Back on the pitch, it was slightly better. The players were thinking more, their movements more considered. But the intensity, the instinct, wasn't there yet. It was like they were performing a dance they'd just learned, counting the steps in their heads. The Pressing Success Rate crept up to 22%. A marginal gain, but a gain nonetheless.

At the end of the session, I asked a few players to stay behind for some extra technical work. Nya, Reece, and a few others eagerly agreed. I glanced over at Connor, who was already walking towards the changing rooms. "Connor, a word?"

He turned, a look of annoyance on his face. "Yeah, gaffer?"

"A few of us are doing some extra work on passing drills. Fancy joining?"

He shrugged. "Nah, I'm good. Got stuff to do."

"What stuff?"

"Important stuff."

"More important than improving?"

He flashed that grin again. "Gaffer, I'm Connor Blake. I don't need extra work. I'm already brilliant."

He turned and walked away before I could reply. Nya, standing next to me, shook his head. "He's unbelievable."

"In a bad way?"

"In every way," Nya said. "But mostly bad."

I watched him go, a cold knot forming in my stomach. The system flashed a notification in my vision, a feature I hadn't seen before: [SYSTEM] Player Relationship Update: Connor Blake. Respect: 35% → 34%. Reason: Disagreement with training methods.

Thursday, June 4th

Thursday was our first small-sided game, a 7v7 on a shortened pitch. I hoped the competitive element would spark the intensity that was missing. I was wrong.

Under the pressure of a real game, all the lessons from the past two days evaporated. Players reverted to their old habits.

Defenders dropped deep instead of holding a high line. Midfielders tracked back lazily. Forwards stood and waited for the ball. It was a chaotic, individualistic mess. My high-press system was nowhere to be seen.

I stopped the game four times in the first twenty minutes, my voice growing hoarse with frustration. "We are a unit! We attack together, we defend together! Why are you all playing your own game?"

I saw the looks on their faces. Confusion. Frustration. Some, like Connor, looked bored. I was losing them. The realization hit me like a physical blow.

These weren't the hungry, desperate lads from Moss Side who would run through a brick wall for me. These were elite prospects, some on professional contracts, who had been coddled and praised their whole lives. They thought they already knew everything.

As the session ended, I saw Gary Issott standing by the side of the pitch, his arms crossed. He'd been watching for the last half hour. My heart sank. My first week, and the Academy Director was already watching me fail.

He walked over as the players dispersed. "Tough session, Danny."

"That's one word for it," I said. "Disaster is another. Catastrophe. Shambles. I could go on."

Gary smiled slightly. "It's week one. They're not going to get it overnight."

"They're not getting it at all," I admitted, the words tasting like ash. "They're not buying in. Especially Connor. He thinks he's too good for this."

"He thinks he's too good for everything," Gary said. "That's why you're here. To fix that."

Gary smiled, a knowing, paternal expression on his face. "Of course they're not. You're asking them to unlearn years of coaching. You're asking them to work harder than they've ever worked before. It's not going to happen in three days."

He placed a hand on my shoulder. "They need time. And you need to be patient. Don't lose faith in your methods, but don't expect miracles overnight. Just keep chipping away. They'll get there."

His words were a lifeline. I had been so focused on immediate results, on proving myself, that I'd forgotten the most basic rule of coaching: it's a process.

Friday, June 5th

Taking Gary's advice to heart, I dedicated Friday to building relationships. No intense tactical work. Instead, I scheduled individual player meetings throughout the day.

Nya Kirby was first. He came into my office with his notebook, full of questions. We talked for half an hour about his role, his ambitions, his love for the game. He was a sponge, eager to learn. The system confirmed it: [SYSTEM] Player Relationship Update: Nya Kirby. Respect: 72% → 75%.

Reece Hannam was next. He was more reserved, but his questions were sharp. He wanted to know how he could be a better leader, how he could help get the other players on board. He was my lieutenant on the pitch. Respect: 68% → 71%.

I met with Ryan Fletcher, the goalkeeper, who was nervous about playing so high up the pitch. We watched videos of Manuel Neuer, and I explained how his positioning was the key to our defensive structure. He left looking more confident. Respect: 61% → 64%.

I deliberately avoided scheduling a meeting with Connor. I wasn't ready. I didn't have a plan for him yet, and a meeting without a clear purpose would be a waste of time. I needed to understand him better before I could hope to reach him.

Saturday, June 6th

The final session of the week was a full 11v11 training match. I kept my instructions simple: "Just try to remember one thing we worked on this week. Just one."

For the first time, I saw glimpses. A coordinated press that forced a turnover. A midfielder shifting to cover for a teammate. A defender holding a high line. They were fleeting moments, islands of order in a sea of chaos, but they were there.

Connor, starting on the bench for the first half as a quiet message about his attitude, watched intently. When he came on for the second half, he was different. He pressed. Not consistently, not with full intensity, but he tried. It was a start.

The final whistle blew. The session was still messy, still inconsistent. But it was better. The system's feedback reflected the small victory. Pressing Success Rate: 28%. Squad Respect: 56% → 58%.

It wasn't a triumph, but it wasn't a failure either. It was progress.

Weekend Reflection

That night, alone in my silent flat, the exhaustion of the week hit me. I ordered a pizza, the unfamiliar London takeaway menu feeling like another small act of alienation. I sat on my balcony, looking out at the sprawling, indifferent city lights, and called Emma.

"How was it?" she asked, her warm Manchester accent a balm on my frayed nerves.

"Hard," I said, the single word carrying the weight of the entire week. "It's harder than Moss Side. These players… they have bad habits. They're not hungry in the same way."

I told her about the struggles, about Connor, about the frustration and the small, fleeting moments of hope.

She listened patiently, as she always did. "You'll figure it out," she said, her voice full of a certainty I didn't feel myself. "You always do. You just need to find their buttons. Everyone has a button."

We talked for an hour, about her work, about our friends back home, about everything and nothing. By the time we hung up, the knot of anxiety in my chest had loosened. She was right. I would figure it out.

As I got ready for bed, a notification shimmered into existence in my vision.

[SYSTEM] Week 1 Complete. Progress: Slow but steady. Patience required.

I smiled. The system understood. This was a marathon, not a sprint. The first week was over. Forty-nine more to go in the season. I had a long, hard road ahead of me. But for the first time since arriving in this vast, lonely city, I felt like I was finally on my way.

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