[Comprehensive team list]- Provided by Harriet Andressa.
Goalkeepers:
• Lance Aubergine (21)-England.
• Vincent McGee Jr. (19)-England.
Defenders:
• Tobias Grist Sr. (22) – CB-England.
• Clovis Siewe (19) – CB-Belgium.
• Everest Wallflower (18) – CB-Russia, England.
• Arun Rafael Assunção (20) – CB/LB-Brazil, Portugal.
• Jabari Akinfola (20) – LB-Nigeria, England.
• Daichi Yamada (21) – RB/RWB-Japan, German, England.
Midfielders:
• Xavier Leon Frederick (18) – CM-Spain, England.
• Elke Aldeheid (20) – CM/AM-Germany.
• Liam Briar (19) – CM-England
Wingers/Forwards:
• Nagisa Aoto (18) – LW-Japan.
• Shin Ha-jun (18) – RW-South Korea.
• Byron Whitaker (17) – LW-England.
• Mateo Lorenzo Andrés Camila (19) – LW/RW/AM/ST/F9-Spain.
• Dorian Caldera (19) – RW-Italy.
Strikers:
• Benjamin Parker (18) – ST-England.
"With an average age of nineteen, we officially boast the youngest team in the league," Harriet said, watching the players jog on the now functional treadmills.
A week and a half had passed. Matchday loomed just two days away. After the gym session, they'd head to the pitch for match practice, where Paul waited, ready to hammer more custom tactics into them.
He sat on the bench beneath the shaded cover, tablet in hand—a gift from Harriet, saving him the burden of his bulky briefcase.
He scrolled through his match plans, studying the formations and player metrics. His starting eleven hadn't changed. If anything, it had solidified. Improved.
Shin and Yamada had developed excellent chemistry on the flanks, their crossing range now lethal. Over the past week, both had drilled nonstop with Benjamin, from first time shots, headers, and even angled finishes. Progress had come. Not perfect, but promising.
Liam and Benjamin had worked as well, focusing on those suggestive long balls from deep. Benjamin could get to them—sometimes even finish them—but consistency remained a work in progress.
Everest too had come around. After repositioning as a ball playing defender, he'd embraced training his range and sweeping coverage. His passes now cut through lines, skipping defenders and hitting wide players in stride. During scrimmages, the vision had begun to click.
Paul smiled faintly.
Those were his pillars: width from Shin and Yamada, long balls from Liam and Everest, and timed runs from Benjamin.
And while those were the main focal points of the tactic, that wasn't all it had.
Mateo's ability to cut in from the left added unpredictability. Short passes and quick counters with Xavier and Elke also had their place.
The blueprint had range, and the future looked exciting.
But excitement wasn't enough.
Harriet's question still lingered in his mind: "Doyou think you'll win?"
He couldn't say yes. Not yet.
He'd watched tapes of Eastleigh. Their experience, composure, and conversion rate were miles ahead of his boys. Halles Sieger might've had flashes of brilliance, but Eastleigh had consistency.
Paul sighed, tapping the tablet screen, the tactics board blinking back at him.
His work was far from over.
He pulled up Byron's report. More light had been shed on the unknown player. 5'8, just seventeen, and once part of Dagenham & Redbridge's youth setup. He'd notched a fair number of assists there too.
But he'd been released not long after, and no reason was listed as to why.
That alone wasn't unusual. What stood out was Andre. The scout had an eye sharper than Paul's in some ways. So what had he seen in Byron? Was he just a depth option, merely another name on the roster? Or was there something more?
"I'll have to ask him about that later," Paul murmured.
He swiped the screen again, pulling up the team's average performance rating. A solid 8.00 across the board, with only a few players dipping beneath that.
The door to the indoor training room slid open, and the players walked out into the crisp morning air, their clothes soaked with sweat, gasping for breath as they approached.
Paul stood.
"Today marks our final practice before Thursday's match against Eastleigh," he began. "I'll save the big talk for then. For now, I just want to say. Thank you.
"Most of you aren't being paid what you're worth. Not yet. But you've put in more time, more effort, more sweat than anyone had the right to expect. I couldn't have asked for a better squad."
"Aww," Xavier grinned. "We love you too, Coach."
Paul allowed himself a smirk, then got back to it. "Alright, tactics. We've been working on a centralized system, but I want some flexibility. Daichi, Shin—you two will stay wider today. Prioritize crosses into the box instead of cutting in."
"More so a winger duty then... I can live with that," Shin said, glancing to Daichi, who gave a quiet nod.
"And Liam," Paul continued, "you're the engine. I need you to know every player's rhythm. Don't ping passes someone can't get."
"I've got it," Liam replied.
"Quick one," Paul said. "How does Arun like his balls played?"
"To his right or his chest," Liam answered instantly. "He's good with close control."
"Good." Paul nodded. "Elke, how are you finding the system?"
"It's fine," Elke replied, as dry as always. "There's enough variation. If Liam can't hit the pass, Xavier usually can. I go from there."
"Parker?"
"They'll do fine," Benjamin said, tugging at his shirt, trying to cool down. "And even if they don't, I'll just score."
Paul chuckled. "Alright then. Rest up, hydrate. We meet again in two days. And when we face Eastleigh, I don't care whose stadium it is, we show them who we are."
He raised his voice. "We show them HALLES SIEGER IS HERE TO PLAY!"
The players gathered into a huddle.
Just yesterday, they'd had a long discussion about the club's identity. What to preserve and what to leave behind. The losing streak that haunted the club's past? They'd bury it.
But one thing stayed.
Halles Sieger—"Halles Champions." The club's home in Germany, a city the size of a small town, never got to see those champions, that identity, that ambition. Until now, it had been hollow.
But not anymore.
They looked at one another.
Hands stacked. Breaths aligned.
Then, in one voice:
"ONE, TWO, THREE—CHAMPIONS!"
The gates of the Lamex Stadium opened wide.
Though Halles Sieger now called it home, the stands told a different story—one painted in Eastleigh's yellow and blue. Their fans had arrived in force, drowning out the few locals who wandered in out of curiosity. A loud reminder: they had no fans of their own.
The die-hards hadn't followed them from Germany.
Inside, both teams readied themselves in their respective locker rooms. The echoes of drums and chants seeped through the walls. Eastleigh's support already overwhelming.
Seventeen players stood in the Halles Sieger dressing room.
All eyes turned toward their coach.
Paul scanned the room. No one spoke. No one even blinked. Legs jittered, arms folded tightly to find warmth. Even Benjamin and Elke—two who'd seemed immune to pressure—were visibly shaken.
"Scared?" Paul muttered. Harriet stood beside him, quietly scribbling the starting eleven on the board behind. "I don't blame you."
He took a step forward.
"This isn't just a debut for a few players. This is a debut for a team. Your first walk down the tunnel. Your first glimpse at a real stadium, albeit filled with fans that don't even support you."
The marker clicked shut as Harriet finished. The lineup was locked.
A few groans rumbled through the room, some from those benched, others from the ones starting. But no one looked pleased. The pressure was too much.
"I'm not great with pep talks," Paul admitted. "People say I am, but I don't think so."
He shrugged.
"So this won't be one. No rallying cry. No theatrics. Just truth."
His voice dropped.
"This is your unraveling. Not mine. Yours. Every eye out there is watching. What they see next is up to you."
He paused. Watching leg's tighten, fists clench.
"This is your do or die. The power's in your hands."
Then the walk began.
The tunnel stretched before them, Eastleigh's players joining stride. Bigger. Older. Hardened. Professionals in every sense.
Side by side they stood, yellow against black.
Eastleigh's bright kits flashed under the lights, bold crests, sponsors, names stitched in prominence.
And Halles Sieger? A black jersey. Bare. White numbering. No sponsors. No shine.
Just the crest on the chest.
Embarrassing? Maybe. But right now, no one cared.
The sun beamed through the mouth of the tunnel, a seemingly golden gate ahead of them, and from it the roar of the crowd swelled. Some players flinched.
They stepped forward.
Breaking out of the dark. Onto the field.
Paul's voice echoed in their minds.
"What will you decide? Will you fall here, on football's greatest stage? Or will you soar? That's the only question that matters now."
They lined up across the pitch, hands behind their backs, the national anthem blaring through the stadium.
Cameras zoomed in, capturing every face. New players. Unknowns. Some with steel in their eyes, others barely holding it together.
Everyone watching—fans, scouts, critics, the media—was wondering the same thing:
Which of them would become something more? Which one of these fresh faces would become a legend, redefine what it meant to play football?
Only time would tell.
The fans fell into their seats, still as loud as the players jogged into position. The commentators eased into their rhythm, names and numbers rolling off their tongues. Then, just before kickoff, the cameras panned to the sideline... and all eyes fell on him.
Paul Sczerny.
The failed tactician. The punchline. The man responsible for dragging every club he touched into the mud.
He stood there, hands in his coat pockets, face calm under their glare and ridicule. Harriet stood nearby, tablet in hand, scrolling through a storm of tweets.
The hashtags were already flooding in.
#SczernyStrikesAgain
#AnotherClubRuined
#SundayLeagueAtBest
The likes climbed. The memes spawned. The vultures circled.
But Paul didn't flinch.
Let them talk.
He kept his eyes on the pitch.
Let them laugh now. Just wait.
He'd make them all eat their words.
The game kicked off.
And five minutes later, the laughter grew even louder.
The scoreboard changed—0-1
HAL(0)—ELG(1)
Scorer: Benjamin Parker, own goal