The whistle blew, and play resumed. The double pivot stepped into the midfield just as Okafor had outlined, and our defensive line followed, inching up the pitch, compressing the space, forcing Plymouth into the channels we wanted them to play. I had a chance to scan one more attribute from Schwarzer (which was 65 ± 30 for Pace). The offside trap clicked into place, as clinical as a postman delivering letters in the rain without getting a soggy footprint on the envelope. Plymouth started to hesitate. Okafor, all 185?cm of him, wasn’t shy about getting physical, and the presence alone seemed to make their midfield pair stutter. I scanned Okafor, and sure enough, he got a Work Rate of 84 ± 30, respectable for this level. He could wreak havoc, and he was.

  Okafor forced their midfield pair to make sloppy sideways passes, then another, like they couldn’t decide whether to commit or retreat. Their strikers Hurst and Schwarzer probably hadn’t read the play, since neither of them nor Troy Parron dropped further back to receive the ball, causing it to be swung to their left flank. Both Rothschild and Reeves leapt into action so aggressively that their left back panicked, passing back to their keeper, Rogers, who, in a moment of overcompensation, launched it long, to where I was.

  Schwarzer was airborne, but my timing was better. I met him cleanly in the aerial duel, chesting the ball down and instantly turning it back to Reeves on the wing.

  Reeves set up the overlapping run. Finally, the pressure we’d been working for was starting to pay off. For the first time all match, the pattern we’d been fearing felt like it was under our control.

  For the next thirty seconds, anyway.

  Reeves surged down the wing, full of momentum, with Rothschild ghosting inside to pull their markers with him. The overlapping run opened pockets of space, exactly the kind of chaos we’d been scheming to create. Rothschild received the ball and shaped a pass into the triangle we’d drilled, aiming for the edge of the box where Dom could finish. But the pass was too telegraphed—anyone with half an eye on the play could read it—and their left-back intercepted cleanly.

  Now for the real tragedy.

  Reeves, eager to press the advantage, had pushed higher than usual and got caught in no man’s land. He was a right-back, standing where our attacking midfielder should be. Plymouth’s midfield smelled the uncertainty instantly. One sharp pass threaded straight through the gap, and just like that, Parron was away again, sprinting down the left-hand side with that same dangerous swagger, intent on cutting past me.

  The fucker looked so smug. Every step he took seemed to tease me, daring me to try and stop him. I stepped up, hoping to shepherd him wide with a shoulder shove, but he was already so far past me that a proper shoulder-to-shoulder challenge could easily end with me flattened. So I did what I’d learned to do in situations like this: tactical foul.

  I reached, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and yanked him back. I must have been looking like a dad dragging his kid away from a puddle he was too eager to jump into. Parron’s feet stumbled, and he shot me a glare that could have melted steel.

  The referee had a clear view. The referee’s whistle shrilled, a yellow card flashed, and I raised my palm in an innocent shrug. “What, ref? Just keeping the game fair.”

  Parron crouched, grumbling at me, “This ain’t over.” I just gave him a quick pat on the back as I helped him to his feet.

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  I didn’t have the speed for this. I couldn’t afford another reckless tackle. And the press? It wasn’t supposed to be a full-on press, as we’d never done that before. I just wanted to raise the double pivot a touch and compress the midfield. By stepping up, we were leaving huge gaps behind us, exposing me and a 100-year-old Kowalski whenever the ball slipped past.

  The next five minutes were better. The press was working just enough to make Plymouth hesitate, and they had to keep passing between themselves, and even once lost the ball outside the box, Roberts put it wide.

  But Plymouth weren’t some rank amateurs. They weren’t fourth in the league by accident. Their workaround was simple but effective: quick, low-risk switches to the opposite flank. I started noticing that as soon as their midfielder sensed the press closing in, they’d play one-twos with their full-backs and stretch the ball wide, bypassing the congested central channels.

  As they pushed it wide to their left-back again, I noticed Rothschild lagging slightly, barely closing the gap.

  He’d been chasing patterns for the last ten minutes, and it was showing. I turned an eye to Plymouth’s left-back’s passing stats: 70?±?30. He could thread a damn long-ranged ball if given the chance.

  I did a quick shoulder check. Our shape had leaned too far to the right, probably anticipating a simple pass to Parron who was already waving for the ball. But the left-back had other ideas. Instead of the expected route, he threaded a diagonal to Nyadzayo on the right-wing. Nyadzayo was through clean, sprinting like he was auditioning for a superhero movie—head shoved so far forward it looked like he was trying to barrel-roll through the air.

  Palmer tried to close him down, but the pitch . . . Christ, the pitch was absolute dogshit. Typical tier-7 mud-and-patchwork nightmare. Palmer caught a crucial trip at the worst possible moment, and suddenly Nyadzayo was surging down the flank unchallenged.

  I immediately scanned behind me. Schwarzer was lurking, the ever-present shadow,. My lungs burned, but instinct took over—I had to cut the low cross. I angled my run, timing my tackle to perfection, knowing if I missed, this could very well be the moment Plymouth finally broke through. But I wouldn’t miss. I could intercept any Tier 7 cross, any time. The ball would never come to Schwarzer.

  It didn’t.

  It reached Parron, who was completely unmarked. He dribbled for another second, completely unchallenged, and with another push, he shuffled the ball into his dominant leg. Then he smashed it.

  His shot went low. Not impossible, but our keeper Holmes dove just a moment too late. He was caught flat-footed and probably thinking about whether his tea would be cold later, flapped at it like a fish out of water. The ball slid into the bottom corner.

  The scoreboard ticked, and the home crowd erupted with cheers.

  40’ – Plymouth 1 – 0 Hungerford

  I groaned. Parron didn’t just run to the corner flag and pump his fists. No, he slowed down, leaned back, and gave a little sneer toward our half of the pitch, glancing at Milner and Okafor like he’d just spotted two puppies trying to keep up. Then he turned to me, cupped his ear, and wagged a finger at me like it’d make him look swagger.

  I checked his Stamina: still a solid 73%. Meanwhile, Milner was down to 60%, while Okafor was at . . . 86%. No idea why he was at 86%; I had to check his stamina stat later. The rest were holding up for now, but everyone has a limit. Eventually, those tired legs would fumble the press, miss the right runs, or react too slowly.

  The pattern wasn’t breaking Plymouth, it was just irritating them. We couldn’t afford to waste energy on a tactic that hadn’t been paying dividends. We made a joint mistake; it wasn’t entirely on me, but I had to take accountability. I had to think fast. A change of plan needed to come, now.