4-2. Champions.

Ethan dropped to his knees in his technical area, the roar of the crowd, the ecstatic screams of his players, the frantic, joyful monologue of the commentator all fading into a distant, beautiful hum.

He felt a pair of strong arms haul him to his feet. It was Grant Hanley, his face a mask of tear-streaked, glorious triumph.

"We did it, gaffer," the captain roared, his voice thick with emotion.

"We actually did it!"

Then the world became a blur of blue and white.

His players mobbed him, a joyous, sweaty, ecstatic pile-on of hugs and happy, incoherent shouts. He was at the bottom of a pile of champions, laughing a laugh so pure and so real it felt like the first one he had ever had.

On the live stream, which was still broadcasting to over seven thousand rapturous viewers, Tactics Tim had completely abandoned his analytical calm.

"THEY'VE DONE IT! THE IMPOSSIBLE DREAM IS REAL! APEX UNITED ARE THE CHAMPIONS OF LEAGUE ONE!" his voice was a raw, hoarse shriek of pure, unadulterated joy.

"THE TEAM OF MISFITS, OF WONDERKIDS, OF CHAOTIC, BEAUTIFUL LUNATICS, LED BY THE TEENAGE TACTICAL GENIUS, ETHAN COUCH, HAVE CONQUERED THE LEAGUE! I HAVE NEVER, EVER SEEN A STORY LIKE THIS!"

A small stage was quickly assembled in the center of the pitch.

The League One trophy, a beautiful, gleaming silver cup, sat on a podium, glinting under the virtual floodlights.

Ethan stood with his arm around his assistant, James Pearce, who was displaying a single, approved, system-standard smile.

His players were a line of bouncing, impatient, and deliriously happy champions, waiting for their moment.

The league official, a stiff-looking avatar in a suit, finally handed the trophy to the Apex captain. Grant Hanley took it, his hands trembling slightly as he held the prize he had fought so hard for.

He turned to his team, a roar of triumph on his lips. But then he stopped.

He looked at the trophy in his hands, then at his manager, standing on the edge of the group.

"No," Hanley said, his voice a low, respectful rumble that cut through the noise.

"Not without the gaffer!"

He walked over to Ethan and, with a look of profound, unconditional respect, he held out the trophy.

"We lift it together, boss. All of us."

The players roared their approval.

Ethan, his heart swelling with a pride so fierce it almost hurt, walked onto the stage.

He and Hanley, the gaffer and the captain, the brain and the heart of the team, took hold of the trophy.

"ON THREE!" Hanley roared.

"ONE... TWO... THREE!"

They lifted it high into the air, and the world exploded in a symphony of blue and white confetti, of flashing lights, of a single, unified, and utterly glorious roar of triumph.

Ethan looked out at the cheering virtual crowd, at his celebrating players, at the gleaming silver cup in his hands, and a single, perfect thought echoed in his mind.

This is real.

The dressing room was a beautiful, glorious, and very, very sticky mess.

The players, armed with bottles of non-alcoholic sparkling apple juice, had unleashed a celebratory storm.

Music was blasting, players were singing off-key, and David Kerrigan was, of course, attempting to drink directly from the league trophy.

"It tastes... like victory!" he sputtered, a stream of apple juice running down his chin.

"And a little bit like metal polish!"

Ethan, who had been soaked to the skin in the initial celebratory ambush, was just leaning against a wall, a serene, happy smile on his face, watching his team of champions.

He saw Emre Demir in the corner, on a video call, proudly showing the medal around his neck to his tearful, happy family back in Turkey. He saw Viktor Kristensen and Josh Sargent, the teenage prodigy and the veteran striker, locked in a hug, a picture of mutual respect. He saw his two captains, Grant Hanley and Ben Gibson, sitting together, a quiet, profound satisfaction on their faces.

He walked over to the main screen, where his live stream was still running, the chat a frantic, scrolling waterfall of congratulations.

"Well," he said, addressing the seven thousand people who had shared this moment with him.

"We did it! The Gaffer's Office is officially a title-winning enterprise." He just grinned, a genuine, heartfelt, and slightly overwhelmed grin.

"Thank you all for being a part of this insane, beautiful journey. We are champions. And we're just getting started. See you all in the Championship."

He gave a final, triumphant wave to the camera and ended the stream.

He was the last to leave the dressing room.

He walked back to his virtual office, the sounds of the party slowly fading behind him.

The league trophy was already there, sitting on his desk, a gleaming, permanent reminder of what they had achieved.

He was about to log off, to return to the real world and celebrate with his real family, when a single, clinical, blue-colored notification appeared in his vision.

[Congratulations, Gaffer, on winning the League One title and securing promotion to the Championship!]

[Your End of Season Review is now available.]

He tapped on it, a curious smile on his face.

The review was a glowing report from his AI board, praising his tactical innovation, his financial management, and his incredible success.

At the bottom was a list of his objectives for the next season.

[Championship Season Objectives:]

1. Avoid relegation.

2. Reach a transfer budget surplus of £5,000,000.

3. Successfully integrate a 'Homegrown Player' from the Youth Academy into the first team.

He frowned at the last objective.

Youth Academy?

He hadn't even looked at it all season.

He clicked on the accompanying link, and a new screen appeared.

It was his youth intake for the upcoming season, a list of newly generated, 15-year-old virtual players.

He scrolled down the list of unfamiliar, computer-generated names, a mixture of random nationalities and positions.

But the name at the very top of the list, the one with the highest potential rating, a rating so high it made his heart stop, was not a random name.

It was a name he knew all too well.

Player Name: Liam Taylor.

Position: Attacking Midfielder (Center)

Potential Ability: SSS

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