The scoreboard flipped, 3-1.
Horace Parker had completed his hat trick, further cementing himself as a must-have for every scout and coach in the stands. Pulling one back for Team A was Callum Sharpe, capitalizing on a mistake from central defender, Everest Wallflower.
Halftime had arrived and fans filtered out of the stands, some heading for snacks, others for the bathrooms. Meanwhile, Paul and Andre sat, quietly refining their list of targets.
"Everest Wallflower," Andre muttered, pen hovering over the page. "You sure you want him?"
"We're not exactly swimming in options," Paul sighed. "The best we'll get are the burnt ends of the pot no one else wants. I'll just have to mold those scraps into something viable."
"And you're sure you can do that?"
"It's not about whether I can or can't." Paul looked him in the eye. "I have to. This is bottom of the barrel, Andre. If I fail here, I might as well head back to Manchester and start flipping patties."
"I'm not cut out to be a line cook, Paul."
"Exactly," Paul said, nodding toward the benches where players bickered with their coaches. "We have to make this work. Promotion might be a stretch, but if we don't make playoffs—"
"That's it," Andre finished for him.
Paul nodded.
"Well," Andre said, checking his notes, "at least with semi-pro contracts, we don't have to worry about poaching."
"We'll tie a few of them down to pro deals," Paul replied.
"Really? Who've you got in mind?"
But Paul didn't answer. His eyes had drifted back to the pitch as fans returned to their seats and the second half began.
A loose pass from Randall was picked off by Team A. The ball landed cleanly at the feet of Liam Briar. The blonde midfielder stood deep in the center of the field, facing down a wave of defenders before surging forward.
Liam had some name recognition—once a youth prospect at Tottenham Hotspur, though he'd been released just six months in. A deep-lying playmaker with stellar vision and technique, but one glaring flaw.
He pulled the ball to his left foot, spotting Callum making a run behind the line. With a forceful strike, Liam launched the ball into the air, slicing through the defense.
But it wouldn't reach.
Callum stretched for it, but the ball landed just ahead of him and rolled out of play. Frustrated, the veteran midfielder threw up his hands in protest as Liam jogged back.
"Horrible pass," Andre muttered beside Paul.
"That's not the issue," Paul corrected. "It was a fine pass. In any other scenario, with any better player, that would've been a real chance. But that's exactly the problem."
"What?"
"Imagination."
Andre frowned. "Okay, you're not making sense. What do you mean, imagination?"
"That pass required a certain level of flair to make, and an even greater level of flair to receive," Paul explained, eyes still on the field. "Liam's passes aren't aimed at your feet. He's giving you a suggestion."
"A suggestion?"
"Yeah," Paul nodded. "When he passes, he's showing you what could be. He's telling you how to receive it, where to be, how to move. If you don't have the flair or, in this case, the imagination to see it... you won't get it."
On the field, Julian Evecree had just pulled off a well-timed block, sparking another Team A counterattack. He slid the ball to Liam once again, and the central midfielder surveyed the pitch with his usual calm.
"There," Paul said. "Watch."
Liam lifted the ball again, a long arc soaring toward the right flank, aimed at a sprinting Samson. The ball dropped at an awkward angle—too high for a normal take, but not impossible.
It asked for something strange: a forward run, a leap, a cushioned header, a knee touch, then a controlled drop. Difficult. Demanding. But not impossible.
Samson saw it. He stopped anyway. Let the ball go out for a throw-in.
Andre exhaled. "I hate that I see what you mean."
"When I say imagination," Paul said, leaning back, "I mean the imagination to see the suggestion Liam made. To understand what he's asking of you."
"And Samson saw it," Andre said, nodding slowly. "He just didn't have the flair to make it happen."
"Exactly," Paul said. "He had the idea, but not the artistry."
A string of loose passes and incomplete plays followed. The rhythm broke down. And then, from the sideline, the referee raised his arms.
OUT—>9: Liam Briar
IN<—9: Demar Gaye.
That was the end of his career.
As Liam walked off the pitch, heads didn't turn. Voices didn't rise. Pens didn't move.
Nobody wrote.
Nobody spoke.
Nobody cared.
Even if he was good, even if he saw the game in a way few did, what use was that at this level? Those suggestions, that subtle brilliance, it was wasted here. And at the level where it would matter, he'd need time—years—to develop.
It was good. But right now?
It was pointless.
To everyone, except Paul Sczerny.
"Add him to the list," Paul said quietly.
Andre didn't argue. He scribbled Liam's name down. The fallen coach's reputation might've been in shambles, mocked in forums and laughed out of boardrooms, but when it came to recognizing raw talent and knowing how to shape it. Paul was still one of the best.
"Done," Andre said. "That gives us three prospects. A striker in Benjamin Parker. Winger in Nagisa Aoto and midfielder in Liam Briar. What now?"
Paul nodded. "We could get three more. Maybe. Everyone else already has suitors. And even if it's York City showing interest, they'd still pick them over us."
Andre smirked. "That bad, huh?"
"Worse." Paul's tone was flat. "But we make do. First of the three? Everest Wallflower."
Andre gave him a look. "The one who got cooked by Callum?" Then shook his head. "You really want him, huh... wait. Wallflower? Isn't his brother Winter Wallflower? The guy Reading's been fending United off of?"
"Exactly." Paul didn't smile, but something about him shifted. "Younger brothers who don't live up to the name, it's a tale as old as time."
"And let me guess. You want to rewrite that story."
"You know me too well," Paul said. "Add him."
Andre nodded. "Done."
The match rolled on, favor now squarely in Team A's hands. Callum Sharpe charged forward again, the crowd roaring as he danced through the defense, defenders falling one by one like pins in his wake. Every touch was tight. Every feint had meaning.
Callum was the star. The best player on the pitch in overall terms. The one scouts were falling over each other to sign. But he wasn't hunting goals anymore. His job was done.
At the edge of the box, near the left channel, he slipped the ball inward, a quiet feed to the striker waiting between the lines. Ashley Richardson.
He controlled the ball instantly. No wasted touches. He pushed forward, and just as fast, the defense closed in. Everest and Colton boxed him in. No space given.
Ashley brought the ball to his left and Everest, perhaps wanting to redeem himself, dashed in. Leg stabbing against the ball, but the striker pulled the ball back just as quickly, and he fell over.
The refs whistle went.
PENALTY.
The crowd booed as play resumed.
Ashley Richardson had gone down hard. He was meant to take the penalty—earned it, even—but the tackle had wrecked his ankle. Blood trickled into his sock, and he couldn't even stand. So the responsibility fell to his strike partner. Max Basil.
Normally, despite being a midfielder, Callum Sharpe might've stepped up. He had the confidence. The star power. The eyes of every scout in the stands. A goal here would bolster his stock even more.
But he refused.
Because he knew what everyone else did.
Miss this, and it's over.
Penalties were a gift—a free shot with no defenders, just you and the keeper. Miss one, and suddenly you're a fraud. Your ceiling drops. Your value plummets. And Callum didn't need that.
So he let it go.
Max Basil stood alone at the spot. His breathing stuttered, shallow and quick.
He glanced at the keeper, Richard Tellago. 17 years old. 6'4. Wingspan of a plane. The kind of physical anomaly that made youth coaches salivate. And he looked ready. Arms waving. Eyes locked.
Max exhaled.
This was his moment. He'd done nothing all match. Invisible. Anonymous. But this was his chance to flip the script. Score this, and he wasn't just another player. He was important.
He stepped up.
Slow and measured.
A run-up straight out of Rashford's playbook.
He struck the ball. Clean. Smooth.
But it wasn't on target.
It sailed.
Not just wide—embarrassingly wide.
The crowd didn't even boo this time. They just groaned.
Max didn't look back. He didn't wait for the silence.
He didn't need to.
SUBSTITUTION.
OUT—>5: Max Basil.
IN<—5: Viktor Hannibal
OUT—>11: Ashley Richardson(injured)
IN<—11: Jon Daniels.
Max trudged off the field, his head down as all eyes followed him to the bench. He slumped into his seat, a towel thrown over his head like a curtain to the outside world.
He didn't blame the coach, how could he? This was a do-or-die moment, and he hadn't shown what it took.
His head stayed low. The tears didn't.
"Him too?" Andre asked quietly.
Paul shook his head. "I'm building a team of future stars, not dead weight." He waved a dismissive hand. "He's not good enough. Leave him."
The game wrapped up soon after. Final score: 4–3. Late goals came from Viktor Hannibal off the bench and the ever-reliable Ini Ukaze.
Scouts poured onto the pitch like a swarm, each one rushing to reach their targets. In a setting like this—youth trials filled with fresh high school grads and unsigned college players—there were no agents to deal with, no red tape. Just handshakes, pitches, and contracts on the spot.
Paul didn't move. He kept scanning the field, searching for something the others hadn't seen.
Only two players sat untouched on the bench, towels draped over their heads, silence clinging to them tighter than sweat.
Dorian Caldera.
Max Basil.
Paul had already looked long and hard at Max. No matter how much he squinted, turned the angle, or tried to see something else, there was nothing. No spark. No future. Just another name to forget.
But Dorian? That was different.
Paul walked toward him, Andre by his side.
"Two completed passes out of sixteen," Paul began. "Zero completed crosses. No assists. No key passes. Turnover rate that'd get you exiled in any league."
Dorian didn't lift his head. "You come to rub it in?" he muttered. Then he waved a hand. "I get it. Nobody wants me. Just leave me alone."
"Yeah, no one wants you," Paul said. "You can't even string a successful pass to save your life—"
Dorian shot up, grabbing Paul by the collar. His fist clenched the fabric of the coach's suit before he let go.
"Going pro was my last shot," Dorian muttered. "And I blew it... I'm sorry. Just leave me alone."
Andre stood quietly at Paul's side. The head coach could be impulsive, even unpredictable, but when you trusted the process, it felt like magic.
And now, the magician began his trick.
"Bassaldau Dehani," Paul said, calmly. "Manchester City winger. Player of the month. You know how many passes he completed in his first match under me, back when I coached Norwich?"
"I... I don't know," Dorian mumbled.
"Zero."
Dorian blinked.
"Check it if you want. I'm not lying. He was awful at the time. Finished that season with an average rating of 6.00. You know what changed?"
Dorian didn't respond.
Paul tapped a hand against his chest. "I did. I played him as a winger, unlocked his best traits. I bring stars closer. I make diamonds gleam."
He looked Dorian in the eyes.
"So, Dorian Caldera, what do you choose? Fade into nothing? Or come with me?"
Both Dorian and Max looked up now, recognition flashing across their faces.
"You're... Paul Sczerny," Dorian whispered.
"Make your decision."
Dorian smiled, slowly. "I'll join. But... it's been a while since you were in the news. What team do you even coach now?"
"Halles Sieger," Andre chimed in.
A pause.
Dorian blinked. "That's... that's practically giving up on football."
Paul tilted his head. "Do you have a better offer?"
Dorian sighed, then stood. "Alright. I'll join. I just hope you're cooking something crazy."
"I always am," Paul grinned.
Moments later, he and Andre walked along the edge of the pitch.
"Some of our targets already left," Andre said, already dialing his phone.
"Do what you can," Paul told him. "Get us those players."
Andre broke into a jog. "Get me a taxi... what do you mean I owe the company? I don't—oh... right. Sorry. C'mon, Jim. I'm gonna make some money soon, just take me this once... hello? Jim?"
Click.
"Jim?!"
Andre groaned and broke into a run, sprinting off the pitch in search of their targets.
Paul stayed behind, his mind already working, picturing lineups, partnerships, formations. Could Benjamin read Liam's passes? Would the existing academy kids fit his new blueprint?
He hadn't coached in a long time. He had tactics stacked in his head like unopened presents. From all-out attacking 1-4-5s to mountain-wall 6-3-1s. The possibilities danced before him.
He turned to leave the stadium.
A hand caught his.
He looked back, downward.
"Please," Max Basil cried. "Let me play for you, Coach Paul!"
Paul stared. There was fire in the kid's eyes. Small. Weak. Ready to die out at the first gust of wind.
But fire nonetheless.
"I'll do anything!" Max shouted. "I don't need money, just let me play under you!"
Paul smiled.
"No way," he said, turning. "You're not cut out for this."
And he walked away.