5. Roll call

"Lance Aubergine," Paul called. "Twenty one years old, six-three with a six-seven wingspan. A technical beast in the box, but only five clean sheets in thirty games last season in the U21s. Why is that?"

Lance hesitated—not shy, just... ashamed. "Defense was leaky. I faced more shots than most."

"So you're shifting the blame?" Paul narrowed his eyes. "You're twenty one, wearing number one, and you're already pointing fingers?"

"I'm not," Lance replied quickly. "I got hit with ten more shots than the league average."

Paul smiled.

Good. He liked that. Not just the numbers, but the awareness. He'd tested him, wanted to see if Lance would crumble under the weight of a failing back line, or worse, own mistakes that weren't his. But he stood tall and that earned him a notch in Paul's mental ledger.

"Good. Now run ten laps. And no backtalk next time."

Lance took off.

Next up was Vincent McGee, Jr. Second choice keeper. Five-foot-ten with a six-two wingspan. Smaller, quicker, but nowhere near as technically refined. Had barely played last season, so his file was mostly blank.

Paul moved on.

Now onto the defense, which was by far the most crowded part of the roster, with six players fighting for four spots.

"Clovis Siewe," Paul said, locking eyes with the dirty-blonde haired defender. "Twenty years old. Eighty seven interceptions last season. That's way above league average."

"Thank you, sir," Clovis replied.

"Go run a few laps."

He took off as well.

Clovis was a pure center-back, as steadfast as they came. Which meant no versatility and while that made him reliable, it also made him inflexible. Still, the team needed a few rocks.

"Everest Wallflower," Paul continued. "Brother of Winter Wallflower, yeah? The United star."

Everest gave a respectful nod.

"Used to be at Wrexham. Stats aren't great, but not bad either. Two footed, can stop and distribute. Even anchor in midfield if needed."

Another nod.

"You made some poor decisions in the trialist match, but I'll need depth. Ten laps."

"I didn't even say anything..." Everest muttered as he jogged off behind Clovis.

Paul chuckled softly to himself. The laps routine was an old joke from his time at Leeds, back when they stormed the Sky Bet Championship. The players hated it. But it stuck. And so he continued the tradition.

Paul turned.

There were still plenty of players left. Rushing wasn't smart, but dragging this out all day wasn't an option either.

"Arun Rafael... Assunção," he called. "Did I say that right?"

"Yes, sir," Arun replied, a smile on his lips.

"Go take twenty—" Paul paused, grinning as Arun's face faltered, "—I'm kidding."

Arun blinked, confused.

"You made the Brazil U18s three years ago. Why didn't any of the bigger teams pick you up?"

"I wanted to show loyalty to the team."

"Do you regret it?"

"No, sir!" Arun's smile returned, even brighter. "If I had, I wouldn't have met you!"

Paul raised an eyebrow. "Flattery won't get you far, Arun," he said, walking past. "But it does mean you won't run."

"Safe!" Arun whispered, exhaling.

Three defenders remained. Two of them familiar, Tobias Grist Sr. and Jabari Akinfola, the oldest of the youth holdovers. English and Nigerian, respectively. Both had disappointing stat sheets.

"Tobias," Paul began. "Fifty two tackles won last season. What do you think the league average was?"

"One thirty?"

"And do you think your number is acceptable?"

"It's last season," Tobias replied flatly. "Talking about it won't change anything."

Paul nodded. That told him what he needed to know.

He turned to Jabari. "You had a pass completion rate of twenty five percent. That's thirty five below average."

"Like Tobi said, it's the past. No point talking about it now."

Paul didn't respond. He simply walked by.

To the final defender.

Daichi Yamada.

A Japanese-German wingback, poached from Wigan Athletic's academy. Fast, sharp, 6'2 with a near flawless crossing range. His decision to switch to Halles Sieger hadn't done his reputation favors, but his technique was undeniable.

Paul said nothing. Just tapped him on the shoulder as he passed.

Next came the midfielders.

Only three of them.

While Everest could fill in deep if needed, only having three natural midfielders was a glaring issue. One they'd have to fix, and soon.

"Xavier Leon Frederick," Paul said, approaching the player. "A Spanish midfielder with one of the most bizarre stat lines I've ever seen. Just... bang average across every metric. Was that a conscious choice?"

"Hecks no," the black-haired Spaniard replied. At 5'9", he stood just a touch shorter than Paul.

"Is being dead average what you want to be remembered for?"

"Not really."

"Then go run thirty laps—five above my headcanon average."

"Seriously, sir?" Xavier protested. "Lady Harriet is watching. Embarrassing myself in front of her is—"

"Make that fifty," Paul said, smiling. "I'll even have LADY Harriet take a photo of your fainting body."

"That's not fair, Coach!" Xavier groaned, jogging off.

Next was Liam Briar, the suggestive deep-lying playmaker. A player who had kept Paul up the previous night, trying to unlock his best use.

"You're a good player, kid," Paul said, stepping close. "You just need someone who can carry out your suggestions."

Liam's eyes widened slightly. "Wait... you noticed?"

"Of course I did." Paul smiled. "You'll train closely with the wingers and strikers. Your passes can win games. I can feel it."

Then he moved on to their last natural midfielder: Elke Aldeheid.

A composed, almost cold advanced midfielder, born of the legendary Lukas Aldeheid.

Like Daichi, Elke had done nothing wrong so far. In fact, he'd recorded an impressive fourteen assists last season—two of which came in their most recent match, a 6–2 loss.

"Think you can keep those assists coming?" Paul asked with a dry grin.

"I can," Elke replied immediately, face as blank as paper.

"I see..." Paul murmured, walking past.

Next up were the wingers, and a lone false nine from the batch that had arrived earlier this morning.

The first person Paul approached wasn't just anyone, it was the player who'd made a gamble and lost.

"Nagisa Aoto," he said. "In an ideal world, your pass would've gone through and you'd be suiting up for one of the top teams in the country. Instead, you're here. Bottom rung. Do you think your talent—hidden as it is—is wasted in this place?"

"Yes," Nagisa replied, his dyed blue hair blowing in the wind. "Mistake or not, I only joined because I didn't want to stagnate. If I get an offer from a better club, I'm gone."

"So you plan to develop until you're too good to ignore?"

Nagisa nodded. Paul smiled. "Good. I hope to see that development on full display."

He moved on to the new trio Andre had sent. Unproven, perhaps but not unremarkable.

First off was Shin Ha-jun, a product of Chelsea's academy. Released at just eighteen despite being one of the better performers from that time. He was valued at about four hundred thousand as well. Why was he not loaned or sold. What had gone wrong? Paul didn't ask. There'd be time for that later.

Still, the talent was clear. A natural winger with a gift for deep crosses and timing his runs into space. He'd be useful, maybe even a starter if he settled quickly.

Next was Mateo Lorenzo Andrés Camila. Another Spaniard, and one of only two in the squad with international youth experience.

Mateo wasn't a complete unknown, either. Paul had tracked him once, back during his Blackpool bloom.

Then he paused, glancing back at Mateo. "You learned all upward positions under Donnelly, right?"

"Yes," Mateo exhaled. "He was relentless about it."

Paul smiled. Versatility was gold in this team. Mateo could play both wings, as a striker, or as an attacking mid. In case of injury, fatigue, or a drop in form, he'd be the perfect utility man. Andre had nailed this one!

Then came the third new player: five-eight, long scraggly blond hair, hands behind his back.

Byron Whitaker.

A complete enigma.

Paul glanced back at Harriet. She shook her head.

No data. No stat sheet. No scouting report. Nothing.

In all his years coaching, Paul had never gone blind into a player like this. That alone made Byron a curiosity... and a problem. Paul silently filed it away in his mind: Research Byron Whitaker. Thoroughly.

He stepped past and made his way to the last two players on the roster. Dorian Caldera and Benjamin Parker.

Right winger. Striker.

Their main goal scoring threat's.

Paul walked back toward Harriet, giving her a firm nod as he surveyed the team.

In his mind, the starting eleven for the match against Eastleigh was already taking shape. And while Eastleigh might have been a lower-tier team, nowhere near promotion candidates. They were still miles ahead of what he had right now.

"All right boys, gather in!" Paul called, opening the file in his hand and pulling out a page. "In seasons like this—where survival is the goal—most coaches play it safe. You'll see a lot of 4-5-1s or maybe a 4-3-3 if they're feeling brave. But that's not what we're going to do."

Harriet glanced over, eyebrows raised. "Hm?"

"For our first game," Paul continued, turning the paper so everyone could see, "we're going with something more complex. An attacking 1-3-6."

A pause. The players froze, stalled like faulty engines.

.

.

.

Harriet facepalmed.

Of course a coach like Paul—one with vision but rusty from absence—would try something this wild.

"I really hope you know what you're doing, Ross," she muttered under her breath.