6. A little under
The entire team sat crammed into a smaller room on the first floor of the building. Outside, staff swept walkways and set up temporary stalls; machines whirred and clanked as they were powered up and oiled.
The room itself was barely large enough to hold all seventeen players, yet they squeezed in, shoulder to shoulder, backs straight, eyes locked onto the front.
And at the front stood Paul Sczerny.
Pinned to the board beside him was a graph—an early-season standings chart for the Vanarama National League. All twenty-four teams listed, still locked in their default positions. No points. No goals. Just names on a board.
Paul tapped the board, then turned to face his squad.
Vanarama National League:
1. AFC Fylde
2. Aldershot Town
3. Altrincham
4. Barnet
5. Boston United
6. Braintree Town
7. Dagenham & Redbridge
8. Eastleigh
9. FC Halifax Town
10. Forest Green Rovers
11. Gateshead
12. Hartlepool United
13. Maidenhead United
14. Oldham Athletic
15. Rochdale
16. Solihull Moors
17. Southend United
18. Sutton United
19. Tamworth
20. Wealdstone
21. Woking
22. Yeovil Town
23. York City
24. Halles Sieger (Replacing Ebbsfleet, due to a breach of FA laws.]
"Now, as you can see," Paul said, nodding to the league chart behind him, "this board may show default positions, but we're dead last."
The players exchanged glances.
"That's not just alphabet," Paul continued. "The fixture makers, the bookies, the media, they've already written us off. According to them, we'll be back in the North/South league by this time next year."
A few heads lowered, but most remained fixed on him.
"And if we don't win our next game," he added, "we might as well pack our bags early."
"Still..." Lance spoke up from the back. "Eastleigh are a solid team, much better than us. Heard they signed Bruce Hamilton in the pre-season."
"The Bruce Hamilton?" Vincent turned in his seat. "As in, the near-retired brick wall who used to boss League Two? Damn, I need to get his autograph after the match."
"No one's getting anyone's autograph," Paul sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. "Unless it's for a scouting report. I'll sign it, if you want, but it'll cost you a coffee."
A joke.
Dad humor—Coach humor.
He glanced around, waiting for a chuckle, but it seemed to fall flat.
Paul cleared his throat, awkwardly.
"Now listen up. My earlier suggestion," he glanced at Harriet, who stared back at him with an unamused expression, "was... ambitious."
She rolled her eyes.
"So we're going for a slightly toned-down version," Paul said, flipping to the next sheet. "But it'll still be bold."
"Trying to force attacking on a team with no chemistry is a sure-fire way to lose a game," Tobias muttered.
The room fell silent.
Paul turned, slowly, his eyes locked on the defender. "And how do you think chemistry is built?"
He stepped forward. "How do you think Pep got his men playing a comprehensive system? You think he wished upon a genie?"
With a bang, he slammed a marker on the board behind him, gripping the pen between two fingers as he began to draw.
"Pep's team built their chemistry the same way every great team does—by failing. Pass after pass. Cross after cross. Misread runs. Loose balls. And every time they failed," he kept drawing, "he adjusted. He shifted roles, refined instructions. Until they understood. Until the whole squad moved like a single breath."
He stepped back, revealing the crisp 4-2-3-1 he'd drawn. Two holding defensive midfielders. Elke just behind the striker. Benjamin up top, but clearly positioned to drop deep. A shape made to support, to hold, and to strike.
Paul turned back to the squad. "Tobias, what kind of cross would you give Yamada?"
"Cross? Won't a regular—"
"No," Paul cut him off, "Yamada's left-footed. Strong side. He needs to receive from the angle, not the center. And despite playing with him for years, you don't know that. Why?"
Silence.
Paul slammed the board again.
"Because you've been waiting for chemistry to show up like a bloody miracle. But here's the truth: we don't have the time to let it grow. And that's exactly why we're going to speed it up."
His voice rose, commanding.
"No more silent runs. No more second-guessing. If you want the ball—SHOUT. If you want it to feet—SHOUT LOUDER . Until your voice drives that pass home. If you make a mistake, don't sulk. Own it. Fix it. Keep going."
He paced now, eyes staring into each of them.
"You will learn your teammates. Their tells. Their ticks. How they want to receive, where they like to press, which foot they trust under pressure. And you'll learn it fast. Because we have to."
He stopped dead center, lifting his chin.
"And that's the best part."
The players blinked, surprised.
"Nobody expects us to. Nobody gives a damn if we fail. We're a bunch of kids and castoffs and no-names. But we're going to show them that this so-called ragtag team of individuals can break every expectation they have."
"The media is going to crucify us if we lose," Liam said, hands crossed together. "Most of it might be on you, but a good chunk of that would lose us fans, would tarnish our reputation."
"And how do you think this could be avoided?" Paul asked.
"By winning."
"That's the only thought I want in your heads. Look at your teammates, believe in your teammates, and go strike the ball into the net. Don't think about anything else—that's my job." Paul said, "if we win this game, I'll promise you this. We'll be seeing the fourth tier of football next season."
"That's a big claim," Benjamin said, finally speaking up. The English-Bolivian striker met his gaze. "You really think you can do it?"
"If you score my goals." Paul said. "I'll show you just how far I can take this team."
"Alright, you heard the man," Benjamin muttered as he stood up. "Just give me the ball. I'll score every time."
Xavier chuckled, draping a hand over Benjamin's shoulder. "Oh, I'm definitely holding you to that."
They all left the room, talking, laughing, moving.
They might not have said it outright, but their hands shook, their legs quivered. They wanted to play, they wanted to train, and on Thursday. They wanted to win.
The door slammed behind them.
"Another good speech." Harriet said, loosely clapping. Then turning back to see the board. "I assume you already have your starting lineup."
"More or less," Paul paused, "can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"What's up with Tobias and Jabari? What shot their confidence so far down the drain?"
Harriet sighed, her fingers sliding down the edge of the dust caked board. "The old coach didn't believe in most of them, he was pretty adamant about it too. Told them that they only played to fill out numbers for the team, and their team only played to fill out numbers for the league."
"Heart crushing."
"Yeah. Some of them pushed through—Clovis, Daichi—you can see it in how they play. But the others... I don't blame them for checking out."
"So I also have to get their confidence back," Paul said to himself, "yet another problem given to me by a former coach... though saying that's a bit hypocritical."
"Wait... you're planning on actually getting them back into it?"
"Well... Tobias is 6'3 and weighs more than the both of us combined, and Jabari is faster than Nagisa in a foot race. They're good players, they just lack reason to play." Paul stretched, walking toward the door.
"And you believe you can give them that reason back?" Harriet scoffed. "You're making a lot of claims coach, you're going to crash and burn. Hard."
"Well... it's a bad habit of mine," Paul said, stretching. "Back in Norwich, my assistant told me the same thing."
Harriet squinted. "That the same season you made a young Roy Walker play all 38 games? Even when his morale tanked after that awful run of form?"
"He won us the league, didn't he?" Paul said with a grin, watching the players move outside. "That's just how I am. When I see talent... I have to see if I can make it grow. If I can make everyone else see what I see."
"You're even crazier than the media said."
Paul chuckled. "Yeah... maybe I am." Then slower. "Maybe I am."
Then he stepped outside.
"Let's run some drills, guys!" he shouted.