The tactical room smelled of old sweat and fried circuit boards — a bunker where hope came to die under flickering match data and charts spiking red like heart monitors in arrest.
Busch, the club's medical coach, burly, thick-necked, nose forever bent from an old playing injury, rapped the screen with a knuckle. The passing patterns glowed on the AR panels, all pretty geometry until the legs under them snapped.
"Gaffer," Busch grunted, voice as rough as the scar on his jaw, "this shape'll break the older lads. Lopatin's knees are already shot, and half the midfield's got hamstrings like old elastic. They'll pop in a week pressing like this."
Murray, the goalkeeping coach, rubbed a thumb across his lips. "Schmitt is too slow off his line in a back three. High line, they'll target him every time."
Adams Harding leaned back against the dented table, arms folded so tight his shoulders creaked. He'd watched the 3-5-2 flicker alive in the System all night — the angles perfect, the spaces tight, a shape that strangled the counter before it sparked. On paper, beautiful. On broken human legs, lethal — but for the wrong side.
"So," Adams rasped, eyes on Busch. "What's your fix?"
Busch flicked a tab, and player load charts spiked blood-red. "Rotations. Minutes should be managed properly. You push the wrong lad through dead legs, we lose him for the rest of the run-in."
Adams sighed, letting it roll through his shoulders like the taste of whiskey. "Fine. Medical rotation's top priority. I want no surprises come matchday."
The System pulsed at the edge of his vision, text cold and neat:
> [Reward: Injury Status +10%]
Murray made a grunt that passed for agreement and slipped out, boots squeaking. Busch followed with a parting shot: "You break 'em now, gaffer, you'll have ghosts on that pitch come derby day."
Adams lingered. The tactical room hummed — screens flickering the passing triangles, the formation lines weaving in his mind like spiderwebs. Beautiful shapes that needed fearless legs. Young legs. Hungry ones.
The club's academy sat across the salt-scarred training complex — a low dome half-buried in marsh clay, glowing panels flicking from drill setups to heat maps like a chessboard reprogramming itself.
Inside, drones buzzed over the U18s' heads, each pass pinging with algorithmic approval or rebuke. The air smelled of damp turf, raw sweat, and the cheap gel the kids used to plaster down hair before they dreamed of call-ups.
Adams leaned on the rail above the dome pitch, eyes scanning the patterns. For a moment, he let himself feel something close to hope. They were just kids — boots too big, hearts too wild. But they ran like the world hadn't taught them fear yet.
The System flickered:
> [Hidden Objective: Recruit Gielgud]
His gaze sharpened, pinning the kid the second he saw him. Blonde hair stuck to his forehead, long frame still half-built — all elbows and lungs — but he moved differently. He intercepted a bad pass near the sideline before the ball even settled. A flick of the boot, a diagonal cut that split two defenders like old rope. The follow-up shot was scuffed, wide — but the idea was electric.
Adams spotted Paul, the wiry youth coach, barking orders that bounced off the polycarb walls. "Paul!" Adams called, voice bouncing over drone hum and boot slap.
Paul flinched like a schoolboy caught nicking biscuits. "Boss — didn't see you up there." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You want a word about him, don't you?" He didn't need to point — his shoulders did it for him.
Adams didn't blink. "That's Gielgud?"
Paul blew out a sigh that rattled his ribcage. "Smart kid. Tracks back, risky passes, sees the pitch like radar. But…" He gestured to the corner where a man in a slick Kingsport United raincoat stood, arms folded, eyes flat as glass. "They've got the papers ready. His old man wants him closer to the city. More 'exposure.'"
Adams tasted copper on his tongue. Another nail in the coffin — unless he pried it loose. "You want him to walk?"
Paul's laugh was sandpaper-dry. "What I want doesn't matter. He's got an engine for your 3-5-2, but that risk? He'll give you a pass no one expects — sometimes, not even him."
Adams didn't move. Just folded his arms tighter. The System's hum filled his skull — that cold whisper of Obliteration. Gielgud was the glue piece. Lose him, and the triangle cracked.
---
Later, after drills wound down and the dome lights dimmed to a soft gloom, Adams found Gielgud alone by the touchline. The kid juggled a battered ball, scuffing the damp turf with boots two sizes too new. He flinched when Adams' shadow fell over him, the ball rolling away to rest against the boards.
"Coach!" the kid squeaked, voice cracking like old paint. "Didn't know you were… uh… here."
Adams smirked. "Could've fooled me. Third touch lost you the whole move. Sit down, lad."
Gielgud perched on the bench, boots tapping the ground. He fidgeted with the tape on his wrist, peeling it off in nervous strips.
Adams let the silence sit until the kid squirmed. "You've got vision. You see lines that the others don't even know exist. But that vision's worth jack if you bottle it the second a meathead lunges in studs up. This league doesn't give you time to grow balls. You need 'em now."
Gielgud's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "I know, coach. I'm ready. I think. Just—"
Adams cut him off with a bark of a laugh. "Think? Kid, 'think' gets you benched. Or sold. Or worse, snapped in half mid-pitch. I'm not handing you a spot for free. You prove you can stick your chin out when it matters, you stay. Flinch, and I bury you on the bench faster than Kingsport can sniff you out again. Fair?"
The kid's eyes gleamed — fear and hunger in equal measure. "Fair."
Adams dug into his pocket, pulled out a battered tin. "Digestive?"
Gielgud squinted. "What's the catch?"
Adams popped the tin, flicked a biscuit at him. "If it kills you, it means you weren't cut out for Regional League One. Good test."
The kid barked a laugh so loud it startled them both. For half a heartbeat, Adams felt the weight on his chest ease — just a sliver.
Gielgud brushed crumbs off his trackies and stood straighter. "Alright, boss. I'll talk to my dad. He's… cautious."
"Good," Adams grunted. "Caution keeps you alive. Just don't let it keep you soft."
---
The next morning.
Adams was pitchside before the bus wheezed up to the gates, belching diesel clouds over the marsh. The System pulsed at his temple, whispering cold threats:
> [Daily Objective: Identify Strongest XI]
One by one, the squad stumbled off the shuttle— some wide-eyed, some swaggering like roosters to hide the terror of the drop. Daisuke led the charge, boots half-laced, electric blue hair already plastered to his forehead.
Adams folded his arms. "You're early. Lost a bet?"
Daisuke flicked him a grin. "Couldn't sleep. Dreamed about you yelling at me for two hours straight."
Behind him, Lopatin limped down the steps, knees wrapped tighter than Christmas turkeys. "Gaffer, yell twice as hard. Might knock sense into his dyed skull."
Daisuke shot back, "Nutmeg you first, grandpa."
Adams let the banter run. The squad needed it — thin armor against the spiral they were balancing on. The System flickered:
> [Reward: Popularity +1]
The pitch glowed under the rusted floodlights, rain puddling in the corners. Drones zipped overhead, lines of AR cones flickered alive, sketching the 3-5-2 on wet grass like a war map.
Adams stood in the centre circle, the wind clawing at his coat. "Listen up! Plug the gaps at the back, suffocate the middle, and hit them on the break. No statues. No excuses. This shape is your coffin if you drift."
Ernesto leaned on his tablet and smirked. "Daisuke, remember — the cones can't dribble past you, yeah?"
Lopatin fired back, "Bet he breaks his ankle trying to nutmeg the cones."
The lads howled. Laughter that cracked the tension, even if just for a heartbeat. The System pinged:
> [Reward: Motivation +2]
Warm-ups bled into positional games, triangle passes flickering across the pitch like electric wires. Daisuke messed up a channel run — Lopatin picked his pocket, slipped it through his legs clean.
"Buy me dinner first!" Daisuke barked, flushed red.
Adams snorted despite himself. The laughter was paper-thin. Beneath it, the System hummed the truth: Sloppy now, dead come matchday.
The shape clicked for maybe fifteen seconds — a single, fluid passage that made Adams believe the gap could hold. Ball to wing-back, pivot, slide pass, overlap, and a crackling shot fizzed inches wide. Close didn't keep you up.
When the final whistle blew, boots squeaked down the tunnel, leaving the pitch churned to a swamp. Adams turned to the dugout, where a slim silhouette waited — Gielgud, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders bunched like coiled wire.
"You're still here," Adams said, voice flat.
Gielgud nodded, eyes darting to the car park where a battered sedan idled. "My old man wants a word tomorrow. Says he wants to know who's gambling with his boy's knees."
Adams laughed — a sound sharp as broken glass. "Tell him I'll bring the biscuits."
The wind howled through the empty stands. Adams watched Lopatin clap a hand on Gielgud's shoulder, the veteran and the kid sharing a grin that might hold if they bled for it.
Anchors hold, Adams thought, boots sinking into the soaked grass.
One piece at a time. One shape to hold the tide back. Three days before Kingsport, the wolves were scratching at the door.
Adams turned for the exit, coat flapping behind him like a tattered banner. The floodlights flickered overhead, drawing ghosts across the pitch.