I jogged over to Mitch as the lads slipped off the pitch, mud-caked and muttering under their breath. He didn’t waste time with small talk.

  “Sit,” he said, pointing to the bench with a curt nod.

  I wiped my hands on my shorts, bracing for either a lecture or some cryptic tactical epiphany.

  “Look,” Mitch started. “we don’t defend a one-nil loss. Not even against fourth place. We push players forward. I’m thinking we use Roberts’ head more. Don’t get stuck on one triangle overload down the right trick. It works, but it’s predictable.”

  At least he got the right attitude.

  I replied, “Crosses from both sides, Palmer’s early delivery, triangle combinations, whatever opens them up.”

  “Exactly.” Mitch leaned forward. “I didn’t do it in the first half because that’s how the club’s played before me. Plymouth knew the counterplay. But now? We spice things up. Mix it.”

  I chewed on that for a second. “Multiple attacking options. Got it. But what about finishing? Dom keeps flubbing. Do we have anyone better on the bench?”

  “Yeah, we’ve got Langley. Good composure, decent strike rate, but he’s no Dom in mobility. He won’t get himself into shooting positions the way Dom does. Not a chance he’s ghosting into the corners, dragging defenders with him. He’s just not fit for a triangle.”

  Perfect. Plenty of problems to fix on the training ground, then. Finishing, timing, cross delivery, multiple attacking options, rotation . . . the list was long, but at least Mitch was thinking forward, not just managing damage control.

  Mitch closed up the conversation, “I’ll think about Dom, but we gotta talk to the players first. Get them fired up.”

  Hearing that got me thinking: I got the Morale Gauge now. I’d just unlocked it yesterday, hadn’t had a proper chance to see it in action, and now seemed like the perfect moment.

  So I scanned the lads.

  Some were holding up. Kowalski, looking like he’d been rolled over by a tractor half a dozen times, was at Morale: 52%. I found it odd how someone who was usually so calm and collected like him, and who was supposed to be the captain, had such middling morale. Palmer looked much better, sitting at 67%, still focused enough to deliver clean crosses if we asked. Okafor looked solid, like he always did, 74%, ready to shove anyone out of the way to enforce the plan. He had always been the upright and engaged type.

  But then . . . the cracks started showing. Dom Johnstone, our designated finisher and supposed triangle ghost, had 40%. Rough day, obviously. His misfires had rattled him more than I’d realized.

  And then there was Donovan. 37%, practically in the red. Ghostly. He hadn’t contributed a single meaningful run or pass. If I closed my eyes, it was like our gameplan had completely forgotten he existed.

  Mitch motioned for the lads to circle around. “Alright, listen up.”

  The squad shuffled closer, some leaning on knees, others crossing arms. Mitch scanned the lot of them then leaned on the bench. “I’ve been where you are. A few years back, my team was down at half against the league leaders, the biggest club in League Two. Everyone was talking about how they were gonna run us off the park, how there was no chance. I looked around at my lads, and their faces were like you right now! Wet towels. You gotta look at yourself; you look like you have to take some selfies for your Tinder profile.”

  A few of the younger ones snorted.

  “But you know what happened?” Mitch continued. “We came out, did the work, trusted the plan, and we won. Not because we were the better side on paper, not because we had the fanciest players. Because we believed, and we executed. Now, Plymouth? They weren’t even all that; not half the teams we used to face. We know them. And we’ve got something they don’t—heart, brains, and the willingness to run harder, think faster, and finish smarter.

  “So I want everyone on their feet when we go back out. Forget the first half. Forget the scoreboard. I don’t care if it’s mud up to your knees, if it’s raining or the wind’s trying to knock you over. Play smart, play together, and play like you know you can win. Because you can win.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Yeah, sure. But where are the tactical adjustments? You’re gonna communicate to the lads when to whip in more crosses? Which angles to look for? How much have we drilled those early crosses? We can’t win on vibes; we’re not fucking magic workers like Ferguson’s United.

  He clapped his hands furiously several times. “Let’s get back out there. Eyes open, heads up, legs moving, hearts in it. Come on!” Mitch held up his hand. “Alright! Everyone in—hands in, fire!”

  Oh well . . . Maybe some inspiration is all we need.

  The team circled, palms meeting in the center of the huddle. “Fire!” we shouted together, a mix of grit and adrenaline. Even the reluctant ones joined in, and the shouts were indeed fiery.

  The reaction was generally okay. Mitch had the knack for this kind of talk, so most of the lads perked up just enough to suggest they were ready to buy in. Palmer ticked up to 71%, Okafor nudged to 78%. Even the usually sluggish Milner got a little spark, up to 64%.

  But Kowalski? Morale flatlined at 52%. The old man wasn’t exactly unresponsive, but he didn’t get that extra lift. Probably just fatigue, or maybe he’d heard the same old too many times.

  And then there was Donovan. 37% had been bad enough, but after Mitch laid out the second-half attacking plan, his gauge plummeted to 33%. I could practically see him shrink further into himself. Something was off. Today, he might as well have been a ghost on the pitch. Mitch had talked about using the wings aggressively, about committing numbers forward, but in all of that enthusiasm, it felt like Donovan had been completely overlooked. And right now, we needed our left wing sorted.

  I chewed on Donovan’s morale drop, frowning. Something had to be done about the left wing, because right now it was a ghost zone. Then a genius idea lit up in me: Langley. Could he play that side?

  Technically, he wasn’t a natural winger—he was more of an attacking midfielder, always hovering in the half-space between the lines—but maybe that was a feature, not a bug. Our shape would be a little lopsided, sure, but that would be better than a non-existent left side.

  If Dom couldn’t finish, Langley could drift in closer to the center whenever the triangle went up. Dom might even spot him and lay a clever pass into the space. Langley could then pounce on the opportunity for a surprise shot. He just needed to get into position.

  I checked Langley’s Positioning: 69 ±?30. Good enough.

  However . . . we’d failed once with our idea, and I didn’t know how to raise the idea to Mitch without sounding like I was undermining him.

  Or maybe I did. I just needed to keep it factual.

  I took a breath and walked up close to him. “Gaffer. What if we shift Langley onto the left? He’s more of a half-space attacker than a winger, but with Dom drifting wide, he could sneak into the central danger zones for a shot.”

  Mitch pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly annoyed. “No, Jamie. We stick to the plan. We just talked about the changes, and I want to observe first.”

  I nodded, forcing calm. “I hear you, Gaffer. I’m not saying scrap it. But Donovan’s barely moving today, and the left side’s basically a ghost zone. He’s been under the weather, too.”

  “Then fix it. Go talk to him. Get him involved!” He jabbed a thumb at Kowalski who was fiddling with the captain’s armband like it was a relic. “Tell our captain today to bring Donovan over, get him engaged, get him moving. What’s the captain been doing all game? If your captain doesn’t lead, no one will.”

  I ran a hand over my hair. No point arguing with Mitch now, and he was right about involving the captain. Still, that didn’t solve the left side, and Donovan wasn’t going to fix himself.

  I jogged over to Kowalski, who was crouched near the corner flag. “Kowalski,” I said, lowering my voice, “you need to get Donovan moving. Gaffer wants the left involved, and he’s your responsibility as captain.”

  Kowalski stared at me. “Did you tell the coach to sub someone in?”

  I stared back at him. “How’d you know?”

  He smirked. “Saw you eyeing Langley. I want him in too. Guess the coach didn’t want us to equalize.”

  Ah. I saw it now. Kowalski hadn’t been impressed with Mitch since the beginning of the match, so he didn’t feel like leading because he didn’t respect the call. That was a rather shitty attitude to have, and I was in no business of fixing it. Still, I couldn’t just let it slide.

  I closed my eyes for a moment and pictured the second half playing out if Kowalski stayed passive. Donovan drifting like a ghost, the left wing empty, Milner hesitating, the opposition exploiting every gap we left. Every cross wasted, every triangle stalled, every shot blocked because no one was coordinating. I could see them losing possession, one goal, then two. The lads’ morale would crumble further, mud-splattered and exhausted, running in circles without purpose, watching Plymouth pull further ahead.

  I shuddered at the image. No. No team I ever play for will lose with our asses up on a platter like this.

  When I opened my eyes, I said, “Kowalski, listen to me.” I would not let this team go down. Not in this fashion.