7. Just draft it!

"Despite receiving bids from Premier League giants—Brighton & Hove Albion, Everton, and Tottenham Hotspur—young striker Horace Parker has opted to join League Two side Stoke City. A truly bizarre decision."

The radio buzzed on as Paul sat quietly on the sidelines, eyes locked on the training pitch.

"Why would he make such a brash move? Is it about proving something? Chasing game time? What exactly is going through that young striker's mind?"

"I'd like to know too," Paul muttered, not looking away from the field.

"At any rate, Parker now finds himself paired with rising star Emre Tezgel. Was this part of a bigger plan? Or is there more going on behind the scenes—"

Paul clicked the radio off.

Out on the pitch, his players were grinding through drills: running laps, practicing first time finishes, and working long passes with Liam pulling the strings from deep.

Still, only one of Liam's balls had been converted, and barely at that.

"Liam," Paul called out, stepping up beside the 5'8 midfielder, "an overhead kick at this stage might be... a bit ambitious, don't you think?"

"They'll just have to keep going until they're good enough," Liam replied coolly. He took a breath. "OVERHEAD KICK!"

He struck the ball cleanly—a perfect arc.

Benjamin timed the leap, foot rising just past shoulder height, but still not high enough. He landed hard, exhaling deeply as Liam ran over to him.

"You good?"

"More or less."

At least they took the shouting part seriously.

"Benjamin," Paul called out. "Come over here. Liam, trying to work with the wingers for now."

Paul walked across the pitch as Benjamin jogged toward him, cyan-pink cleats catching the sunlight—same model once worn by the legendary winger.

"Why'd you agree to come here?" Paul asked.

"Why?" Benjamin echoed, raising a brow. "Didn't your scout come to me?"

"You still had other offers on the table, didn't you?" Paul said. "Bigger names. So why this team? What did you want to prove?"

"I picked a place where I could stand out. That's all."

"And your brother?" Paul asked. "During the scrimmage... you had a shot but passed. Why?"

"Because he's better than me."

"What was that?"

"Nothing important," Benjamin said. "It's personal. Doesn't affect my football. I can still score, so don't worry about it."

Paul watched him head back to the drill, joining the others as Liam resumed lobbing crosses for overhead attempts.

Standing beside him, Harriet folded her arms. "Inferiority complex?"

"Most likely," Paul said. "It's tough growing up in someone else's shadow, especially when that someone's as good as Horace."

"Maybe that's why he came here," Harriet said. "Big clubs would've focused too much on the sibling angle, he'd never escape it. The media would eat him alive, always comparing the two."

"Exactly. Here, if he fails, it's on the team. If he scores, he stands out."

"You think that's healthy? Playing with something like that on your back?"

"Maybe not," Paul admitted. "But the kid's got talent, an incredible amount."

"Shit!" Benjamin hit the ground again, failed overhead kick skidding wide. He slapped the grass, then pushed up with a grin. "One more!"

"And if I do my job right," Paul said, "he'll be even better than Horace someday."

"Once again with the claims. You're setting yourself up for failure—"

"No." Paul interrupted, now walking off. "I've never been so sure of anything in my life."

Paul stepped off the pitch, hands in his pockets, the grass soft beneath his boots.

Harriet stood behind, watching him. There was something about Paul, something buried beneath the cocky remarks and lofty promises.

Maybe they sounded empty now, but if he delivered... if he truly pulled it off... there was no telling how far this team could go.

But then again.

That was a pretty big IF.

The afternoon sun hovered overhead, three o'clock sharp. The session raged on. Mateo and Shin practiced inside runs with their respective left back and right back, either holding the ball up at the edge, or letting off and diving in central.

Xavier worked on long-range shots that curved wildly more often than not.

The defense dragged themselves through one-on-one drills against bench players, lungs burning. And off to the side, Liam and Benjamin were still at it—whatever that was.

"ONE MORE!"

Inside, progress had hit a halfway point. Machines were in place, the cafeteria now dotted with neatly arranged chairs. The staff, drenched in sweat, finally stepped out into the sun, leaving behind the smell of hot metal and engine oil.

Out on the grass, however, the intensity only grew.

Boots thundered against turf.

Bodies hit the ground hard.

Gloves grazed shots by mere inches.

These boys were pushing themselves to the brink.

"AGAIN!"

Paul looked over just as the ball sliced through the air, Benjamin's boot swinging high to meet it, but just shy again.

Part of him wanted to let it go on. Let them suffer. Let them sync. Let them find rhythm in the repetition. But he couldn't ignore the risk of exhaustion, injury, burnout. Not now.

"Alright, that's enough!" Paul called, both arms raised. "Wrap it up, boys! Tomorrow's session will be lighter, mostly indoors."

"Yes, coach!" they called back, breathless and dripping with sweat as they trudged off the field.

Paul exhaled slowly. He'd seen enough. Aside from Tobias and Jabari—still distant, still halfhearted—things were clicking. There was chemistry. There was fire.

But now came the real test.

He had to pick a team. A real team. The eleven men who could either bury his career for good... or bring it roaring back from the grave.

He gulped, then walked back into the larger of two opposing buildings.

He'd picked a random room earlier to merely look over the squads, and ended up sleeping within, but he actually had his own office—or rather the head coach of the team had an office.

He looked toward the large room.

The entrance was marked by two wide glass panels instead of proper doors, less privacy than he'd like, but it would do. He stepped inside, dropped his bag onto one of the visitor chairs, and slumped into the main seat behind the desk.

"This could be my chair eventually," he muttered, then shook the thought from his head. "Alright. Focus."

Just as he reached for his bag, his eyes caught a whiteboard propped against the wall, right above a lonely decorative plant. The rest of the room was still mostly bare, but that would change in time. If he earned the right to stay.

He stood, marker in hand, and walked over to the board.

It was time to draft his starting eleven.

It wasn't final, training might change his mind, and match day would bring its own surprises. But for now, this was what he saw when he looked at his team.

[Starting XI]

GK(Pure Goalkeeper) Lance Aubergine

LB(Full back): Arun Rafael Assunção

CB(Ball playing defender): Everest Wallflower.

CB(No-nonsense defender): Clovis Siewe

RB(Wing back): Daichi Yamada.

DM(Deep lying playmaker): Liam Briar.

DM(Defensive Midfielder): Xavier Leon Frederick

LW(Inside forward) Mateo Lorenzo Andres Camila

AM(Advanced Midfielder): Elke Aldeheid

RW(Inside forward): Shin Ha-jun

ST(Advanced Forward): Benjamin Parker

Subs:

1. GK: Vincent McGee Jr.

2. CB: Tobias Grist Sr.

3. CB/LB: Jabari Akinfola

4. LW: Nagisa Aoto

5. RW/ST: Dorian Caldera

6. LW/??: Byron Whitaker

He dropped his marker, staring at the board.

The only weak link in defense, at least on paper, was Everest. Not because he lacked physical traits—at 6'2, with a solid frame, he measured up just fine. What he lacked was defensive instinct.

In the trialist match, he'd been humiliated. One-on-one with Callum, Everest had been breezed past like he wasn't even there, the midfielder finishing with a stunning goal. For the scouts, that was the end of it. A red flag. A no-go.

But to Paul, it merely meant another rough gem had fallen into his hands.

The real issue wasn't ability, it was positioning. Everest wasn't a natural center-back. Hell, he wasn't even an anchor like he'd said before. He was a libero—a deep-lying sweeper, someone meant to clean up in the backfield and launch transitions with his passing.

Facing play head-on didn't suit him. His strength was in reading the game from a somewhat central point, making sweeping interceptions, then pinging the ball forward to start attacks. But in Paul's system, a libero didn't fit, not if he wanted to build around Liam's vision and deep distribution.

So Paul adapted.

Rather than station Everest as a shield in front of the back line, he'd push him slightly higher up, tasking him with retrieving second balls, distributing quickly to the flanks or playmakers, and linking transitions.

Paul tapped his foot against the floor. It was starting to come together.

Now, onto the midfield.

Ideally, he would've played them all central. Xavier as a ball winning midfielder—or maybe even a box-to-box role—but with his bang-average stats, that just wasn't viable.

It was too risky.

So Instead, assigning him as a standard defensive midfielder would do the trick. He had a decent eye for long shots, at least—or he would, eventually.

Then there was Liam. The keystone of Paul's entire strategy. In a perfect world, Liam would've played as an advanced playmaker, free from defensive burden, allowed to dictate play. But this wasn't a perfect world. Not with this backline. Leaving them unprotected would be suicidal.

So Liam would play a bit deeper, as a deep-lying playmaker, operating just ahead of the defense. It wasn't perfect, but it might work.

Now, the wings.

Mateo and Shin would both operate as inside forwards. That killed traditional wing play, sure. But it overloaded the center, which was precisely where Paul wanted to strike. Flood the middle. Control the game. Crush the heart.

He hadn't spoken much with either winger, but if they played as well as they'd shown in practice. They'd be fine.

And finally... the attack.

Elke Aldeheid in the hole as the advanced midfielder. A vital connector, threading midfield to the man up top.

Benjamin.

Paul leaned back against a wall, eyes fixed on the whiteboard, specifically on the role he'd assigned the striker.

[Advanced Forward]

In the trialist match, Benjamin had thrived as a sort of deep lying forward, dropping off, linking play, feeding strikers. He worked better with a partner. But if he truly wanted to surpass his brother... if he wanted to prove something...

Then he had to stand on his own.

An isolated advanced forward. A role that broke players as often as it made them. Alone up top, fed only by crosses and hopeful through balls. No help. No cushion. No margin for error.

Every central chance? He'd have to wrestle it from one or two defenders and still find the net.

You couldn't fake it in that role. If you weren't good enough, you got eaten alive.

Paul had done his part. He'd built the system.

Now the players had to prove they were worthy of it.

A cold shiver ran down his spine.