The players jogged in place around the half-line, the crisp Carrington air brushing softly against their skin. The early morning chill still lingered in the air, wrapping itself around every breath they exhaled. Despite the cold, Xander could already feel the sweat sticking to the small of his back, collecting under the hem of his shirt. His pulse was steady, but his mind had yet to settle.
The warm-up drills were over, but the real session was only just beginning. That much was clear.
At the center of the pitch, a whiteboard stood tall on a wheeled stand, flanked by one of the coaching staff members who had brought it out a few minutes earlier. Near it stood Erik ten Hag, hands clasped behind his back, eyes narrowed as he waited for the players to gather.
As if on cue, the players slowed to a halt, forming a loose semi-circle around him.
Xander found himself between Garnacho and Sancho. He was still catching his breath from the last sprint set, wiping his hands discreetly on his training shorts. Physically, he felt fine. But this wasn't just about endurance. It wasn't just about speed.
This was mental.
Everything he did now was under observation. His every step, his every pass, his positioning and awareness. It all counted. It was being weighed. And judged.
Ten Hag raised his head and scanned the players one by one, eyes sharp, calculating. When he spoke, his voice was calm but razor-edged.
"We've had a poor start to the season."
The words cut through the silence.
No one said a word. No one needed to. The air seemed to tighten around them.
"We were outplayed. Brighton punished us. Brentford humiliated us. We didn't just lose," he paused, letting the weight of the moment settle, "we collapsed."
Xander felt the tone change in the group immediately. No excuses. No sugarcoating. Just truth. Brutal and plain.
"That cannot happen again."
Ten Hag's gaze drifted slowly across the squad. Most of the players held their heads high. Their expressions were tense but firm. There was no fear in their eyes. Just ownership.
"Our next match," Ten Hag said, "is against Liverpool."
He didn't pause for drama. He didn't have to. The name itself sent a ripple through the group.
Xander felt it too. A twist deep in his stomach. The name carried weight. It always had. As an academy player, he had known for weeks that this fixture was approaching. Everyone did. But now, hearing it spoken here, inside the first-team circle, as a member of the squad, it was different. He felt the pressure press more firmly into his chest.
Ten Hag gestured to the whiteboard.
The staff member beside it pulled off the cover, revealing a complete tactical map underneath.
Lines. Arrows. Zones. Marker pieces with initials.
It wasn't abstract. It wasn't decorative. It was precise.
"We don't win this with luck," Ten Hag said. "We win this by being exact. Disciplined. Ruthless. They will come at us fast, but they're not invincible. If we control transitions and stay compact between the lines, we break them."
He stepped forward and pointed to various markers on the board. Gomez. Trent. Fabinho.
"They press in groups. If we play sloppy from the back, we drown. They swarm the ball. But they leave gaps. If we pull them too far forward, we can hit them where they are weakest."
Xander's focus sharpened. He listened. Took mental notes. And in that moment, he felt it.
A flicker in the back of his mind. A faint buzzing behind his eyes.
The interface appeared.
[Football Evolution System Detected Tactical Briefing: High-Level Opposition][Match Focus: Liverpool][System Suggestion: Save Session Data for Review?][✓ YES]
He blinked and mentally selected the prompt. The glowing overlay disappeared instantly.
No one saw it. They never did.
He preferred it that way.
Ten Hag stepped back from the board. "Questions?"
Silence.
"Good," he said. "Let's work."
The group began to break off naturally, forming clusters.
Rondos came first.
Tight circles. Quick passing. Two defenders inside. Maximum of three touches per player.
Xander found himself in a group with Bruno, Eriksen, Dalot, and Iqbal. Not exactly an easy crowd.
He didn't speak. He didn't laugh. He just played.
The rhythm was fast. The passes were sharp.
No lazy touches. No hesitation.
The ball came to him. His pulse jumped. But he didn't flinch. He moved into the pass, took it cleanly, and laid it off before the defender could close in.
One-touch. Then again. Then three-touch. Always sharp.
It wasn't perfect. But it was clean. And that was enough.
From there, they moved into sprint drills. Footwork ladders. Cone weaving. Ten-yard bursts. Explosive movement.
Ten Hag and his assistants watched closely. They didn't shout. They didn't over-coach. They observed. When something was wrong, they corrected. When it was right, they moved on.
The tone had shifted.
No more casual jokes. No light conversations.
Everyone knew what was coming.
A match simulation.
Assistant coach Mitchell van der Gaag stepped forward with a clipboard in hand and began reading names aloud.
"Team One: Rashford, Garnacho, Sancho, Xander, Fred, Elanga, Williams, Tuanzebe, Heaton, Iqbal, and Mengi."
Xander turned his head slightly.
His name was among the first.
He noticed Rashford give him a quick glance. Then a nod. Garnacho grinned and bumped his elbow against Xander's side.
Sancho patted him on the back. "Let's go, kid."
Xander moved with them. Team One began gathering on the far side.
Van der Gaag continued with Team Two.
Bruno. Ronaldo. Casemiro. Varane. Malacia. Eriksen. Dalot.
The list didn't need to be finished. The quality was obvious.
The third team would rotate in afterward. A mix of reserves and goalkeepers.
"Two twenty-minute matches," Ten Hag announced. "Winning team gets a break. Losers run laps."
A few groans followed. A couple of sarcastic claps. But no one argued.
Xander glanced around at his squad.
Rashford. Garnacho. Sancho. Not bad. Speed and flair. Elanga could move. Fred had energy.
But the defense looked shaky. And the midfield looked light.
Then he realized. He was playing as a central attacking midfielder.
Not his strongest position.
He usually played on the wing. Wide. With space to run into. Space to attack. Room to stretch the pitch.
As a ten, he would have less of that. More bodies. Less time.
[Position Change Detected: CAM][Out of Position: Yes][System Tip: Emphasize off-ball movement | Increase scanning frequency]
He rubbed his arm and let out a slow breath.
"Looks like we're running laps," Garnacho muttered beside him.
"Not if we play it smart," Sancho said. "Just keep the ball moving."
Xander didn't speak.
He looked across the field.
Team Two was already in shape. Ronaldo stretched calmly. Bruno bounced on his toes. Casemiro stood still, eyes scanning the field.
They weren't just experienced.
They were organized.
They were confident.
These weren't academy players. These were the ones with Champions League appearances. With silverware. With pressure tested into their bones.
Xander didn't want to be the weak link.
Not just because of pride. But because of what he carried.
The system gave him an edge. Yes.
But it didn't hand him victories.
If he failed, it would be on him.
He bent down. Tightened his boots.
Stood up.
Sancho clapped his hands. "Alright, let's go. No panic. Just keep shape, make the simple passes, and track back."
Fred raised a thumb. "Let's not get cooked out there."
Elanga laughed. "I think we might get cooked either way."
"I'm not running laps," Rashford said. His voice was calm, but there was iron underneath it.
Xander looked at him. It wasn't a joke.
He meant it.
They gathered into a small circle.
Xander wanted to say something. He wanted to speak up. Mention spacing. Or tracking Bruno's underlaps.
But he stayed quiet.
He hadn't earned that right yet.
Not here. Not yet.
The huddle broke.
They jogged into position.
He looked one more time toward the far side.
Bruno had already set the structure.
Ronaldo stood like a general.
Casemiro watched like a sentinel.
This wasn't just a drill.
It was a battle.
And now, he was part of it.
He inhaled. Held it.
Exhaled.
He wasn't here to just participate.
He was here to prove he belonged.