Contract Termination
The door to Marcus Varnell's office closed behind Maddox with a soft click, but it might as well have been a guillotine's thud.
The air inside was heavy, thick with the scent of polished wood and the faint hum of a holo-screen cycling through Silvergate Youth Academy's latest metrics.
Marcus Varnell, the Youth Team Director, sat behind his sleek glass desk, his early-fifties frame looking smaller than usual, as if the weight of the moment pressed him into his navy blazer.
His balding crown gleamed under the recessed lights, and his eyes, usually sharp with administrative precision, carried a rare discomfort—an edge that warned Maddox this wasn't a meeting for pleasantries.
"Eric," Varnell said, his voice steady but tinged with regret, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Take a seat."
Maddox complied, his body moving on autopilot while his mind braced for the blow he'd sensed coming since Crowther's ambush on the pitch.
He sat, his tracksuit still damp from the morning drizzle, and grass stains on his boots.
The office was of a modern design with glass walls etched with Silvergate's crest, a shelf lined with miniature trophies from better days, and a panoramic view of the training grounds where the players and staff could be seen.
"I suppose you have an idea why I called you in," Varnell began, his tone a careful blend of professionalism and apology.
Maddox nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line, his storm-cloud eyes unyielding. "Let's skip the preamble, Marcus. Just lay it out."
Varnell sighed, a sound heavy with years of navigating boardroom politics. He reached into his desk drawer, producing a single document sealed with the club's gold-and-blue letterhead.
He slid it across the glass without ceremony, the paper's weight seeming to carry the finality of a judge's gavel. "Word came down from the higher-ups this morning. The decision's been made."
Maddox picked up the envelope, his fingers steady despite the storm brewing in his chest. The paper was thick, almost ceremonial, as if the club wanted to dress its brutality in formality.
He broke the seal and unfolded the letter, his eyes scanning the text with a calm that belied the fire beneath.
[Termination of Contract: Effective Immediately.
> Compensation: Full Payout of Remaining Three Years' Salary – ⊽150,000.]
There it was. Clean, brutal, and inevitable.
Maddox leaned back in the chair, the paper's edges digging into his fingers. His face remained impassive, a mask honed by years of facing media vultures, but inside, a tempest raged—anger, betrayal, and a stubborn spark of defiance.
'You knew this was coming,' he told himself. 'Crowther's been sharpening the knife for weeks.'
"I figured this day would come," he said quietly, his voice low but steady. "Still feels like a punch to the gut."
Varnell leaned forward, his hands folded, his expression softening. "You've made progress with the team, Eric. I want you to know I see that.
The partial comeback against Crestford, six goals down, and you had those lads fighting like lions. The dressing room after that match… hell, even I felt the spark. The players were starting to believe again. But…"
"But belief doesn't fill a standings table," Maddox cut in, his tone flat, finishing the thought with a bitter edge.
Varnell winced, the truth stinging. "You've got three games left in the season. Three games that could've saved our Youth League E license. But the board's done gambling. Especially with the noise around your… situation with Crowther and the coaching staff."
Maddox's jaw tightened, the mention of his assistant coach's name like salt in a wound. "So, for the record—what's the official reason?"
Varnell looked down, his fingers tracing the edge of his desk, almost ashamed. "Poor performance overall. That's the line they're feeding the press."
Maddox let out a laugh—short, sharp, and laced with venom. "Poor performance? I inherited a team at rock bottom—zero points from five games, morale in the gutter, almost half the squad injured. In eight games since, we've won four, lost four. We're five points from safety with three games to play. But sure, let's call it 'poor performance.'"
Varnell rubbed the bridge of his nose, his weariness palpable. "Off the record, I agree with you. I pushed back, Eric. Told them you needed time, that the numbers don't tell the whole story. But Crowther's been working the staff, he also has connections to the board. They're convinced he's the man to steady the ship."
Maddox's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Don't tell me. They're giving it to Crowther."
Varnell hesitated, then nodded, his silence louder than any confirmation.
The room seemed to shrink, the air growing thick with the weight of betrayal. Maddox's grip on the letter tightened, creases spiderwebbing across the pristine paper.
Crowther—the gaunt, scheming assistant who'd turned the training ground into his stage, rallying the staff against him, painting him as an outsider unfit to lead. It wasn't just a power grab; it was a coup, and the board had handed him the crown.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Maddox," Varnell said, his voice quieter now. "I think you should leave."
For a long moment, Maddox didn't move. His eyes bored into Varnell's, searching for a crack in the director's resolve, but found only resignation.
Slowly, he rose, folding the termination letter with deliberate care and slipping it into his coat pocket. He extended a hand, his voice calm but edged with steel. "Thanks for not pretending it was personal, Marcus."
Varnell stood, shaking his hand with a grip that lingered a moment too long. "You're a better manager than they gave you credit for. That second half against Crestford—pure fire. You had those boys believing they could take on the world."
Maddox's lips curved into a faint, wry smile. "And Crowther? Let's just say he's inherited a locker room with… a few surprises."
Varnell's eyes flickered with curiosity, but he didn't press. Maddox turned and walked out, the door closing behind him with a finality that echoed in his bones.
---
The hallway stretched before him, its glass walls reflecting the gray morning light. Staffers passed, their glances a mix of pity and avoidance.
The Silvergate crest on the walls seemed to watch him go, a silent judge in a world where loyalty was a currency he'd run dry.
Outside, the drizzle had thickened, speckling his face as he stepped onto the path. The training grounds sprawled in the distance, the faint shouts of players and Crowther's barking orders carrying on the wind.
The team was no longer his. The pitch, the locker room, the dreams he'd poured into them—all stripped away in a single letter. But the fire in his chest hadn't dimmed; it roared, fueled by the sting of betrayal and the resolve to prove everyone wrong.
The system chimed softly, its holographic interface flickering into place beside his vision, glowing with cold text.
---
[System Alert – Status Update]
[Termination Logged. You are no longer employed by Silvergate Youth Academy.
Compensation Claimed: ⊽150,000 (Funds Transferred).
Managerial Record (Partial Season): 8 Games – 4 Wins / 4 Losses.
Final League Position at Exit: 8th of 9 (Drop Zone)]
---
[New System Pathway Unlocked: "The Phoenix Arc"
"You've been burned. Now rise."
New Objectives Available:
> Seek new managerial opportunity (0/1).
> Establish network credibility (0/3 connections).
> Activate "Legacy Mode" by reaching Internal Value 50. (Current: 16)
---
Maddox closed the prompt with a flick of his eyes, a spark of resolve kindling in their depths.
The system's previous taunting sentence—"Consider updating your CV"—only stoked his defiance. They thought they'd buried him, written him off as a commoner who'd overreached. But Terra Regalia's football world was a battlefield, and Maddox was far from done fighting.
The ⊽150,000 payout was a lifeline, enough to keep him afloat until he found another managerial job.
As he walked toward the Sky Rail station, the city waking around him, Maddox's jaw set. Silvergate had been a stepping stone, not a destination. Somewhere out there, another club, another chance, waited for him to claim it.
The drizzle eased, a sliver of sunlight breaking through the clouds, casting the world in a golden glow.
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