Maisie didn’t sound any different the next day when I asked her over the phone about whether she’d want to work for Hungerford.

  “Ah, there shouldn’t be any problem,” she said after a pause. “My contract with Slough is just a collaborator’s contract. I’d have to check my schedule and maybe get back to you later?”

  “Fair. Take all the time you need. Actually, don’t. I need your answer by Monday,” I said.

  “Hey, don’t be pushy. Good things take time, innit?” She said with a chuckle. Not sure if this was meant for the job offer or yesterday.

  We got off the phone after another minute of idle chatter. Maisie had been wrong about her ‘good things take time’ mantra, though. I’d already contacted Elliot Harper using the information she’d given me, and the kid seemed keen on the idea. I’d told him to come to training on Saturday and I’d give him a run-out with the first team, and he’d agreed.

  The moment I got on the phone with Mitch, however, I realized that Maisie might have been right after all.

  “You can’t do this without running things past me,” he grumbled. “How am I supposed to put the kid on? I’ve got to show Donovan where the fuck he should stand on the pitch, the clueless knobhead.”

  “What are you talking about? We already went over this.”

  “I didn’t mean literally the day after,” Mitch said, “Next midweek session, sure, after I’ve had a chance to run it past the boss.”

  “Why would you bother the gaffer before you even know if you want the kid?” I said. “That’s backwards.”

  He snorted. “You’re just trying to lock it in before I can say no.”

  “Look, I won’t mess up your schedule. I’ll have him playing attacker for my defensive drills,” I said. “You can keep an eye on him when you’ve got a minute. See if he’s worth the hassle.”

  Mitch was quiet for a moment. “Fine,” he said at last. “But if he’s shit, he’s gone.”

  “That’s how trials work,” I said.

  He hung up on me.

  Our training session for Saturday had our first team lined up exactly as they should: Palmer – Kowalski – JBlock – Reeves as the back four. Elliot Harper had arrived early enough to stand out, and moved off to lace up without being told where to go. No nerves on display, at least not the obvious kind. No trying to impress, either. He just got on with it. That got me feeling good about him.

  I ran the same drill as usual, but told Harper he had the freedom to take his man on if he saw the opening.

  Tom Schofield started spraying balls in from deep, long diagonals and clipped passes meant to test more than just pace. Harper met the first few cleanly. His first touch was good enough to kill the ball, but his balance let him down once or twice. Reeves leaned into him and took him off the ball without much trouble.

  I let it happen a couple of times before stepping in.

  “Lower your centre,” I said as Harper jogged past me. “Use your body before you use your feet. Don’t fight him—make him carry you.”

  He nodded. No questions.

  The very next run, he did exactly that. Took the ball on the half-turn, felt Reeves at his back, and shifted his weight just enough to lock him out. Reeves tried to muscle through and came up with nothing. Harper rolled away, saw Boras step up too early—again—and skipped past him on the outside. The shot that followed was instinctive, low and hard at Holmes’ near post.

  It went in.

  “Jason!” I shouted. “Hold your line or you won’t be holding your starting position.”

  Boras muttered something under his breath, but the next time he didn’t bite. He stayed back, forced Harper wide, and closed the angle properly. Harper read it well. He slipped the ball inside instead, a neat pass into McAteer’s feet at the centre of the box.

  Decent decision-making in motion. Maybe a touch conservative, but that was fine. Conservatism was trainable. Recklessness was harder to fix.

  We called a break a few minutes later. As the players drifted toward the sideline, Kowalski fell into step beside me.

  “Where did you get this kid?” he asked. “He’s pretty good.”

  I didn’t disagree.

  Mitch was watching from the touchline when we restarted. He didn’t say anything during the next run of the drill, but he didn’t look away either.

  That was usually enough.

  When we wrapped up, he wandered over, slow like he hadn’t decided to yet.

  “Alright,” he said. “I’ll talk to the boss.”

  I raised an eyebrow. He shrugged.

  “Doesn’t mean anything yet,” he added. “Still depends on Donovan. If he puts in another ghost performance this week, then… yeah. We’ll have grounds.”

  I followed his gaze.

  Donovan was standing a little apart from the others, tugging at his socks, eyes unfocused like he was already somewhere else.

  Yeah… not much hope. Very likely he’d drop another stinker.

  Donovan dropped another stinker. For sixty minutes against Farnham Town, our attack looked muter than a WhatsApp group after someone suggested meeting up. With Dom having an off-day, Henderson running into actual defenders, and a centre back pair tall enough to win half the aerial duels against Roberts, we registered a total of one shot on target. Mitch even had to sub in Langley and McAteer early, but not much had changed. Our plan wasn’t working.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  At least, defensively, we were holding up.

  I spent most of the first half shouting about distances.

  “Five yards tighter!”

  “Step together!”

  “Don’t chase—hold.”

  It wasn’t glamorous, but it was working. Farnham weren’t doing anything special, and they didn’t need to be stopped heroically. They just needed to be denied space long enough to lose interest.

  Jason Boras needed the most babysitting.

  “Jason!” I barked, as he drifted five yards too high again. “Hold your line. You’re not a wing-back.”

  He threw a hand up in apology and dropped back. Two minutes later he did it again.

  “Jason—position,” I snapped.

  Our shape settled into something recognisable: a flat back four, with the midfielder Milner as a unit, the wide men tracking just enough to clog the channels.

  Farnham’s lone striker started dropping deeper, looking for scraps. That suited us fine. A 4-5-1 only works if the lone striker gets isolated, and we were isolating him beautifully.

  “Let him come,” I called. “Centre-halves, don’t follow. Let him pass it back.”

  The game crawled in sideways passes and harmless crosses. Cagey, tense, and utterly uninspiring.

  Still, I had a quest to finish.

  Nothing convinces Mitch to trust the young ones like seeing them actually make the game better.

  Yet, McAteer had already been subbed on, and he was not making the impact I hoped he would. He wasn’t really being given a game he could make better. Langley and Dom’s touches were cautious to the point of paralysis. Even Okafor made sideway passes now. The ball reached McAteer either too late or under pressure, usually with two Farnham shirts already bracketing him.

  I glanced at the bench.

  Maxim Redding was still there, standing instead of sitting like he always did. Seventeen, but built like he’d skipped a few stages, like he’d been carved out of spare centre-back parts. He hadn’t played a minute today, but he looked ready in the quiet, irritating way defenders do when the game has gone exactly the way they like it.

  This was his kind of match, and I was tired of shouting the same three instructions to Jason Boras.

  I walked over to Mitch.

  “You remember what we talked about,” I said, keeping my voice level. “Redding. Giving him minutes when the game suits him.”

  “Are you mad, Jamie?” Mitch scoffed. “Look at this game. You want me to burn a sub on a centre-back?”

  “He won’t make it worse.”

  “That’s not the point,” Mitch snapped. “I’m trying to win this. Or at least nick it. You want to keep the back line organised—great. Do that. I’ll bring on Schofield late and see if he can land one decent ball.”

  I scrunched my nose. Boras drifted again, and I shouted him back out of habit more than hope.

  Somewhere in the back of my head, the quest sat there, unresolved. Guess I wouldn’t be finishing it today.

  Eighty-five minutes in, Farnham made their first change that actually mattered. Fresh legs up top, a striker whose only instruction was ‘run channels and see what happens’.

  I’d barely finished shouting Boras’ name when he did the thing I’d been shouting about all afternoon.

  He stepped up.

  It was enough.

  The pass was just a simple ball slid into the space Boras had vacated, angled toward the right channel. Redding would’ve dropped. I was sure Redding would’ve dropped.

  The sub striker was through.

  “Show him wide!” I yelled, too late to matter. Farnham’s striker’s shot wasn’t even great—waist height, near post. Holmes got a hand to it.

  The ball skidded under his palm, brushed the inside of the post, and rolled over the line.

  What a fumble. How did he not save that?

  I looked straight at Boras. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  Mitch swore, sharp and loud, and turned to the bench.

  “Schofield. Ronson. Now.”

  Tom was on for all of two minutes before he got his first touch. He tried to force it—one diagonal, then another—both swallowed up by a back line that suddenly had something to protect.

  Ronson chased shadows. Langley clipped one hopeful cross into the keeper’s hands. Even McAteer stopped asking for it.

  The whistle came not long after. We lost 1-2.

  I was pretty damn pissed, but still had the courtesy to wait until we were clear of the tunnel (yes, Farnham had a proper tunnel) before I went after Mitch. “You have got to give the youth a chance,” I said. “You’re running Kowalski into the ground. Three full games in a row. He’s going to need to sit out, and I’m not playing Boras again without another experienced centre-back next to him.”

  Mitch stopped walking. Slowly turned, like I’d just suggested we switch to a back three made entirely of vibes.

  “Oh?” he said. “So now you’re doing squad management as well?”

  “I’m saying the obvious thing,” I replied. “Kowalski’s spent. Boras is a liability when he doesn’t have someone talking him through every phase. You saw it. Everyone saw it.”

  He let out a short, humourless laugh. “If you like the kids so much,” he said, “why don’t you take care of the entire development setup while you’re at it?”

  I didn’t rise to it. Just held his gaze.

  He shook his head, then exhaled through his nose, the way he did when he’d already made the decision and was annoyed that someone else had noticed.

  “Fine,” he said. “Next game, you’re in.”

  “Kowalski sits. Boras sits,” Mitch continued. “I’m not throwing them out there half-dead or half-brained. But—” he jabbed a finger at my chest, “—you’re responsible for Redding. You tell him where to stand. You tell him when to step, when to drop, when to shut up. If we concede because he’s out of position, that’s on you.”

  His tone was sharp. Petty, even. Like he wanted me to flinch.

  I didn’t.

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

  He disappeared into the dressing room.

  I stood there for a moment, as the noise of studs on concrete and low voices bled through the walls.

  Annoying tone. Miserable timing. No safety net.

  But the arrangement was fine.

  I’d take care of the kids.

  Honestly, it was all I’d ever asked for.