"So... Mr. Sczerny..." The man skimmed the job application in front of him. "It says here you used to be a top coach, managed Leeds and Norwich once upon a time."
"Yes, sir." Paul sat opposite him, adjusting his suit as his tie crinkled against the fabric.
The man set the application down and finally looked at him. Ross Vasillev—the new owner of Halles Sieger, a semi-professional club he had purchased after their demotion from the last tier of german football, and repurposed, now entering them into the Vanarama instead.
He sighed. "Look, I know my team doesn't have the best reputation. Hell, we barely have players right now. Not many coaches would even glance our way." His gaze sharpened. "But do you really think we're that bad that we'd hire you?"
Paul said nothing. There was nothing to say.
"I respect you coming here, but your record is abysmal." Ross leaned back. "And hiring you would only sink our reputation further. This is our first season in the Vanarama, we can't afford to screw this up."
Paul exhaled slowly. "I understand. But give me one game."
Ross frowned. "What?"
"Don't hire me. Just give me a chance. I'll scout players and bring them in myself. I don't need a transfer budget, just wages—"
"And why would I agree to that?" Ross interrupted.
Paul leaned forward. "To prove I can still coach a team to the top. I did it with Norwich, took them from League Two to the Premier League in three seasons."
Ross scoffed. "That was six years ago, Paul. Do you really think that overshadows relegating three teams and losing eighty consecutive games? You're not just a gamble... you're a brand risk."
"That's right," Paul said. "So give me one game. I don't need to be hired, I don't need to be paid. Hell, I'll even spend my own money on the team. I just need one shot, one game to prove I can still do this."
"I understand your position, but I still don't see the point of—"
"Imagine the headline." Paul cut in, locking eyes with Ross. "My arrival alone would bring media attention. Your team—this team, would be in the spotlight. Our wins would be front-page news."
"And our losses would be on the covers," Ross countered. "It's not worth the risk."
"Only if we lose." Paul leaned forward, voice firm. "I can do this, Mr. Vasillev. I just need time. One game. Ninety minutes."
Ross hesitated. Paul had a point. A win would put the team on the map, draw in better players, bring back fans and maybe even attract new ones. It was a high-risk, high-reward move.
"Do you honestly think you can win with the squad we have?" Ross asked. "We barely have enough players for a full lineup."
"I'll take the scouts and bring in more," Paul said. "I scouted Summerville, Dehani, Walker. I can do this."
Ross stood and walked to the window, his gaze settling on the pitch below. The players trained on a wrinkled, uneven field. Hardly the kind of surface you'd expect for a professional setup.
But that was the least of their concerns as since relocating to England, the club had been forced into a ground-share arrangement with another team. It was far from ideal, and to that end.
He doubted any quality players would want to come here.
But then again—before the losses, before the failures —Paul Sczerny had been one of the best coaches in the world.
Ross exhaled. "Fine. We'll cover the wages."
Paul's eyes widened slightly, his hand clenching at his side.
"Go find us some players," Ross said. "The league starts in two weeks. That's how much time you have."
"Yes, sir." Paul stood, ready to leave.
Ross gave him one last look. "But remember, you said it yourself... one game."
Paul stepped out of the office and into the long hallway. Most of the rooms were empty—spaces where staff should have been. The club was barely finding its footing, and now, somehow, he was at the helm.
Winning their first game was going to be a massive challenge.
They didn't even have enough players to hold a friendly, not that they had the reputation to ask. Even the team they shared a stadium with turned them down.
"This is going to be impossible," Paul muttered as he stepped outside, the wind brushing against his face. "But then again, that's what they said before I won the league."
But that was six years ago.
On the pitch, the players trained, what little of them there were. Nine in total. He could count them on two hands. They had all come up through the club's youth system.
The senior squad? Gone. Poached by other clubs, some even forcing their way out while still under contract. If he had those players now, he'd be in a much better position.
But this was reality. And he had to deal with it.
Paul was supposed to introduce himself to the team, get to know them, figure out their personalities, and start drilling tactics into their heads. They only had two weeks, after all.
But there was no time.
They needed a full starting eleven. At least six substitutes. Preferably more.
He pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts, and stopped at a familiar number. Pressing call, he listened to the dial tone until a voice answered.
"Andre, where are you?"
"Paul," came the reply. "Something wrong?"
Andre had been one of the best scouts at Norwich back in the day, and an even better friend. He had left the club and followed Paul everywhere, even into unemployment.
"We've got a job, Andre." Paul started walking. "We need ten players."
A pause. Then laughter. "You goddamn whippersnapper." Excitement stirred in Andre's voice. "How long do we have?"
"Two weeks."
"You crazy bastard."
"You in?"
"When have I not been?"
"Perfect, you're a life saver Andre," Paul said, "Really."
"Of course I am, and you know what else is perfect."
"Hm?"
"There's a trialist match tomorrow," Andre said. "Some of the best free agents and prospects in the country will be there."
"And how many of them do you think we have a shot at signing?" Paul asked.
A pause.
"What team are you coaching again?" Andre asked.
"Halles Sieger."
Andre went silent for a moment before exhaling. "Yeah... we might have to rethink this."