The word "date" echoed in Ethan's mind for two straight days.

It was a single, simple word, but it was loaded with more terrifying, exciting, and confusing possibilities than any cup final.

He found himself standing in front of his wardrobe, staring at his collection of t-shirts and hoodies with the same intensity he usually reserved for a tactical diagram.

What does one wear on a date? Was his best hoodie "date-worthy"?

It was a far more complex problem than breaking down a low block.

He woke up on Friday morning feeling a nervous, happy buzz.

He decided to do something special. He went downstairs and, for the first time in his life, attempted to make breakfast for the family. He was going to make omelets.

The result was less of an omelet and more of a scrambled, slightly blackened egg-like substance.

"It's... rustic," his mom said, trying her best to be encouraging as she poked at the sad, brown pile on her plate.

"It's got character," his dad added, chewing thoughtfully. "The character of a burnt tire."

Even Gaffer, after a tentative sniff, backed away from the plate with a look of profound betrayal.

"Okay, so I'm not a chef," Ethan admitted, laughing.

"I'll stick to management."

His shift at CostMart was a masterclass in how not to impress a girl you're about to go on a date with. His mind was so preoccupied with Maya that his usual zen-like focus on dairy management completely deserted him.

First, he dropped an entire pallet of orange juice cartons, creating a sticky, citrusy flood in aisle seven that required a full-scale cleanup operation.

Mr. Henderson just stared at the mess, then at Ethan, and shook his head with the weary resignation of a man who had seen too much.

Then, while restocking the butter, he was so lost in thought that he didn't notice a customer's shopping cart rolling away.

It gathered speed, veered left, and crashed directly into a towering display of Pringles cans, creating a colorful, salty explosion.

The sound echoed through the store like a gunshot, and a ripple of sarcastic applause went through the checkout line.

"Couch!" Mr. Henderson's roar was a familiar, comforting sound of impending doom.

"My office. After you've cleaned up every single one of those potato-based crisps."

Ethan spent the rest of his shift in a state of mortified embarrassment, his face a permanent shade of crimson. He was a tactical genius in one world, and a walking disaster in another.

He got home, showered off the scent of orange juice and shame, and put on his best (and only) collared shirt.

He stared at his reflection, a nervous, excited kid who felt completely out of his depth.

The little Italian restaurant was cozy and warm, with checkered tablecloths and the delicious smell of garlic bread in the air.

Maya was already there, sitting at a small table in the corner.

She was wearing a simple black dress, and her dark, curly hair was down, framing her face. She looked, in a word, stunning.

"Hey, cheese guy," she said, her eyes sparkling as he approached.

"You clean up nice."

"You too," he managed to say, his brain temporarily short-circuiting.

"I mean, you always look nice. But... yeah."

She laughed, a sound that instantly put him at ease. "Smooth. Sit down before you hurt yourself."

The date, for the first hour, was perfect.

They didn't talk about the game. They talked about everything else.

About their families, about their terrible taste in music, about their shared dream of one day escaping the retail apocalypse of CostMart.

He told her about his dad's toy shop, and she told him about her dream of becoming a real-world sports journalist.

She was funny, she was smart, and she was incredibly easy to talk to.

The nervous, bumbling Ethan from the supermarket disappeared, replaced by the confident, happy young man he was becoming.

They ordered a large pizza to share, and as it arrived, a steaming, cheesy masterpiece, Maya's expression shifted.

The playful, friendly look was replaced by the sharp, analytical focus of a football manager.

"Okay," she said, leaning forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"The pizza is here. The pleasantries are over. Let's talk business."

Ethan blinked, confused. "Business?"

"This isn't a date, Ethan," she said, her expression completely serious.

She pulled a small tablet out of her bag and slid it across the table.

"This is a tactical debriefing."

Ethan just stared at her, then at the tablet, then back at her.

The screen was displaying a complex tactical diagram of his team's 4-3-3 formation from the Bolton match.

"A... what?" he stammered.

"A tactical debriefing," she repeated, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "I've been analyzing your team for a week. Your press is good, but your defensive midfielder, Sørensen, gets pulled out of position, leaving a huge gap between the defense and midfield. My S-Rank Maestro is going to live in that space. He's going to destroy you."

She took a bite of pizza, chewed thoughtfully, and then pointed a finger at him. "Also, your full-backs push too high. A quick switch of play, and my wingers are in a two-on-one against your center-backs. It's a glaring, fundamental weakness in your system. You're too aggressive. You're vulnerable on the counter. I just wanted to tell you, face-to-face, before my team completely dismantles yours in three weeks."

Ethan just sat there, a slice of pizza halfway to his mouth, his brain trying to process the emotional whiplash.

The romantic, candlelit dinner had just turned into a ruthless, pre-match opposition analysis.

He looked at her, at her serious, focused face, at the complex tactical diagrams on her tablet.

He looked at the pizza. He looked back at her.

And then, he started to laugh. A deep, genuine, helpless laugh.

She looked at him, confused for a second, before her own serious expression cracked, and a smile broke through.

"What?" she asked, trying to sound stern.

"It's a valid tactical point!"

"You're unbelievable," he said, still laughing.

"You invited me on a 'date' just to tell me my tactics are terrible?"

"I said it was a 'debriefing'," she corrected, a playful glint returning to her eyes. "And I also wanted pizza. It can be two things."

He shook his head, a wide, adoring grin on his face.

"You are going to be a terrifying manager."

"I know," she said, taking another bite of pizza. "Now, about your weakness from attacking set-pieces..."

The date wasn't a date. It was something far better.

It was a meeting of two minds, a clash of two worlds, a shared, secret language spoken over a pepperoni pizza.

And as he sat there, arguing with her about the optimal positioning of a deep-lying playmaker, Ethan knew, with absolute certainty, that he was completely, utterly smitten.

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