"The score's 2-1. Not that anyone's counting," Harriet said, watching as the players heaved for breath, sweat dripping down their faces under the harsh sun.
But while it didn't matter to the coaches.
It definitely mattered to the players.
Every single one of them wanted to win.
Harriet's whistle blew.
The game continued.
Everest passed to Xavier. Xavier tapped it left to Liam. The team surged forward, pressing high, but keeping their shape and depth intact. They weren't about to get burned by another one of Benjamin's quick turns.
Dorian dashed forward, he was still a bit of an oddball. He hadn't shown much in the trialist match or in training. Nothing flashy, nothing memorable. Just... average.
But if he was truly average, he wouldn't be on this pitch.
Liam sent a slicing ball into the sky, rising fast and dipping even faster, cutting clean through the defense and dropping into Dorian's path.
"Tch," Liam clicked his tongue. "He's too slow."
Dorian looked up, chasing the arc of the ball as it plummeted. It was already falling too fast, dipping too low.
The window Liam had seen was gone.
And even if Dorian had been quicker, even if he could've reached it in time.
The defense was ready.
Clovis stepped up, big frame towering over him, lining up to head it clear. And even if by some miracle Dorian beat him, Yamada lingered nearby, waiting to clean up.
He wouldn't reach it.
Not through Clovis's height. Not through his power.
Unless—
He jumped.
Dorian exploded off the ground. His legs cleared Clovis's chest. The defender jumped too, but not high enough. Dorian hung in the air—suspended for a second—and met the ball with his forehead, killing its momentum, tapping it straight down.
He landed, spun around Clovis, and charged forward.
Liam had suggested a bicycle kick outside the box, perhaps thinking the man up front was Benjamin. But Dorian wasn't built for that. He was too slow, too grounded.
So he took another route.
Now inside the box, eyes locked on the keeper. Jabari and Yamada closed in from both sides.
It didn't matter.
He had already lined up his shot. No pass. No bailout. He was going to finish it himself.
His leg swung back.
But just before the strike—
A streak of blue.
Nagisa's leg blocked the shot.
The ball spun wildly downfield.
And they both went after it.
Blue and brown streaked across the pitch like lightning. The private training ground wasn't open to spectators, but by the gates, a few heads peeked through, watching the game.
It was just training.
But the tension in the air said otherwise.
Nagisa tore up the field, eyes blazing.
He hadn't made an impact. Not in training. Not in the Trialist match. Nothing so far.
And if he wanted to prove he wasn't just another throwaway?
He had to make it impossible to ignore him.
Shin dashed forward. Not the best defender, but not the worst either. His legs stretched out calmly, hands raised to keep the pressure.
Nagisa didn't care.
His feet danced over the ball, light and fast. One hand out to hold off Dorian surging in from behind. Then, with a sudden feint, he nudged the ball outward with the outside of his boot. Jumped the tackle. And kept going.
Down the flank, past Shin.
The counter was on.
Benjamin charged through the center, every step in perfect rhythm with the wide man. It didn't need to be said but the Parker brothers felt the game. Timing, instinct, awareness, they had it all.
Tobias marked Benjamin tightly, while Shin and Xavier fell back, rushing to Nagisa's side.
Three defenders.
Dorian closing in. Shin trailing. Xavier pressing.
The pressure they gave was crushing, thick enough to cut with a knife.
But Nagisa didn't crack.
He pulled his leg back as if to cross—just before passing lane was blocked.
All three defenders lunged. Legs out. Blocking.
A fake.
Nagisa stopped dead. Pulled back. And watched them stagger, one of them even slipping to the ground.
He glanced toward Benjamin in the center, open now.
But didn't pass.
"What a move!" Harriet said, stunned. "Still... Nagisa didn't show anything like this in training." She glanced across the field. Dorian, Byron... all of them playing out of their minds. "None of them did,"
"Because none of them played," Paul said. "Everyone on the bench is desperate to break into the starting eleven. And the engine that is our XI is starting to close. If they don't break through now, they're forgotten. Getting into that mesh before it seals, is the only thing on their minds"
He stared at Nagisa.
"That's why they're staking their claims."
Nagisa drove forward again. Another feint. From left to right, a switch that bedazzled Dorian, the last man standing.
Now, he was through.
One-on-one with Lance, guarding the near post.
Nagisa looked up once.
Benjamin had drifted off Tobias. Wide open.
He shot anyway.
The ball flew, straight into the gloves of the keeper. Bouncing off and toward the center.
Tobias recovered it, knocking it forward to reset play.
"Wasteful," Harriet muttered. "Benjamin was wide open. If you can't cross, you'd better score."
Paul shrugged.
"Nagisa's not going to be a high-volume scorer. He's more Doku than Salah."
"But he's playing that inside forward role," Harriet said. "Isn't that a problem?"
"Not with Elke beside him," Paul replied. "He draws pressure, drags defenders out. Then slips it off for a clean chance. That's the vision."
He exhaled, watching Nagisa's retreating figure.
"The issue isn't his game, it's his mindset. He thinks he's alone on the wing. Takes on too much. Gambles instead of making the easy play."
Another sigh.
"I like a gamble. But when they don't pay off, you start building walls between you and the team. Ignore Benjamin enough times, and that partnership? It dies."
"So what are you going to do?" Harriet asked.
"Sub him off."
"Now?"
He nodded.
Harriet stood and raised her hand.
"Mateo in for Nagisa!"
Nagisa stopped at the sideline, staring at the signal. Then kicked at the turf and walked off, snatching a towel from the bench. Without a word, he disappeared into the fitness room.
"That didn't seem like the best decision," Harriet said quietly.
"There's a fine line between confidence and arrogance," Paul said. "And he's teetering toward the latter."
"And you think you can bring him back?"
"I know I can." Paul watched play resume. "He's a diamond. All I have to do is push him closer to the sunlight."
After a few minutes. Harriet's whistle pierced the air.
The game was over.
She stood, turning off the camera after double-checking the footage had saved. Only then did she lower it.
Players walked off the pitch, sweat slicking their brows, jerseys clinging to their backs.
"Cool down in the fitness room," Paul called. "Shower. Rest. Training's done for the day."
A collective "Yay!" rang out, voices blurring into friendly, tired chatter.
Harriet looked at Paul, then out to the empty pitch.
"What about you? Headed home or... somewhere else?"
Paul blinked, eyes slow to leave the field.
"Home, probably. I've got to rewatch today's tape, update the starting eleven, skim through the Forest match footage, and send clips out to the squad."
He scratched the back of his neck.
"Then there's Ross. I need to ask about the payroll budget. Some of the lads need full-time contracts if we want proper sessions. Four hours a day isn't cutting it."
"I see." Harriet nodded. "Want some help?"
Paul laughed softly.
"Nah, I'll manage. Sounds like a lot, but it's really not. I'll knock it out quick."
"If you say so." She turned, waving as she stepped off the sideline. "I'll take care of the Forest footage then. Lessen your load."
Paul smiled, calling after her.
"That'd help a lot. Thanks!"
She raised a hand in response, disappearing toward the facility.
Paul looked back to the field, quiet and still now.
Over sixty matches ahead. League fixtures, FA Cup, FA Trophy, Hertfordshire Senior Cup. Not all were winnable, but every step forward meant money. Exposure. Growth.
And growth meant survival.
He started his walk home, yawning. This was the challenge he'd taken on, to forge this team into something real. Something cohesive.
And he would.
After a few buses and a long walk, he arrived at his apartment, modest, just off the north side. An hour and a half long commute, nothing too brutal.
He climbed the worn, silver colored stairs to his floor, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
It was quiet, and dark.
Paul flicked on a light switch by his side, dropped his bag and collapsed onto the bed, face-first, groaning into the pillow.
He wasn't getting paid. The club didn't have enough for that, not yet. And that meant by evening, he'd need to head to his second job to keep the lights on.
He wasn't the only one juggling however.
All of the players came in at eight and left around twelve at noon, most likely going to second jobs as well.
And while everything would eventually be sorted, for now it wasn't enough. They needed time, real time, to train and to grow. He needed to draft a personal training plan for each of them. Get Cory on board. Build something sustainable.
He rolled onto his back, exhaling hard.
Framed photos hung above his bed—family shots. His parents. Siblings.
His mother, Martha Sczerny, fitness coach at Bayern Munich.
His father, Joaquin Sczerny, a former player for Mainz 05.
Legends in their own way. Gone now.
Their deaths, years after his first coaching stint, still echoed through him. Reverberated louder with every setback. He hadn't just let himself down in those dark days, he'd let them down as well.
But Halles Sieger was a last chance. A resurrection.
Winning here, meant more than just him.
He turned again.
There was one thing he hadn't done yet, hadn't found time to do.
Know his players.
Really know them. Their stories. Their lives beyond the pitch.
"Maybe I'll start with Benjamin," he muttered, eyes slipping shut. "Yeah... Benjamin first... Then the others... Benjamin first..."
And sleep took him.