nodded. “Right. Got it. I’ll get to that.”

  “And don’t forget our development team. Next session with them is on Thursday night. It’s a set schedule.”

  “Right.”

  Most of the lads got to Bolitho by 1:30?pm, and we headed straight for the away dressing room, a narrow, slightly cramped space tucked behind the stands. Mitch tapped the tablet a few times, swiping through names and lineups, then held it up so the team could see.

  Centre-backs: Kowalski, me. Right-back: Reeves. Left-back: Palmer.

  As expected. But not for David Mansfield.

  Mansfield’s eyes immediately found mine. I could see the tiniest drop in posture and a tightening of his jaw. A small pop-up appeared in my head:

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Right. That was to be expected. He was a veteran, and he clearly thought he deserved the slot. I took a slow breath and met his gaze, raising a hand up. The dressing room wasn’t huge, and we were close enough that I didn’t need to shout. I caught Palmer’s eye and nodded toward Mansfield.

  “Oi, swap over,” I said quietly, and Palmer moved a couple of seats so I could sit beside Mansfield.

  Mansfield gave me a curt glance, arms crossed. He was pissy now because I didn’t address this properly last session, but I still had a chance to fix it now.

  “David, mate,” I started, keeping my voice low, “the selection’s been made by the head coach. I didn’t pick this, and I can’t override it. You know that.”

  His jaw still looked like it had been chiseled from granite and polished for maximum stubbornness. I could practically hear enamel grinding.

  For a heartbeat, panic tickled the back of my throat.

  Nah. No chance. I couldn’t do this. I hadn’t had to convince anyone of anything in years.

  Then a stupid little memory barged in anyway.

  Back then, I was good at this. Ridiculously good. I’d talked my way out of detentions, out of scraps, out of disasters of my own making. I’d even managed to get Maisie Burns to forgive me five separate times for being a little too friendly with other girls, just by spinning enough nonsense to make it sound like I’d discovered the cure for heartbreak.

  Right. If I could blag my way past Maisie and her emotional sixth sense, I could handle one grumpy centre-back.

  So I leaned in slightly and kept my tone low. “I know what you’re thinking. ‘I’m the senior defender. Why the hell am I not starting.’ And you’re right to be pissed.” I stopped for a second before continuing, “And before you think I stitched you up—no. I told him straight: if we’re defending a lead late or under siege, you’re the one I’m throwing on. We need someone who won’t panic when the ball starts flying through the six-yard box. That’s you. Not Boras. Not Hatherleigh. You.”

  He nodded once—recognition, maybe. Or ego being fed just enough calories to keep him warm.

  “I’m not asking you to like the decision,” I said quietly. “But I am asking you not to tank the dressing room over it. You think I don’t want you out there? I do. I’ve been out for years; I can’t run for ninety bloody minutes. I can’t play two games in a row. But one slip in attitude and Mitch will freeze you out the next three matches. You keep your head, though? You’ll walk straight into the XI when the shape suits you. I’ll put my word behind it.”

  His arms dropped from the fortress stance, and he rubbed a hand across his jaw.

  “That’s . . . fair enough,” he muttered.

  Good. He’d stop sulking soon enough.

  “Good lad,” I murmured. “And stay sharp. I might need you earlier than either of us wants.”

  Mitch cleared his throat, standing at the front of the away dressing room. The lads were already clustered around, some leaning against lockers, others perched on benches.

  “Alright, boys,” he began, voice carrying that mix of authority and that slightly baffling charm he always had. “I know you’ve heard me drone on about tactics before, but today it’s simple. Plymouth have a couple of sparks, yeah? Parron on the left, their central midfielder threading passes like he’s in some kind of FIFA wizardry mode. And their striker’s finishing’s sharp, but predictable if we stick to the plan.”

  A few heads nodded, others just stared blankly. Mitch figured he’d have to do some proper pep talk, so he bent forward a little so his eyes could meet ours at the same level. “Remember in Stranger Things when Eleven had to face the Demogorgon? Everyone thought it was hopeless, but she stayed calm, used her head, and—boom—turned the odds in her favor. That’s us today. Parron’s the Demogorgon, sure, but we’ve got the plan, and if we stay sharp, we’ll come out the other side without anyone getting slimed.”

  A ripple of quiet chuckles ran through the group. At least the younger lads got the reference this time, unlike his horrific rock band example the last time around. A few veterans just raised eyebrows, muttering something about the weirdness of modern TV.

  Then the coach continued, “Same formation as usual, but we’re giving the left wing a bit more bite today. Palmer, early crosses from your side. Feed Donovan, test their keeper, open space in the box. Wingers, stay alert and exploit every lane that opens. And lads,” Mitch circled a finger around the goal icon on the tablet, “their keeper’s a brick wall up high but struggles down low to his left. Heavy legs, slow drop. If the shot opens up for you, don’t overcomplicate it—keep it low, keep it left. Make him work for it. Don’t give him anything chest height he can just pluck.”

  Mitch paused for a second before moving on.” And if the left side is more involved, then Reeves,” He said, pointing his marker at him like a baton, “you’re still stepping forward for the triangles, yeah? Same patterns we drilled all week. Parron won’t bother to track back, so you lads will have plenty of space to operate. When out of possession, just stick to Troy Parron like a ghost.”

  Okay, so Mitch was already tweaking the plan before we’d even stepped onto the pitch. Fair enough. But asking Reeves to both bomb forward for triangles and clamp Parron when we’re out of possession? That was a tall order. This looked like the Thatcham scrimmage match again.

  It basically meant Parron was going to slip free way more often than I’d like. And knowing how the lad loved cutting inside, that put the inevitable 1v1s squarely on me.

  I curled my hands into fists. So what? I was a League One CB. I should have more confidence in myself. I could deal with him.

  “Midfielders, don’t get caught ball-watching. You’ve trained for this. Their central midfielders can ping passes you wouldn’t believe. But we’ve got a way to handle it. Keep the ball safe, recycle it, and shuffle it out wide. That’s where we create our chances. Don’t try anything fancy in the middle.”

  He tapped a finger on the tablet, highlighting the central lanes. “If you lose possession in the middle, they’ll hit us with those through balls. And trust me, that’s when it gets ugly. Eyes up, heads talking, cover each other, and no silly giveaways. Shuffling it to the wings buys us time, opens up gaps, and lets Rothschild and Donovan do their thing. Simple and low-risk. Defenders, don’t get sucked into the middle either.”

  “Right,” Mitch finished, clapping his hands once. “Trust the plan, trust each other, and remember: we play smart first, fast second. Let’s go show them what Hunger looks like.”

  Kowalski, sitting just beside me, muttered under his breath, just loud enough for me to catch, “Shape’s not compact enough . . . they’re clearly the better side, and we’re meant to be attacking down the flanks?”

  I leaned slightly toward him, keeping my voice low. “Trust the coach, Luke. The last coach tried keeping the shape too narrow all day. Didn’t work, did it?” I didn’t know all that much about their last coach so I just parroted what Mitch told me.

  Even though I said that, Kowalski actually got me feeling doubtful. I realized my shortcoming: I’d only ever planned shapes for our side and never really considered how other teams set up. There had to be a reason Hungerford were sitting so low. Was it because we weren’t comfortable playing high-paced football? Or were we simply not good enough compared to other teams in the league?

  “Guess I’ll find out on the pitch today,” I murmured, more to myself than anyone.