Kowalski looked up, more bored than anything. “Why? So you can give me another one of your ideas the coach won’t listen to?”

  “No,” I said. “So you can do your job.”

  He scrunched his nose. I pushed before he could scoff.

  “You don’t have to respect Mitch. Fine. I don’t care. But you know what happens if you don’t lead?”

  I jerked my chin toward the team. Dom was hunched with hands on his hips. Donovan was staring at the grass like he was waiting for it to swallow him. Milner was repeatedly wiping his forehead as if the sweat itself was weighing him down.

  “You’ve played long enough to see it,” I continued. “If the left side dies, the triangles fall apart. If triangles fall apart, our press collapses. If the press collapses, Parron gets another goal. And another. And suddenly we’re not losing one-nil. We’re losing three-nil and jogging home wishing we’d actually tried.”

  I hadn’t even checked what Motivation Speech did, but the FMSim system felt it appropriate to force-feed me information right now.

  Brilliant. Cheers, FMSim. About time you backed me instead of grading me like a GCSE paper.

  Seeing Motivational Speech pop up like that had me proper buzzing. Kowalski didn’t move, but I felt him listening. I felt my confidence surge. Time to push.

  I lowered my voice. “Look, the lads are ready to break. You know that. You’ve been watching it happen all half. Donovan? He’s drowning out there. If you don’t drag him into the game, we lose the wing, we lose momentum, and we lose the match. But if you give them one spark—just one—they’ll follow you. Even on dead legs.”

  “I knew it. You’ve been hiding that big speech energy, huh?” He snorted. “Fine. But if I do this, it’s not for Mitch.”

  “Good,” I said, stepping aside. “Make it for the lads.”

  As Kowalski strode off toward the lads, rolling his shoulders like he was psyching himself up for a bar fight rather than a team talk, I couldn’t help but wonder: Mitch had only been here for, what, three weeks? Four max? Not nearly long enough to earn this level of resentment. So what had gotten Kowalski so wound up?

  Not that it mattered. Big speech energy, huh? That was just me bullshitting, the same way I did ten years back when I still thought I was some big shot who could make it to the Prem. But maybe I still had some of it left in me.

  The System nudged me:

  Ah, got it. Bullshit more, gain more. That was the lesson here.

  When I got back into the pitch, I scanned Donovan again for his morale. It had gone up a bit, to 38%. Not sure how much it was going to help if no one was going to pass to him, but a spark was a spark. You don’t ignore fire just because it starts as a matchstick.

  But even as the second half kicked off and we tried to apply Mitch’s plan, the cracks showed immediately.

  We rotated attacking options just like he wanted, with Roberts pushing higher, Dom drifting wider, Palmer starting whipping early crosses on command, and Rothschild taking the ball to the touchline and driving a cross into the mixer, but none of it stuck.

  Roberts did get one clean header early on, a lovely leap between the centre-backs, only to nod it straight at the keeper. The one time the big man got free, he basically delivered the ball gently into the keeper’s gloves like a peace offering. After that, their two centre-backs shadowed him so closely I thought they were trying to claim him on loan.

  Then came the second idea: early crosses from Palmer, hoping Roberts could head them back across goal for Dom. On paper, great. In practice? A tactical crime.

  Roberts could make the knock-downs, sure, but Dom being right-footed meant every single ball coming from the left required him to take an extra touch just to shift it to his dominant side. After the touch, Plymouth’s midfielders would have already been on him before he even shaped his body for the shot.

  Every time Dom received the knock-down:

  Touch.

  Turn.

  Thump—midfielder already there.

  Chance dead.

  And the problem got worse as the minutes ticked.

  With our ‘variety attacking plan’ in place, Dom had to keep shuffling roles, from right side for triangles to left side for second balls, then back again to press. That kind of constant movement only works if you’ve got an engine for lungs.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  Dom does not.

  One quick scan confirmed it:

  He was gassing out faster than expected. Actually, embarrassingly, faster than me, and I haven’t played an official match in seven bloody years. And with Donovan drifting around like he’d been unplugged from the server, the left side might as well have been a chalk outline.

  Then came the moment we couldn’t keep the pressure up. Plymouth sprang a proper counter, Parron charging straight at me like he’d been waiting all match for his solo highlight. He wiggled the ball around like it was a talent show audition, dancing like Michael Jackson reincarnate . . . and still clattered it straight into me again.

  I just raised three fingers at him and mouthed, “Three for three, lad.” Watching his face twist was glorious, like he couldn’t decide whether to explode or pretend he hadn’t heard it. He’d definitely heard it.

  But the grin didn’t last. Because if there’s one thing Parron knows how to do, it’s sniff blood in transition. And we were bleeding counters like a team-sized open wound.

  My lungs were already frying. One glance at my gauge confirmed it:

  57%, with sixty bloody minutes played. This was retirement-level fitness.

  I scanned Parron’s Stamina out of pure self-preservation.

  Ah, fuck.

  Then I remembered all the goals I saw from the clips about him. Half of them came after the seventieth minute. The man was a late-game demon; a cardio cryptid.

  Ah, fucking fuck fuck.

  I wanted to play safe, but I knew full well I couldn’t. With the backline moving further upfield to keep the pressure on, I needed to to stay engaged or we’d get carved open once more. Speaking of which . . .

  One sloppy touch in midfield, and Dom hastily passed it back to Okafor as their midfielders swooped in. Okafor had to sprint out of position to try to get to it, but Parron already pounced on it like a predator spotting a wounded gazelle. I hurriedly retreated, trying to stay close to my marker, Schwarzer.

  Yet, I could already see the outcome.

  Four of them poured forward.

  Four.

  Parron. Schwarzer. Hurst. Nyadzayo.

  And who did we have?

  Me and 34-year-old Kowalski.

  Parron dragged our shape wide with that stupid elastic movement of his, forcing me to track him. Kowalski, meanwhile, wasn’t even pretending to mark anyone—just shuffling back as fast as his ancient legs could manage, eyes glued to the ground like he was outrunning retirement itself. Hurst was separating himself from Kowalski, and a through ball to Hurst now would very possibly get him into a 1v1 position. But a pass to Schwarzer also could. And also a pass out wide to Nyadzayo for a low cross into the box. Too many passing options for them, too many variables for us to cover.

  Then, I remembered Parron’s words to Hurst from earlier: ‘This is why I don’t pass to you!’

  If Parron didn’t attempt a solo here, he’d feed Schwarzer, not Hurst. And my lungs were screaming, my legs threatening mutiny. I made a risky choice: stop obsessing about Parron. Forget trying to catch him; I’d fail with this stamina. Instead, I anticipated the pass to Schwarzer, gut feeling, pure instinct, a calculated gamble.

  Then Parron passed. To Schwarzer.

  Like telepathy, I cut out the pass, sliding in just ahead of Schwarzer’s stride. The ball pinged perfectly to Reeves, who immediately kicked it into motion to restart our attack. My chest was heaving, lungs on fire, vision spinning, but I still had enough left to raise four fingers at Parron and mouth the words, “Four out of four, lad.”

  The lad’s eyes were practically smoking. I grinned, holding it until he spat a curse under his breath and finally jogged back, already trying to anticipate another quick counter. Only then did I allow myself to drop my shoulders and breathe like I’d been running for my life.

  “Incredible read,” Kowalski jogged up to me and gave me a fist bump. I saw the glow above his head:

  Palmer also nodded, giving a quick thumbs-up while already moving back into position.

  Even as I let myself breathe, I knew it wouldn’t last. The pitch didn’t pause for morale boosts. I barely had time to glance at Kowalski and Palmer before the alarm bells went off again: Plymouth were charging, and this time it was coming fast, too fast to stage another miracle.

  I planted my feet, trying to read the play like I had with Schwarzer, but it was chaos. Parron was already dragging both Okafor and Reeves out wide, Schwarzer lurking, Hurst sprinting into space, and Nyadzayo cutting in from the flank.

  I sprinted toward the ball, sliding in to intercept what I thought would be the pass. I got there, barely nudged it off course, but it ricocheted perfectly into Hurst’s path instead of halting the attack. Schwarzer went for it, stepping in like he’d been waiting all game, but Hurst bellowed, “Leave it!”—the kind of shout that slices through ten thousand screaming fans—and Schwarzer jerked off the ball instantly.

  My chest burned, sweat stung my eyes, and the lungs were screaming in protest. I twisted, kicked, anything to stop him—but Hurst had the angle, a clean run straight toward goal.

  I could only watch as he shaped up for the strike, with Kowalski trying to jockey the ball off him in vain. The keeper, Holmes, should’ve rushed out, but he stood still like a coconut tree. This time, Hurst’s shot was precise.

  Goal.

  65’ – Plymouth 2 – 0 Hungerford

  Parron skidded to a halt just past the edge of the box with a wicked grin on his face. He didn’t even join Hurst for the celebration, but instead raised two fingers at me and held them up.

  Two.

  Zero.

  Ah, the little tosser.

  And just like that, the lads’ morale plummeted:

  Every one of them looked a shade grayer, a little slower, a little more beaten.

  It was time. No miracle would cover this one.

  Mitch was shouting at the lads like mad, and he finally made the changes. The substitutions came:

  [Donovan → Langley]

  [‘Dom’ Johnstone → Fleming]

  Langley already positioned closer to the center like I’d suggested ages ago, reading the lanes, ready to help control the midfield. Fleming’s fresh legs were a promise of energy down the right side, ready to rotate into the triangles, press, and stretch the opposition.

  Even at two-nil down, I felt like we had a shot now. But was it too late? I had no clue.