"Oh my God, did you see that, Cathy?" Jermaine Smith, the third host of The BCC Show, leaned forward, eyes wide. "A scorpion kick? At this level?"
"I did indeed, Jermaine," Catherine Mays replied, smiling. "What a strike, and from such a young talent. We might have to start putting the second Parker brother in the conversation's from now on."
"Nah," Harold cut in, strolling up to the screen displaying the replay. "It's an alright goal at best. And why are we pretending like they didn't lose 4–1? The coach just went 81 games without a win. Just like I said he would."
The studio erupted—gasps, groans, and jeers all at once.
"Come on, you can't be serious," Jermaine said, pointing. "When's the last time you saw a Vanarama player pull this off? Or anyone, for that matter? It's been years!"
"Bicycles, scorpions, overheads... It's all whizz whazz," Harold shrugged. "If this is what made you great, Garnacho would be the best player on Earth."
Jermaine shook his head, laughing. "This man will never admit it was a good goal will he?"
"Most likely not, Jermaine," Grace chimed in smoothly, turning to face the camera. "Coming up next, our spotlight on the best young talents in the game. Today: Idrissa Daveed, who scored twice in his second Premier League appearance against Manchester—"
Click.
Ross shut off his phone and placed it face down on the table.
Across from him sat Paul, hands resting on his lap, breath shaky, heart pounding like he'd downed a triple shot of espresso.
Ross didn't look at him right away. He leaned back in his chair, gazing at nothing in particular.
"Do you know we have a social media account?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, sir," Paul replied. "The Halles Sieger official account."
Ross nodded slowly.
"When the team got relegated and I bought the club... the following we had wasn't huge, but it was something. Two hundred thousand people. If even a quarter came to matches, we'd have enough to fund serious development."
Paul swallowed, unsure where this was going.
"But midway through my first afternoon as owner..."
Ross gave a soft, humorless laugh. "I watched that number drop. From two hundred thousand to two thousand. Just like that."
He looked up now, still staring blankly.
"The club was dead. In the eyes of the fans. In the eyes of the players. Even in mine."
Then he picked up his phone again. Unlocked it. Slid it across the table.
Paul reached out and caught it before it tipped over the edge.
On the screen read:
**HallesSieger**
[@TheRealHallesChampions]
[4,051 followers, +2,000 over the last week.]
Then, posts tagging the account were just below that.
'Did anyone see that goal? What a strike? Who is that kid?'
One comment.
'Nah, that was absolutely vile, haven't seen a kick that good since Giroud!"
And another.
'That was enough to make me a fan Icl, Halles Sieger to the world!'
"That all changed today," Ross said. "The media's crucifying us, sure. But somehow, that goal softened the blow, even going as far as aiding our fanbase."
"I'll make sure to tell Benjamin," Paul said. "He deserves to know what he's started, even if I won't be around."
"Right," Ross nodded. "That was the agreement."
"Yes, sir."
"A pity..."
"Sure is."
The room fell silent. Then Ross looked up, eyes meeting Paul's.
"Would you like to stay on?"
Paul blinked. "How do you mean?"
"Your job here. As head coach." Ross leaned forward, folding his hands. "This is undeniably the start of something big. These players might be rough, yes, but I'd be a fool if I said I didn't see potential in some of them. I could scrap this momentum and start over. Might even be smarter, long-term. But..."
He smiled now, spinning slowly in his chair before planting his hands firmly on the table.
"I can feel something brewing. A culture. This club has no identity, no real history to latch onto. Even the chant, the 'Champions' one? I doubt any one would know where it originated from. That has to change. And the best way to do it is by continuing just like this."
Paul felt a yell bubbling in his throat, but kept it in check. He sat straighter.
"Does this mean I'm hired?"
"Unfortunately not. We're still bottom of the league. We don't exactly have the funds to—"
"That's not what we agreed on, Ross!"
A woman burst out of the nearby restroom, striding toward them in a flowing black sundress. She smacked Ross square on the head.
"You were supposed to praise him a bit, then offer the job! Why are you changing the script?"
Paul blinked. "What...?"
Ross sighed, rubbing the side of his head. "I do not believe keeping you on is the best financial decision. Two thousand fans isn't a life changing amount. However..."
He turned to the woman, scowling.
"I've been... advised—"
She raised her hand again.
"—strongly advised, by my associate here, to retain your services a while longer."
"Good," she said, folding her arms.
Paul looked between them, evidently confused. "I'm sorry, who is she exactly?"
The woman flashed a calm, soft smile. Her hair framed her face in straight black lines.
"This pain in the ass—" Ross began, before getting smacked again,"...This is Clara Luciebell. Owner of TrackSprint, the sportswear and equipment company that just agreed to sponsor us for the season."
Paul nodded softly. He remembered the name—TrackSprint—plastered across the cones, bibs, and treadmills.
He stood up, brushing invisible dust off his pants. "I'm Paul Sczerny—"
"I know your story already," Clara interrupted. "From rags to riches to rags again."
Ouch.
"Then why are you advocating for me to stay on with the team?"
Clara struck a ridiculous pose—hands against her hips, leg's wide. "Because, despite appearances, I know absolutely nothing about football. I Googled your name about an hour ago."
Paul blinked. "So then... why exactly are you—?"
"Because I'm a fan of what I saw today." She said, "I couldn't tell you why, exactly, but that goal—from the set up to the finish. It was pretty... and I want to see you play like this at the very top."
Paul glanced at her.
"And I want to help you get there." She paced now, eyes sweeping the floor. "Winning would be nice, sure. But honestly? I don't care about results."
"But doesn't that mean you'd lose money sponsoring us?" Paul asked.
"Maybe." She shrugged. "But when I find something worth watching, I stick with it. No matter the cost. Isn't there something you'd sacrifice for, just because you love it?"
Paul said nothing. But his silence said enough.
"Of course," Clara added, now circling back to him, "if life were all rainbows and fairy tales, that'd be the end of it. But business disagrees. We need to leave the Vanarama this season. That's the condition for my partnership."
Paul narrowed his eyes. "So, promotion by the end of the year."
"Exactly." Clara grinned. "If you manage that, I'll fix your budget, help you tie down your players before they're poached, and if you're really impressive. I'll even finance a new stadium."
"And if we don't?"
"That's why I originally wanted you gone," Ross cut in, arms crossed. "The contract ends this season. If we don't get promoted, we'll be isolated—no more sponsors, no lifeline, just another failing club. Hell, our kit's a plain black top."
Paul sat down again. His mind almost imploding, as he grasped everything being said.
"So?" Clara asked, phone ringing in her hand. "Are you up for the challenge? Want to keep showing me beautiful football? Or should we hand it off to some safe, boring brick wall with no eccentricity?"
She didn't wait for an answer. The phone went to her ear. She pushed through the door.
It shut behind her.
Ross sighed. "So that's it. Personally, I still think you should leave, but..." he waved vaguely at the door. "She's calling the shots. She's footing a large chunk of our transfer budget."
Paul raised an eyebrow. "How much?"
Ross leaned back. "Next season? If promoted, five."
Paul froze. "Five million?"
In League Two, five million was gold dust. It could buy five really good signings. A lot more, if he got lowered his standards. But that was if he could even make it through this season.
He looked down, exhaled.
"No one get can get promoted with this team." He said, "it's almost impossible."
"Yeah," Ross said, "I know. That's the kind of crazy expectation you get when that kind of money's on the line."
Then he paused. "Wait... almost impossible?"
Paul exhaled. "I could do it."
Ross laughed, leaning forward. "Don't bullshit yourself, pal. That kind of thinking only leads to further embarrassment."
"Then let's make a bet."
Ross blinked. "Oh? What are the stakes?"
"Promotion this season." Paul met his eyes. "If I fail, you get to laugh at me, maybe even fire me in front of the press. Your win either way."
"And if you do the impossible?"
"I want you to guarantee me one player. My pick, from League Two. And you can't use our transfer budget to get him."
Ross whistled. "So you want a free signing? With my own money?" He leaned back, tapping his chin. "Since it's staying within the club, I suppose I can pull a few strings. Not the worst deal."
"Is it a deal, then?"
"Almost." Ross grinned. "Let's tweak your punishment."
"To?"
"If you fail to get us promoted, you stay on as head scout. Unpaid."
Paul stared. "That's a 360 spin that cripples my career."
"Worth it, though. For any player of your choosing, no?"
Paul nodded slowly. "More than."
He stepped forward, shook Ross's hand, and handed back the phone.
Then he left the room.
In the hallway, he stopped. His heart pounded, loud and fast, like a drumline with blown out speakers.
He pulled out his phone, tapping a number he knew by muscle memory.
It rang once.
"Andre."
"Yo Paul!" came the voice, loud and cheerful under the crunch of something solid. "Get this, there's no food in the pad, so I ordered from this new spot down the street. And when I tell you, I should've gone to the store I'm understating it. This stuff tastes like chalk. I'm actually so pissed off right now—"
"We have a job."
Andre paused, a faint sizzling hiss coming through the phone's microphone, now on speaker as Paul wanted to hear his friend's reaction more clearly.
"LET'S FLIPPING GO!!!!" Andre screamed, something crashing in the background. "I DONT HAVE TO EAT CHALK ANYMORE! I CAN BE DINING LIKE GODDAMN KING!!"
Paul laughed softly. "You're hired as the team's scout. I'll talk to the boss, but... yeah. You basically have the job."
"OH MY DAYS, PAUL! I LOVE YOU, AND YES, AS MUCH MORE THAN FRIEN—"
The call cut out.
Paul blinked, coughed, and turned around, hoping no one heard that.
Clara did.
He walked down the hallway, his steps slower now. He'd been given a second chance, but on one condition.
Promotion.
That was the deal.
Promotion... with this squad and this squad alone. There were no incoming transfers, no incoming loans, no miracle signings. Just raw youth and his system.
He paused mid-step.
"What was I even thinking?" he whispered, palm to his face.
But then... a smile crept across.
He couldn't bring himself to say it—not out loud. Not yet.
That they'd get promoted this season.
But he'd be lying if he said the idea didn't thrill him.
He took a deep breath, the corners of his lips still curved.
"This is going to be exciting," he said, walking down the hallway.