"Oh my days!" Harold shouted, nearly jumping out of his seat as the screen behind them faded into commercials—halftime at last. "What a game! What a way to reintroduce yourself to the world after three years off the grid!"
"I almost feel sorry for the players," Gracie added, shaking her head. "Fielding kids who've never played a professional match, it's like tossing lambs to the wolves."
Harold laughed. "This just proves it. That Norwich run? Pure luck. Lightning in a bottle."
"Oh, come on, Harold," Gracie said, rolling her eyes. "You can't seriously believe that."
"Of course I can, I mean, look at his current situation. Its poor, it's absolute—"
Silence in the locker rooms. At least for one team.
The players sat at the sides of the room, eyes staring at the wooden floors, some in tears, some almost bleeding from how hard they bit their tongues.
Paul didn't say anything.
Was there even anything to say?
Four-nil, the game was already over. That was a fact. There was no miracle they could perform, no magicians trick that would change this game. He sighed inwardly, staring at the players.
Was it even worth giving the half time speech? Push them out with a fake smile and shout all the motivational quotes he'd heard over the years. That was probably what he should've done.
Yet.
Even though his career was most likely over, even though he'd botched his last chance. He couldn't blame the players.
"Alright." He stood, clapping his hands together.
The team took a bit of time before their eyes landed on him.
"That's the reality of football," Paul said, pacing slowly in front of the team. "You lose. You get embarrassed. You feel like walking out mid match and tearing your hair out. That's how it is... with me, and with any coach you could possibly get at this level."
It wasn't a motivational speech. Not even close.
"The gap between us and the rest of the league... it's not just a gap. It's a canyon. The difference in experience alone is almost impossible to overcome. That's the truth of it."
The players watched him in silence.
"In five minutes, we'll walk back out there, and our net will ripple more than the sea on a full moon night." He let out a dry chuckle. "That's how it's going to be. We'll get laughed at. We'll be disappointed in ourselves. And we'll start wondering if there's even a future here."
"Is this really helping?" Lance finally burst out, standing. "You're just making it worse. Why can't you just tell us we can do this?"
Paul turned to him, calm. "Will that help? If I say, 'You can do it, so go overturn that deficit'—will those magic words be enough to fuel a miracle? Would that actually change anything?"
Lance sat down, saying nothing.
"We're bottom of the league. And maybe that's a good thing. Maybe we'll get City in the FA Cup, and they'll play their C team. At least we won't have to deal with Haaland or Palfrey." He gave a half laugh, but no one joined him.
He looked around. Hands trembled in laps. Some players wouldn't meet his eyes. Others looked like they wanted to scream.
Paul took a breath, then walked toward the door. "You've got a few more minutes. Go see out the rest of the game."
He glanced back at Harriet, still behind the players. Then he left.
The sound of the door closing rippled through the air.
The room was silent for an extra minute.
Then—
"What a shit coach!" Lance exploded, hurling a water bottle at one of the lockers. "This is the guy we put our faith in? What an absolute disgrace."
Some of the others looked like they wanted to shout too, but didn't.
Instead, all eyes drifted toward Harriet.
She stood in silence, still facing the door. Then, with a quiet sigh, she stepped forward.
"You hate what he said, right?"
"Yes!" Lance snapped. "We're young, yeah, but that means we need encouragement, not—"
"Then prove him wrong," Harriet said softly, cutting him off. "He's given up. He thinks you should too. So show him you haven't."
She turned to leave. "He probably isn't expecting much anyway," she added with a half smile. "So don't overexert yourselves."
The door closed behind her.
Silence fell again.
Then Everest's voice cracked through it. "We were pushed too far back... I made too many mistakes. It was my job to make sure the ball stayed in the middle, I couldn't do that... I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry too," Arun muttered. "I gave away possession right off the bat. I lost my nerve."
Daichi lowered his head. "I let my man past too easily. He studied my clips... I didn't expect that kind of prep at this level. I was naive."
"So what do we do?" Everest asked quietly.
"We have to get on the front foot somehow," Clovis said. If not for the scoreline, he'd have been a lock for man of the match. "But that's wishful thinking."
"It's not." Benjamin spoke up. "We need to shut down that green haired bastard."
"Isidre," Clovis nodded. "He's running the whole show... Who's watched his tape?"
"He's a City youth loanee," Elke replied. "This team is probably a stepping stone for him. He's two-footed, has insane technique and a crazy shot arsenal. Not many weaknesses to exploit."
The room turned to look at him.
"...I just like knowing our opponents," he shrugged.
"So we've identified the main threat," Mateo said, blowing a stray curl from his eyes. "Now, who's shutting him down?"
"I'll do it," Xavier raised his hand.
"We're not joking," Liam warned. "Maybe Clovis pushes up and I drop deeper to support—"
"I can do it," Xavier said again, firmly. "He's better than me. Probably clears me on every statline. But I only need to find the one he doesn't."
"I don't want to change my position mid-match," Liam frowned. "If you need help, I'll be pissed."
"C'mon, man. Let me look cool just once," Xavier grinned. "Jack of all trades, remember... plus I saw some cute girls in the stands, I can definitely get some numbers if I lock him down,"
"That's why you want to do this?" Liam asked, stepping forward, "because of some girls? This isn't the time for that—"
Clovis smiled and put a hand out in front of him, "It might sound stupid but once Xavier sees a girl he wants to impress, he's one of the hardest people to stop."
"Like he said," Xavier murmured, hands against his hips. "I'll just have to find his weakness."
"And you're sure you'll find that weakness before we're down 7–0?" Shin asked dryly.
"Don't put more pressure on me, man!" Xavier shuddered.
Clovis stood. "Alright. We shut down their ten. Get some control back. If we win a few midfield battles, we can start pushing them back, maybe even get on the other end—"
"I'll score," Benjamin added, his voice steady. "There's a gap in their backline. I've seen it. Just need the ball in the right spot."
"I'll score." Xavier mimicked his voice. "You can't just pick it up at halfway and dribble past everyone?"
"No," Benjamin replied flatly. "I'm not that good. I'll need your help."
"Oh." Xavier groaned. "You're no fun."
The bench players remained silent. There was barely a place for them in this moment. The starting eleven had become something else, not polished, not fluid, but a machine beginning, at last, to grind into motion.
Tobias stood at the edge of the room, watching all eleven players put their hands together.
His hand clenched, his nose burned, his legs shook.
He wanted to play.
"ONE, TWO, THREE, CHAMPIONS!"
They all dashed out of the room, returning back to the scrutinizing eyes on the Lamex, under the gaze of the opposing fans. Under the spinning cameras that broadcasted the game.
"Hm?" Isidre said, watching the players jump and twist, all stretching.
"Seems like you failed to break them." Charlie smiled next to him, before walking to his position. "You owe me twenty bucks, loser~~"
Isidre glanced directly at Benjamin, the striker jumping softly, inhaling and exhaling calmly.
He was supposed to be rattled, they all were. Four goals down, with the world watching, with the mockery already spreading online like wildfire. This was when cracks should've shown, when shoulders slumped and tempers flared.
But instead... they looked alive.
Just what exactly had happened in the half time break?
Isidre clicked his tongue.
THE MATCH RESTARTED!
Jacob passed to Ryan, the box-to-box midfielder driving the ball forward as both strikers drifted wide.
Isidre cut in centrally, now operating as the focal point of the attack. The plan was clear, pin them back, force them deep, and drown them in relentless pressure.
But Halles Sieger moved differently. Calm. Composed.
One player collided into Ryan's side, hand braced against his hip. Another pressed from the front, the defensive shape thicker, tighter than it had been all match.
Then in a surprise.
Ryan lost the ball.
It was instantly swept down the flank to Mateo, who took off in a blur. He pushed it forward once, caught up, then pushed again. The momentum had flipped in seconds.
Isidre didn't even move. He just stood there, watching as Mateo tore down their left flank. Bruce stepped up to meet him, Jamie closing in from the side.
"Center!"
Mateo slammed the ball across just before they boxed him in. Not toward the edge, but toward the crowded center, where defenders lurked.
And so did Elke.
The midfielder brought the ball down with care, eyes locked on his marker, Maximo, a towering figure in midfield.
Elke feinted, a lazy leg sweep over the ball. But he wasn't trying to beat him, he couldn't. The tapes had shown it clearly. Maximo was a wall, and trying to scale him was suicide.
So he turned and launched it back to Liam, who had surged up from deep, and for the first time in the match.
For the first time from open play.
From the first time in a real game.
The play had connected.
Liam struck it first time, slicing the ball through the air. Benjamin took off immediately, his timing immaculate. Onside. In front. Sprinting between Bruce and Aaron, both scrambling to cover.
The ball arced above their heads.
And it was coming down for him.
Benjamin looked up, the ball spinning, then dipping at perfect height. Liam had served up a hell of a suggestion, and he had no hesitation in taking it.
Bruce closed in just as Benjamin slowed to collect. In a single motion, Benjamin flicked the ball over his head with his foot.
Bruce slid past, legs tearing up the turf as he tried to recover, but it was too late. Benjamin had already lined up the shot.
A twisting half-volley from inside the box.
"What a nasty recommendation, Liam."
Benjamin's body curled, his leg whipping around like a coiled cobra, striking the ball clean and vicious as he fell.
It flew.
Too fast, too pure.
And it rattled the bar.
Out of bounds.
Benjamin dropped to the ground, breath catching as he stared up. Liam and Elke jogged over, hands out to pull him up.
"You'll bury the next one," Elke said, clapping his back.
"And here I was thinking you wouldn't even get to it," Liam grinned. "Might have to recommend something even spicier next time."
"Do your worst," Benjamin said, smiling as they made their way back up the pitch.
The crowd paused for a moment, that attempt just now. It hadn't just silenced them, it had excited them. A crazy play from the jump.
It wasn't going to save the match, but—
"YOU CAN DO IT HALLES SIEGER!" A voice screamed from the crowds, and mere moments later, albeit not as loud. The passersby's who'd entered. Not supporting anybody had begun cheering for them.
Paul smiled, hands clasped together.
"Good cop, bad cop routine," Harriet said, scrolling through the tabloids. "What is this, The Rookie?"
"With how you acted, it was bad cop, slightly less bad cop." Paul said. "You were meant to give them loads of encouragement after I shot them down."
"They'll be fine," she said. "At least as fine as any players four down at the break could be."
"You think they could salvage anything from this match?"
"Yes." She didn't hesitate.
Paul glanced at her, "are you sure?"
She smiled at him.
"I've never been so sure of anything in my life."
"Don't make crazy claims," Paul smiled back.
She chuckled. "It's a bad habit."