I jogged straight to Mitch before the restart, wiping mud off my shin and trying not to look as furious as I felt.

  “Why’d you ask for such a high press?” I asked. “We’re getting carved open.”

  Mitch just kept scanning the team shape like he was mentally rearranging chess pieces no one else could see. “If you’re gonna do it,” he said, “do it right. And don’t forget—this was your idea, Jamie.”

  Oh, brilliant.

  Sure. Make me the villain. Very convenient.

  But I wasn’t here to argue. Not with 40 minutes gone and Parron doing celebratory ballet in my peripheral vision.

  We were lining up for the restart. Okafor spat into the grass, Reeves smacked his boots together, Dom was already pacing like a dog waiting for the gate to open.

  Fine. Be brave. Push at it before halftime crushes whatever’s left of our shape.

  “Right side,” I said to Mitch. “We go down our right. Parron never tracks back, ever. We overload that channel with four, maybe even five. Tell Milner to drift over. Numerical superiority. They can’t mirror-shift fast enough.”

  Mitch scrunched his nose. He probably didn’t appreciate my tone.

  Yet, he nodded anyway. “Yeah. That’s the lane we’ve actually practiced.”

  I would’ve convinced him without my skill, but it was nice seeing the system quantifying how spot on or far off my reasoning was to his mind.

  Nodding once, I jogged back to my spot. Mitch barked his instruction, “Eagle nest’s open!” That was our code for the corridor behind their left-back. “Feed the cat,” then he finished. Simple: get the ball to Reeves on the overlap and pull their defense apart. The codes were vague enough Plymouth couldn’t decode them, yet precise enough for us to move instantly. It was like speaking in another language only our boots understood.

  The whistle blew.

  Roberts knocked it back, then Milner turned on his heel and immediately tilted the shape. And like a machine waking up in stages, our entire team rotated and leaned right.

  Reeves pushed high immediately, much higher than before. Rothschild tucked in, Dom slid wide, Milner angled his run as a makeshift auxiliary winger, and even Kowalski—ancient, creaking Kowalski—shuffled five metres right with the grim determination of a man who had already accepted he would need ice tonight.

  Parron?

  He stayed up front.

  Of course he did. Not a trace of defensive instinct in that man’s bloodstream.

  The ball moved from Okafor to Milner, then Milner to Reeves, then Reeves burst down the flank with a sudden burst of spite. You could see the confidence in him, like a faulty light bulb deciding to work for one more evening.

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  And as Reeves accelerated, Rothschild peeled inside, drawing their left-back like bait on a string, leaving a corridor so wide even a half-drunk Sunday-league player could’ve driven a truck through it.

  It all looked so smooth.

  We were in motion.

  We were committed.

  The ball got looped back to Dom at the edge of the box. He shaped for a shot like he knew exactly what he was doing, then . . . shot it straight at the keeper. The ball flew so slowly it looked like a back pass even after it bounced off the uneven turf. Reeves let out a frustrated huff, while Rothschild just shook his head.

  I scanned Dom’s finishing stats:

  Yikes. He might as well have been trying to thread a needle with a wet noodle.

  Of course, Dom was our designated finisher. Why was he the shooter? You didn’t put a 47?±?30 finisher in the spotlight expecting a clean strike. You put him on the overlap, recycling possession, or dragging defenders away. Was it because we didn’t have a better option? I hadn’t seen the attack in action enough to judge, but surely we could put a better player there if we were to usher a man in that shooting position.

  For the next two minutes, we actually played some free-flowing football. The right side overload we’d discussed was buzzing, and Milner’s makeshift runs were pulling their midfield out of shape. Plymouth actually looked rattled.

  Chances started to pop up like daisies. Reeves cut inside and hit the near post, only to see the keeper stretch and push it wide. Rothschild found himself unmarked at the edge of the box, shot curled too high. Roberts got a rare look in, his only striker moment so far. I scanned his finishing stats: 76 ±?30. That was just . . . okay. Not great, and he was supposed to be our striker.

  Roberts sliced it badly across the goal, and the ball bounced harmlessly off the mud, away from any net-bound trajectory.

  Eventually, Plymouth adjusted even before the half-time whistle rang. Their left-back was cautious without overcommitting, and they put a midfielder in the pocket where Dom lurked to block passes toward him.

  Our free-flowing phase had burned some energy, and Plymouth had already started tightening the gaps. I scanned the shoulder again to see Parron looking ready to dash. The little shit was still grinning at me specifically for some reason.

  Sure enough, Plymouth intercepted clean, lofting a long ball forward. Parron took off like he’d been shot out of a cannon, and with a first touch surprisingly sharp for a man who usually looked like he was auditioning for a slow-motion highlight reel, he angled toward the byline.

  My legs fired. I was slower, but I knew the angle. The mud threatened to sabotage my footing, but I didn’t care. Every muscle remembered exactly what to do.

  Parron tried to cut inside once more at the edge of the box. I met him shoulder-to-shoulder with everything I had, dragging him just enough toward the sideline to deny the sweet corridor he wanted. He huffed, cursed, and tried again, but I stayed a fraction ahead.

  I nicked the ball off him and passed it to Reeves once more, who immediately looked to recycle. No fancy footwork needed.

  Parron spun around, glared at me like I’d just slapped him in front of his friends, but for now, the danger was gone.

  “Damn, you got some mean tackle there, man,” he said, voice rough but with a smirk.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  He wasn’t done. “Gonna make it a personal challenge,” he added, leaning forward in that cocky way he had, “to beat you in a 1v1 next time.”

  I let a small grin curl at the edge of my mouth. “Oh? Is that a challenge? Because I’ve got a feeling you’re going to regret picking me as your target.”

  “We’ll see, mate. We’ll see.”

  Inside, I was quietly thrilled. Yes. Yes, yes. I could handle this. Keep him in a controlled corridor and force him into my timing, then I’d do the team a favor. The moment he decided passing was smarter would be the moment we were in trouble.

  We tried one last push before the half-time whistle, dragging the ball back to the right, recycling possession through Milner and Okafor, looking for any opening in the tight Plymouth shape. It all came to nothing. A mis-timed pass from Roberts, who again overcooked a simple ball meant to loop into Rothschild’s path, sent the flow tumbling.

  By the time the whistle blew, signalling half-time, I knew we were far from lethal. Plymouth had survived our right-side overload, adjusted their shape, and now looked entirely comfortable.

  The lads shook their heads silently as they trudged over to the sideline. No one said anything. I glanced at Mitch, and he gestured me over with a finger.

  Whatever he wanted to say to me, it better be constructive and not another round of ‘your fault, your idea, deal with it.’