The whistle blew for the second half, and we jogged back into formation. I’d figured Thatcham would try to probe our right side again, so I dropped shoulder-to-shoulder with our right back, Evans. “Evans,” I muttered, low enough that Mitch wouldn’t overhear. “Focus on attacking this half. Push higher. I’ll cover the defensive channel for you.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “But Mitch—”

  “I’ll handle the gaps. You focus on your crosses and link-ups. Give us width. Got it?”

  He hesitated only a second before nodding. “Right. Cheers.”

  Good. Because if I tried to keep him locked into both jobs again, he’d be dragging his tongue on the grass by the 50th minute.

  Thatcham kicked off, immediately passing the ball to their left winger.

  I’d expected the flank attack, but not the tempo.

  The winger exploded down the line with a burst I hadn’t clocked in the first half, and Evans didn’t track back with nearly enough enthusiasm. Which left me to cover, exactly as planned.

  Except I misjudged the first step.

  For the first time tonight, I was half a second slow, and he got through.

  “Shit—”

  I sprang into a sprint, but the lad was sharp; too sharp. He got a full stride ahead of me before I could close the gap, and suddenly I was scrambling to close his angles.

  The winger hit the byline and chopped a low cross in just as I lunged across his hip. I wasn’t fast enough to kill it outright, but I got enough of a shove on his shoulder and a boot scraping across his plant foot to make the delivery come off sloppy.

  “Mansfield!”

  Mansfield should’ve been there, should’ve read the danger early and stepped closer to my side, tightening the space, forcing the forward into a decision.

  Instead, he was two steps too deep, staring, caught between marking nothing at all to his left and marking nothing at all to his right.

  The small Thatcham forward darted toward the loose cross. Normally he’d take a touch and bury it, but it seemed he got PTSD from all the times I’d been on top of him before he’d even opened his hips, so he just snatched at the shot the first time, rushing it, slicing the ball wide of the near post and sending it clattering into a mesh fence behind the goals.

  That was close.

  I dragged a hand over my face. If I was gonna cover the workload of two people on this flank, I couldn’t let that happen again. One bad read and the whole shape cracks open.

  “Evans!” came Mitch’s roar. “If you go forward, you bloody well get back! Don’t leave Harrington covering your mess on his own!”

  Evans went stiff, eyes on the ground. Before the kid could shrink any further, I jogged over, one hand raised. “Coach. That one’s on me. I told him to push up a little higher on the overlap. I should’ve checked the cover behind us.”

  It seemed like me owning up to it and shielding the boy got him to respect me more.

  “Jamie,” Mitch growled, stepping in closer, “you don’t change assignments mid-half without going through me first. You get me?”

  “Yeah. Understood. My fault.”

  He held the glare a beat longer, then exhaled sharply through his nose. “Fine. Your call, your responsibility. But next time, you run it past me before you start rearranging my back line.”

  “Right.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Then the coach’s voice tore across the pitch. “Palmer! Dawson! You two aren’t tourists. Get up that bloody wing! I want the left side pushing high. Cross early, cross often!” Palmer was our left back, and Dawson played the role of left winger today.

  Palmer raised a thumb, and Dawson slapped his hands together like he’d been waiting the whole half for permission.

  With Evans freed to push higher, I dropped slightly deeper, eyes scanning the right channel and nudging Mansfield when he lingered too far from the danger. My lungs burned, but at least I wasn’t sprinting constantly to cover Evans and the overlap.

  On the left, Palmer and Dawson immediately took Mitch’s orders to heart. Palmer surged forward with good enough pace for a fullback, and Dawson darted wide, hugging the touchline. They hadn’t had to do too much, so they were fresh, and after a quick layoff, Palmer sent in the first cross and clipped the top of the six-yard area just beyond the first defender.

  I glanced up briefly. Thatcham’s right-back had to scramble across to cover, leaving a pocket of space that Evans and I could exploit if we were clever. I barked instructions across the pitch. “Evans! Overlap left if you get a second. Stretch their back! Mansfield, stay tight on the forward!”

  The left-side attack brought balance to the field. Instead of every threat coming down my side, Thatcham now had to respect the danger on the opposite flank, giving me slightly more breathing room.

  Right at that moment, bright warnings flashed over Thatcham’s left side.

  Both of them were cooked. Absolutely cooked. And their coach was already shuffling toward the touchline with a pair of subs warming up. Once the ball went out, those two would be gone, and the window would slam shut.

  One of the perks of seeing stamina bars in real life: you know exactly when to hit the accelerator.

  “We go now,” I muttered, already stepping toward the passing lane. Then louder: “Okafor! Tell lads to push high; hit them before they swap!”

  Chinedu didn’t waste a second. “Press up! Full height!” he barked, punching the air forward.

  And Dawson—bless him—read the moment instantly. Instead of taking an extra touch or recycling inside, he whipped a sharp diagonal ball across the pitch, straight into the feet of our right winger, Rothschild, who’d already begun his surge.

  The pass skipped past Thatcham’s wilting left mid, sliced beyond their half-dead left-back, and dropped perfectly into Rothschild’s stride.

  For a few tense seconds, the ball pinged between Evans, Rothschild, and the second striker Dominic ‘Dom’ Johnstone. Evans overlapped wide just enough to draw Thatcham’s right-back toward him, while Dom cut inside, offering the central passing option. Rothschild timed his run perfectly, receiving the ball and laying it off into the path of Evans, who returned it crisply to Dom. He delivered a first-time strike from the edge of the box. The Thatcham keeper reacted fast, sprawling to block the shot, but only managed to parry it into Roberts’ path.

  Then Roberts thumped it into the empty net.

  A cheer erupted from our side of the pitch. Evans threw his arms into the air, sprinting back toward the halfway line with a wide grin plastered across his face. Rothschild clapped Dom on the back, both of them laughing and exchanging high-fives as they ran over to Roberts.

  Mitch’s eyes met mine for a split second. His hands curled into tight fists at his sides. I returned the gesture. Our plan had worked.

  The UI fed me information again.

  I glanced toward him. He was already looking back at me, giving a small, firm nod. And it wasn’t just him. Little green arrows floated above several players on the pitch, all of whom showed a one or two percent increase in respect.

  Brilliant. I deserve a bump up in Leadership after today’s showing.

  Then Mitch’s voice cut across the pitch again. “Don’t get comfortable! Fifteen minutes left, and this game isn’t over!”

  Mitch waved over two players from the bench. A fresh right winger and a central midfielder jogged onto the field, both looking sharp and eager. But there was no centre back to replace me.

  No sooner had our substitutions settled than I spotted movement on the far side of the pitch. Thatcham were making changes too—three fresh legs coming on. One of them was a new left winger streaking past their sideline coach, clearly fast and eager to test our right flank.

  I wiped the sweat from my brow, trying to catch my breath. I was a proper old man now, and I’d have to survive the next fifteen minutes, against a pair of fresh legs.

  But I’d fight on. The lads looked up to me.

  Then the new left winger received the ball and immediately charged down the flank.

  Game on.