Halles Sieger FC – Player Training Regime
Structured by Head Coach Paul Sczerny.
Refined by Assistant Coach Cory Walker.
Goalkeepers
Lance Aubergine
• Running Drills
• Reaction Time Training
• Goalkeeper Reflexes
• Goalkeeper Catching
Vincent McGee Jr.
• Reaction Time training
• Goalkeeper Catching
• Goalkeeper Throwing
Defenders
Arun Rafael Assunção
• Speed Training
• Conditioning
• Interception Drills
• Crossing Play
Everest Wallflower
• Reaction Time Training
• Strength & Endurance
• Agility Drills
• Passing Play
• Positioning Awareness
Tobias Grist Sr.
• Toughness Drills
• Strength & Endurance
• Heading Training
• Defensive Unit Coordination
• Conditioning
Clovis Siewe
• Strength & Endurance
• Conditioning
• Heading Training
Jabari Akinfola
• Defensive Unit Drills
• Tackling Technique
• Interception Drills
• Strength & Endurance
Daichi Yamada
• Crossing Play
• Running Drills
• Strength & Endurance
• Passing Play
Midfielders/Wingers
Liam Briar
• Strength & Endurance
• Conditioning
• Agility & Speed
• Crossing Play
• Speed Distribution
Xavier Leon Frederick
• Positioning Awareness
• Defensive Unit Integration
• Defensive Awareness
• Speed Training
Mateo Lorenzo Andres Camila
• Agility Training
• Flair Development
• Crossing Play
• Shooting Drills
• Speed Training
Nagisa Aoto
• Shooting Drills
• Flair Training
• Crossing Play
• Passing Play
• Strength & Endurance
Dorian Caldera
• Jumping Drills
• Heading Drills
• Passing Play
• Crossing Play
• Technique Development
Elke Aldeheid
• Speed Training
• Shooting Drills
• Heading Drills
• Long Shot Practice
• Passing Play
Shin Ha-jun
• Strength & Endurance
• Crossing Play
• Speed Training
• Passing Play
Byron Whitaker
• Speed Training
• Crossing Drills
• Strength & Endurance
• Toughness Drills
Forwards
Benjamin Parker
• Speed Training
• Shooting Drills
• Flair Development
• Long Shots
• Attacking movement
• Heading Play
• Strength & Endurance
• Agility Training
• Technique Development
___________________________________
The training regime was scrawled across the whiteboard in tight sets. One flowed into the next without pause. As soon as a player finished one, they moved to the next. Cory watched them all like a hawk.
Time bled into noon.
One by one, the players filtered off the pitch, exhausted. All except two—Cory and Benjamin.
At a bigger club, there'd be specialized coaches for every detail. Attack, fitness, positioning. Each handled by a different expert. But here, with a shoestring budget and a modest setup, the coaches wore every hat. It was overwork, sure.
But Cory didn't seem to mind.
He stood beneath the sun, sweat trickling down his cheek, firing balls into the air for Benjamin to chase. The striker leapt, meeting them mid-air with powerful headers, landing on burning legs. Cory clapped each time, calling out small adjustments.
Benjamin never complained. Not once.
He couldn't afford to, not after everything. He was the main striker, the spear of their team. That wasn't just a title. It was trust, given to him by a coach who believed in his potential.
Letting him down once was already one time too many.
So he kept jumping, kept pushing. And when the drill ended, and every muscle screamed in protest, he sank into the ice bath like a corpse. It was numbing, brutal. But it didn't matter.
Two more days passed like this, relentless training, drills until their legs gave out. Tactics, sprints, mental preparation.
And finally, Friday came.
Game day.
The New Lawn Stadium towered above them like a monument to everything they weren't. Smaller than the Lamex. But bigger than anything they had to themselves. And the fans made that known. Pouring into the venue like crashing waves.
Green shirts painted the stands. Chants rumbled through the terraces like thunder.
"WE ARE FGR~!"
"WE ARE FGR~!!"
The chant rose and fell like a tsunami, burying any sense of calm they might've had. This might not have been their debut, but it felt like it. The pressure. The noise. The crippling atmosphere.
Against them stood not just Forest Green Rovers. But the media. The fans. The narrative.
On Harriet's tablet, voices played in a low loop. A segment was airing—Jermaine Smith, mic in hand, just outside the stadium, stopping people on their way in.
"Why are you here to watch today's match at The New Lawn?" he asked one man.
The fan shrugged. "Not really a supporter of either team. But come on, Hanz going off about Sczerny being a fraud? That's better than reality TV. This is gonna be a car crash and I've got myself a bucket of popcorn."
Another interview, same energy.
"I just want to see Halles get battered. Five-nil would be perfect. These clowns keep bringing up the coaches Premier League title like it wasn't the worst season ever. Hanz nailed it, this guy's a fraud."
Jermaine laughed and turned to the camera.
"Back to you in the studio, Harold."
Harold grinned as he leaned into frame.
"The world is healing," he said, eyes filled with satisfaction. "I couldn't get through to them. But Rumaria did. Now everyone sees it. Paul Sczerny? He was never the real deal."
"This one-sided beef of yours has to be bad for your health," said Gracie Chede as the camera cut to her face. "The game starts shortly, so grab your popcorn and enjoy the spectacle that is: Forest Green Rovers versus Halles Sieger!"
The broadcast cut to commercials.
Harriet sighed and shut down the tablet, placing it gently on a table.
In the locker room, the players sat quietly. Water bottles in hand, towels draped around their necks. The week had been brutal, but Thursday's session had been light, a taper to let them peak today. Every single one of them was match-fit. Physically, at least.
Paul stood in front of them, the lineup written behind him, unchanged from their last match. A few players stood off to the side, tense, disappointed not to see their names. But none complained. They understood.
He studied the room. Nervous eyes. Fidgeting hands. Arcing feet.
The nerves were on full blast.
But that was fine.
Nerves meant something mattered. Meant they understood the weight of the moment. And that was important.
Paul clapped once. Everyone turned.
"Same as last time," he began. "I'm not a good motivational speaker. I'm not here to give you magic words or pretend I know what's in your hearts. But what I do know... is football. And I know how hard every one of you has worked to be here."
No one moved. All eyes were on him.
"You've trained just as hard as any team I've coached. You've put in the hours. You've taken the hits. And now, we're up against a side that thinks we're a joke. A stepping stone. Something to walk over on their way up."
He paced slowly, making sure they were still with him.
"They're expecting us to lie down. They've said it themselves—on camera, in print, in front of the whole damn country. They think we don't belong here."
He stopped, looked each player in the eyes.
"Well, maybe they're right. Maybe we don't belong... yet. But that's why we play the game. Not to prove them wrong, but to prove ourselves right."
He nodded slowly.
"You don't play for me. You don't play for the media. You play for each other. For the people who show up, even when the world laughs at us. And today, you make them proud."
A short pause.
"So go out there! Show them not to run their mouths."
Silence again.
Then—
"I love you, coach... but that sucked," Xavier said, grinning as he stood up.
"Really?" Paul said, slightly embarrassed.
"I didn't wanna say anything, but yeah." Clovis followed, already moving toward the door. "That first part? Spot on. Everything after that? Could definitely use some work."
"Oh..."
"You tried though," Lance added with a smile. "That's gotta count for something, right?"
Laughter rippled through the room, soft but genuine. The tension faded.
The squad began moving toward the door, until Benjamin stopped, then turned back, and met Paul's eyes.
"Don't worry, coach," Benjamin said, his jet-black hair catching the white overhead lights. "We got the memo."
They turned, and as they walked out together, the chorus followed behind him—
"Let's show these green bastards not to run their mouths!"
Then they walked out.
Under the gaze of the morning sun.
Under the cold white tunnel lights.
Under the roar of a crowd ready to drag their team forward by sheer force of will.
And as the away kits of Halles Sieger, white with sharp purple stripes, faced off against the green and black stripes of Forest Green Rovers...
More than kits clashed.
"If it isn't Paul's boys," Elliot Stone said, the twenty-three-year-old towering over them with a grin. "Much shorter than I imagined, no?"
"I have to say, thanks for the points in advance," James Wright added. "I'll make sure to give y'all a shout out when we get promoted."
The Halles players said nothing.
Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was something else. But they stood still, silent. As their names were mocked, their club demeaned, and their coach spat on.
Inside, the flames that flickered ever so slightly threatened to die.
At least...
For everyone but one.
"You lot talk too much," Benjamin said, digging a pinkie into his ear. "You really are your coach's players—none of you ever shut the fuck up."
Taro Kimura stepped forward, but experienced center-back Chen Bao held him back with a calm hand.
"You speak big for a squirt," Taro said. Then, with a half-smirk, "Wait... you're the one who scored that goal, right? One goal and it's already gone to your head? Lemme guess, you think you're important now, huh?"
"Four," Benjamin said flatly. "I scored four goals."
Taro blinked. "You only scored one."
"I did?" Benjamin replied, starting forward as the tunnel began to open to the pitch. "My bad. I counted the ones I'll score today early."