Wednesday was video analysis again, and I'd prepared with the same obsessive thoroughness that was becoming my trademark. I'd clipped every defensive transition from

Tuesday's session forty-seven moments in total and I was determined to review every single one. Each clip was a teaching moment, each mistake an opportunity for growth. Or at least, that's what I told myself as I queued up the first clip and dimmed the lights in the analysis suite.

"Here," I said, pausing on a moment where we'd lost possession in midfield. "We lose the ball. Nya, you press immediately. Good. Reece, you're shifting across to cover the passing lane. Also good. But Jake, look at you. You're jogging. The opposition midfielder has three seconds of space to pick a pass. That's unacceptable." Jake nodded, looking chastened, his face flushed with embarrassment.

I moved to the next clip. And the next. And the next. Each one dissected with surgical precision, each mistake highlighted and explained and contextualized. I was in my element, using the system's analytical tools to break down the game in ways that would have been impossible just a few years ago. But somewhere around clip fifteen, I noticed the energy in the room had shifted. Players were checking their phones. Whispering to each other. Shifting in their seats.

Thirty minutes in, I noticed Connor had his head down, eyes closed. Asleep. Actually asleep in my video session.

"Connor!" My voice cracked like a whip in the quiet room.

He jerked awake, looking around in confusion, his hair mussed, a bit of drool at the corner of his mouth. "What?"

"If this is boring you, feel free to leave."

He looked at me for a long moment, and I saw something shift in his expression. Not anger, exactly. Something colder. More final. "It is boring me," he said, his voice flat and matter-of-fact. "We've been watching the same mistakes for half an hour. I get it. We need to press faster. We need to track back quicker. Can we move on?"

The room went silent. Every player was staring at me, waiting to see how I'd respond. This was another test, another challenge to my authority. I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs, could feel the heat rising in my face.

I took a breath, keeping my voice calm even though I wanted to shout. "We move on when I say we move on. If you don't like it, there's the door."

Connor stood up. He grabbed his bag. And he walked out. Just like that. No argument, no apology, no hesitation. He just left, and the door swung shut behind him with a soft click that sounded deafening in the silence.

The room was stunned. I was stunned. But I couldn't show it, couldn't let them see that I was shaken, that I'd just lost control of my most talented player. "Right," I said, turning back to the screen with a calmness I didn't feel. "Where were we? Clip sixteen."

I finished the session, all forty-seven clips, but my mind was elsewhere. I'd just lost Connor. Maybe for good. And I didn't know if that was a failure of his character or mine.

Thursday morning, Connor didn't show up to training. I called him no answer. I called the academy administrator she confirmed he'd been at the training ground earlier that morning but had left without explanation. I was furious. And worried. And so exhausted I could barely think straight. My eyes burned from staring at screens.

My voice was a rasp from constant coaching. My body ached from standing on the touchline for hours on end. I'd slept maybe four hours a night all week, surviving on coffee and adrenaline and the stubborn belief that if I just worked hard enough, everything would click into place.

Gary Issott found me in my office that afternoon, staring at my phone like it might ring if I glared at it hard enough. He knocked on the open door, then stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. "Danny, it's eight o'clock. Go home."

"Just finishing up," I said, not looking away from the screen where I was supposed to be planning Friday's session but was actually just staring blankly at a tactical diagram that made no sense anymore.

"You've been here since six this morning. That's fourteen hours."

"There's a lot to do."

Gary pulled up a chair and sat down, his expression somewhere between concerned and exasperated. "I've been watching you this week. You're working yourself into the ground."

"I'm fine."

"You're not. And more importantly, it's not sustainable." He leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. "Danny, you're a brilliant coach. But you're trying to do everything yourself. You're the tactician, the analyst, the fitness coach, the psychologist. You're even trying to be the goalkeeping coach, and you've never played in goal in your life."

I finally looked at him. "At Moss Side, I had to do everything. There was no one else."

"This isn't Moss Side," Gary said, and there was something in his voice not pity, exactly, but understanding. "This is a Premier League academy. We have resources. We have budgets. You don't have to do this alone."

"I can handle it." The words sounded hollow even to me.

"Can you?" He gestured at the screen, at the dark circles under my eyes that I'd stopped trying to hide, at the cold cup of coffee on my desk that I couldn't remember making. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're burning out. And if you burn out, the team suffers. The players suffer. Connor Blake is already suffering, and he's taking the rest of the squad with him."

I wanted to argue, to defend myself, to prove that I was fine, that I could do this. But the words wouldn't come. Because he was right. I was exhausted. I was overwhelmed.

And despite all my efforts, despite working like a machine, I was starting to make mistakes. Calling the wrong names. Giving contradictory instructions. Missing obvious tactical adjustments.

The system had warned me Coach Fatigue: Critical. Performance degradation detected but I'd dismissed it, just like I'd dismissed every other warning sign.

"What do I do?" I asked quietly, and the admission felt like defeat.

"You ask for help," Gary said simply.

"You build a coaching staff. An assistant to help with tactics and training. A fitness coach to manage the physical load and prevent injuries. A goalkeeping coach for Ryan and the others. Specialists who can take some of the burden off your shoulders so you can focus on what you do best building the system, developing the players, creating the culture."

"That feels like admitting I can't do the job."

"It's admitting you're smart enough to know you can't do every job." Gary stood, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Even Klopp has a coaching staff. Even Guardiola has specialists. You're not supposed to do this alone, Danny. No one is. Think about it. We can talk more next week."

He left, and I sat in the silence of my office, the system's earlier notification echoing in my mind like a mantra I'd been too stubborn to hear. Delegate responsibilities. Delegate responsibilities. Delegate responsibilities.

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