“This man’s gonna play over me?”

  The voice came before Mitch had even finished his announcement. David Mansfield, of course, looked between us like he couldn’t decide which of us to blame.

  “Depends which weeks you actually show up for, Davie,” Mitch replied. “Half the time you’re still clocking in at the warehouse when kick-off’s in twenty.”

  A ripple of laughter ran through the changing room. Mansfield’s ears went red.

  “I’ve never missed a match,” he muttered.

  “You’ve never finished one either,” Mitch shot back. “So maybe listen, yeah? Harrington’s not taking anyone’s job. He’s cover; someone who can keep the line steady when we’re flapping about.” He turned his glare on the rest of them. “And before anyone else pipes up, remember last Saturday? We had nine out there for warm-up until I was about to text the bloody bossman to ask if he fancied centre-half. So unless every one of you suddenly turns into model professionals, spare me the attitude.”

  The laughter ebbed. Mitch had still gotten that edge.

  That was when I received another Quest from FMSim.

  I glanced at Mansfield, who was still muttering under his breath, and felt a small twinge of . . . anticipation? The game clearly thought I gotta show him my level. The respect bar was obviously a great thing to see—it quantified something you normally had to guess at from body language, side-glances, or the way a bloke reacted to a pass. A shame it only tracked me as a player and not as a coach.

  I didn’t say anything. I’d learned, years ago, that moments like this were best left to burn themselves out, though sometimes I wondered if that was actual wisdom or just the habit of a man who’d spent the last decade fumbling every good thing that came his way. My centre back partner back in the day, Liam Corven, used to jab me in the ribs between corners, grumbling, ‘Talk, J. Talk or we’ll die quiet.’ I never quite picked it up. I’d led by example, by timing, by being in the right place before anyone else knew trouble was coming. Maybe I should’ve, instead of letting Mitch do all the talking.

  No one said anything. Just the usual shuffle of tape, studs clacking, someone’s playlist leaking tinny bass from a phone speaker. I caught a couple of looks, but that was all. They’d been chatting fine before I walked in about a midfielder lad’s new car and their weekend plans. Then the door opened, I came in, and the volume dipped by half.

  I caught a couple of other side glances. Were they pissed at me for showing up and getting a word from Mitch first? Or just sizing me up, deciding if I was worth listening to?

  It didn’t matter. I’d earn respect on the training field.

  I followed the lads out to the pitch just as the dusk was deepening. The club had managed to arrange the scrimmage: Thatcham Town. Local enough, in the Combined Counties League, a tier below us, but still a decent semi?pro side. Their form had been so abysmal over the season, they were flirting with relegation, and maybe even a drop to a lower tier if things didn’t improve.

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  For Mitch, it was perfect. He needed to see how our new defensive formation held up in real time, how the lads rotated, covered, and reacted under pressure. And for me, it was ideal, too. A chance to get on the pitch, test my own legs, and see if the lads actually listened when I barked directions.

  It was only the second day of the job, and I hadn’t even gotten a proper training session in. Most of the lads were missing, as it was a bloody weekday after all. Several other regular starters weren’t available either, leaving Mitch with exactly thirteen players to field.

  Reeves was out, and for some reason, the other two right-backs were also conveniently unavailable (we had THREE RBs, damn it!), so our right-back role fell to some eager 17-year-old lad from the youth setup that played winger in my last session with him. He looked sharp enough, but inexperienced; you could tell he’d never really seen a formation like ours in action. Still, Mitch was adamant: the scrimmage had to happen, and we were sticking to the new game plan.

  “Even if the lads are patchy, keep the right-side triangle alive. Discipline over chaos, got it?” Mitch emphasized.

  I fell in line next to Mansfield, and saw him looking at me, muttering something under his breath that might’ve been a complaint—or maybe just a curse.

  I just shot him a grin, shrugged, and said, “Relax, Davie. I’m not here to nick your lunch money.”

  He looked at me and snorted. “We’ll see who’s nicking whose.”

  I squared my shoulders as the whistle blew.

  The first few minutes were messy. Thatcham’s lads were quick and scrappy, probing for any weakness in our makeshift setup. Mansfield was already grumbling at a missed mark, but I let it slide, nudging the younger defenders instead and calling for a tighter line.

  “Step up! Cover the channel, Reeves!” I barked, though Reeves wasn’t even there—the kid covering him was supposed to be Evans. “Good, now shift right! Don’t leave him alone!”

  Mansfield, with a Decision-Making stat of 25, was already pushing up too far, chasing balls he shouldn’t be chasing. I had two choices: either stay just behind him to mop up the inevitable mistake, or bark instructions loud enough to get him to hold his position.

  “Hold your line, Mansfield!” I shouted, stepping back into the channel he’d just abandoned. Mansfield ignored the first couple of shouts, pushing up again as soon as the ball rolled past midfield. The ball found its way into his zone, and immediately, he paid the price—a Thatcham forward darted around him, forcing a hurried pass that nearly split the defense.

  But I had already anticipated it. I slid in just behind Mansfield, intercepting the loose ball before it became dangerous. “Stop guessing! Watch the line!”

  Mansfield scowled, muttering something under his breath again, but this time he hesitated before pushing too far. He still did, anyway, but I was right there to cover him, intercepting the through ball. Every time the ball dropped near our right channel, I was there, reading it, intercepting, nudging Mansfield back into position. I even wrestled the ball off of the small but nimble Thatcham forward twice.

  The next time the ball rolled out of play, Mansfield jogged back into position, still scowling, but this time a little less aggressively. “Oi . . . what’s the last club you played for?”

  I let a small grin slip. “Dunsvale, mostly.”

  Mansfield just stared for a second and shrugged. “You got that calm in you. It’s like playing with Luke. Kowalski, I mean.” He wasn’t going to dig more about my time at Dunsvale, so that was good.

  The game was starting to flow more clearly now, and it didn’t take long for Thatcham to figure out that the center was a no-go. Our midfield was good at denying space, and I hadn’t let a single through ball pass once. So, naturally, they switched to the flanks.

  I spotted the ball pinging down our right wing, and the young right-back struggled to keep possession as the Thatcham winger tried to overload him. The overlap triangle just wasn’t working—the kid didn’t have the timing or awareness yet. The ball was lost, and Thatcham’s winger cut inside, accelerating toward the penalty area. Mansfield sat way too deep, so deep he was close to humping the goddamned post for some reason.

  “Move up! Closer to me! Stop making out with the far post, Mansfield!” I barked, positioning myself slightly inside the six-yard box to cover if the winger tried to cut in further.

  Mansfield hesitated for a split second, scowling but listening this time. He got into position as the Thatcham winger whipped in a low cross, and he timed his jump well, rising behind the attacking forward, and planted a solid header away from the danger zone.

  I gave him a quick pat on the back as he landed, just a small gesture, nothing flashy. “Nice timing,” I said.

  Mansfield looked at me for a moment, nodding toward the winger. “For the corner . . . I’ll push near the near post, yeah?”

  It was the first time he’d offered a tactical thought mid-play. He was consulting me now. I gave a slight nod, letting him own that little piece of the game.