The team sat in the small room they'd gathered in before, this was the next day after their horrendous loss against Eastleigh, a loss that while they knew was coming, still stung like hell.
They sat in the room, heads down, all gritting their teeth, getting struck by their first wave of true defeat. But perhaps what hurt the most wasn't the loss.
It was losing Paul.
He was the kind of coach any player would want, someone who made you believe you could reach the top. That kind of presence... you don't replace. Not easily.
And to prove it all in one game?
That was cruel.
Harriet's heel tapped against the tile. Tablet in hand, eyes on the players slumped across the room.
She didn't know what to say. As the interim head coach, how exactly was she supposed to pull them out of this?
She exhaled.
"Our next match is on Friday. Away, against Forest Green Rovers," she said. "They're strong, horrifyingly so and, truthfully, I don't know if we..."
She caught herself. Saying that would only make it worse.
She cleared her throat and adjusted the tablet.
"Training will continue same as last week. Players stay in your respective roles, stick to your instructions. We'll use the current system until a new coach is officially appointed."
The silence stretched.
"Monday: role-specific drills—long passes, defensive setups, wing play.
Tuesday and Wednesday: indoor training. Weights. Conditioning. The gym is your home.
Thursday: light session in the morning, rest after. Friday—matchday."
She glanced up, dropping the tablet at her side.
"Is that okay?"
"Yes, coach." Clovis responded from the back, blonde hair catching the overhead lights as he stood. "We'll go start now—"
"Do you think there's a chance he doesn't get fired?" Liam's voice cut in. "Another coach... might change everything. He might not even see what I can do."
Harriet hesitated. Then nodded, softly. "I understand. But for now... forget about Paul. That's for the best."
The players left in silence.
She remained, standing still as the door shut behind them.
The whiteboard loomed large at the front of the room.
Paul's formation was still scrawled across it, simple in its shape, almost basic. But his roles, his rotations, his instincts... that was what made it special.
She approached, grabbing the duster, gently tapping it against the surface.
Liam was right.
Paul had an eye—the kind of insight most coaches didn't. Most wouldn't tolerate a playmaker who couldn't even make a basic pass.
Let alone build a system around him.
That kind of player is either your centerpiece... or the first name on your release list.
What was going to become of this team?
She sighed.
And dusted.
And as she dusted, her tablet, resting on the table lit up.
Voices echoed from its speakers.
"Well, Matchday One of the Vanarama National League has wrapped up, and we might already have our forerunners," said Gracie of the BCC.
Harriet sighed, still facing the board.
Was Paul the reason the BCC suddenly gave a damn about the Vanarama?
Behind her, the screen flashed with bright colors.
["LEAGUE TABLE – MATCHDAY 1"]
"Top of the pile? AFC Fylde after a comfortable 5–0 win against York City," Catherine chimed in. "Eastleigh right behind them, battering newcomers Halles Sieger 4–1. And Boston United? A comprehensive 3–1 over Dagenham & Redbridge. A real statement start wouldn't you say."
The camera shifted, cutting to the smug grin of Harold.
"Honestly, it's what you'd expect. Fylde looked sharp. Eastleigh? Ruthless. And Halles?"
He laughed. "They looked like they just met each other on the bus."
Laughter filled the studio.
Catherine added, "And poor Sczerny, already bottom of the league. That's eighty-one losses now, if you include his last stints. Someone in the backroom should check if he's cursed."
The graphic changed again, now just one team on screen.
[Halles Sieger – 24th | W: 0 | D: 0 | L: 1 | Goals Conceded: 4]
Jermaine tapped a stack of papers on the table.
"Long season ahead. It's just one game, sure, but if this is Day One? We're in for a wild ride."
"It's going to be a crazy one, isn't it?" Grace laughed. "But let's go back to our main course. Did anyone see that beautiful link-up between Haaland and Palfrey?"
Harriet walked over, quietly placing her hand on the screen.
A single tap paused it.
The silence returned.
From across the hall, she could already hear the distant clank of weights, the whirring of cardio machines. The players had gone straight to work, no complaints, no questions.
Most likely beating themselves up harder than any journalist could.
She sighed.
Then turned toward the door.
And walked.
The training room was drenched in Halles Sieger's stark palette—black and white, with streaks of deep purple curling along the edges, exactly as it had been on their badge.
The large space buzzed with motion: treadmills moved, weights raised, bikes spun.
Standing near the center was Cory Walker, the team's designated fitness coach. Tall, sun-kissed, and with the kind of blonde, laid-back hair that screamed surfer, Cory looked like he'd taken a wrong turn from Bondi Beach. The brown zookeeper shirt, cargo shorts, and overhead shades didn't help.
Still, he was sharp. His eyes didn't miss a thing.
"Thanks for your help, Cory," Harriet said, standing beside him as her gaze drifted across the room. "They've bounced back a bit after the loss, but... losing the coach really deflated them."
"Yeah," Cory replied, thick Aussie accent in full swing. "I'd assume it won't feel good to lose both a coach and a game all at once."
Then looking to his side.
He pointed at Benjamin, who'd cranked up the speed on the treadmill again.
"You're done, mate. Ice bath."
Benjamin didn't argue. Wordlessly, he stepped off the treadmill, sweat-soaked and breathing heavy, heading into the recovery room next door.
A moment later, a loud splash and an even louder yelp echoed out as he plunged into one of three towering tubs filled with ice.
"I didn't get to meet him yet, y'know," Cory said, arms folded. "Saw him from the sidelines on matchday. Looked like a proper lad on the pitch."
Harriet nodded slowly.
"I just have this feeling he could've done something... more, if he had the time," she said quietly. "I know he missed his chance, but... one game? That's too cruel."
She stared down at her open hand, words spilling more to herself than to him.
"The way he commanded them. Every placement, every role. I don't like handing people egos, but that shook me, I can't lie. In just a week he managed to perfectly tune the formation to their traits. Imagine if he had a bit more time."
Cory didn't interrupt. He just kept watching the players.
"I just feel like... in a few years, this team could've been a contender. For anything. That's how good he could've been."
"And here you were saying I make crazy claims," a familiar voice called from the doorway.
Harriet turned.
There stood Paul. Leaning slightly against the frame of the recovery room, arms crossed and grinning like a man who'd just tricked fate. Behind him, Benjamin bounced in place, energized from both the ice bath and the fact Paul was back.
"...Paul," Liam said from the treadmill, staggering off it as his legs gave in. He limped toward the doorway, panting hard, hand slapping his knee. "You're... still... here?"
"Dude," Xavier muttered, glancing over. "Your stamina sucks. How did you even make it through ninety minutes?"
"That's... why... I didn't... want to change... my... position..."
"Still, we're glad you're back." Daichi said, "At least Liam won't have to worry about getting tossed on the next bus to Birmingham."
"Wait." Xavier interjected. "Before we all get hyped that Coach is back... maybe he's just here to grab his comically large suitcase and exit stage left."
Paul smiled.
"Twenty laps."
Xavier blinked, then let out a loud laugh as he jogged toward the exit.
"You know what? I'm not even mad! The coach is back!"
"Are you really?" Elke asked, raising a brow.
"Yeah, I'll be head coach for the rest of the season," Paul said.
"Season?" Clovis asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Yeah, don't sweat the little details," Paul replied, knowing full well they needed to sweat all the details. "The league's already started and we need to hit top form. Last match against Eastleigh? It was bad. But I learned a lot about this team."
"Really?" Arun asked. "What'd you learn?"
"That we're absolutely not winning the league," Paul said.
There was a visible drop in Lance's expression, until Paul added:
"But we are reaching League Two next season. That's a promise I'll fulfill."
"You're crazy," Benjamin said, grabbing a towel and tossing it over his hair. "You want me to score forty goals or something?"
"You can't do it?" Paul asked.
"Never said I couldn't," Benjamin smirked.
Xavier grinned and darted over, messing up Benjamin's towel draped hair.
"I hate how you actually back up the stuff you say."
"Alright, team," Paul clapped. "Quick practice outside. Split into two teams. Benjamin and Liam? Can't be on the same side."
"Deliberately... nerfing me," Liam said, still panting. "What kind of sick games are you playing, Coach?"
"Go throw on your kits. I'll be out in a sec."
The players filtered out, their banter following down the hall, until only Harriet and Cory remained. Cory was already mopping the sweat off the gym floor, earpieces dangling from head to pocket.
"Promotion's a lofty goal," Harriet said.
"Didn't you just say I could go that far?" Paul replied.
"In a few years."
"Make it one, then," he said, smiling.
"Got any plans for the window? Loans? Transfers?"
"Nope. If a free agent drops into our lap, sure, but I doubt anyone with half a brain cell signs a deal with us."
"So... we're getting promoted with what we've got." Harriet shook her head. "How much have you had to drink?"
"Absolutely nothing. I could recite the alphabet backwards. That's how sober I am."
Harriet exhaled a laugh. "You're crazy."
"Ain't nobody say that's a bad thing."
She smiled at that, then asked quietly, "So does that mean... you finally have the answer now?"
Paul nodded.
"Alright then, Coach," Harriet said. "Lead the way."