The players were starting to internalize the principles of the system, their movements becoming more instinctive, less hesitant. The system's feedback was encouraging. The Pressing Success Rate climbed from 34% to 41%. It was still a long way from perfect, but it was tangible progress.

Nya Kirby was a joy to coach, his tactical understanding growing with every session. Reece Hannam was a natural leader, constantly communicating, organizing, and encouraging his teammates. Even Ryan Fletcher, the goalkeeper, was growing in confidence, his starting position higher, his distribution quicker and more decisive.

The positive momentum from the Gary meeting carried through Monday and Tuesday. The players sensed something had shifted... not in the training itself, but in me. I was lighter, less frantic, more focused.

The knowledge that help was coming, that I wouldn't have to carry this alone forever, had lifted a weight I hadn't fully realized I'd been carrying. But Wednesday brought a sharp, unwelcome reminder of my limitations.

We were in the middle of an intense 11v11 training match, the quality of play higher than it had been all month. The pressing was sharp, the transitions were quick, and the players were pushing each other to their limits.

Then, it happened. Tyler Webb, a solid, reliable backup center-back, went in for a routine tackle. He won the ball cleanly, but as he pushed off to start a counter-attack, he pulled up sharply, clutching the back of his thigh. He went down in a heap, his face contorted in pain.

I immediately stopped the game and ran over to him, my heart pounding. My first thought was: I've killed him. My second thought was: Gary's going to kill me.

The team's physio, Sarah Mitchell, was already there, her calm, professional demeanor a stark contrast to my own rising panic. I hovered uselessly beside her, trying to look like I knew what I was doing.

"It's his hamstring," she said, after a quick examination. "He'll need a scan, but it looks like a grade two tear. He'll be out for a few weeks."

"Is he going to be okay?" I asked, probably sounding like a worried parent.

"He's pulled his hamstring, Danny. He's not dying."

"Right. Yeah. Of course."

I watched as Tyler was helped off the pitch, a wave of guilt washing over me. Had I pushed them too hard? Was the training load too high?

I had been so focused on implementing my tactical system that I had neglected the physical side of the game. At Moss Side, I had relied on the players' natural fitness and a few basic drills. Here, with elite athletes pushing their bodies to the absolute limit, that wasn't enough. I was out of my depth.

I tried to hide my concern from the players, but they could sense it. The intensity of the session dropped, the players suddenly hesitant, afraid of being the next one to go down. We finished the session with some light technical work, the energy and enthusiasm of the morning completely gone.

After the players had left, I went to see Sarah in the medical room. She was a woman in her late thirties, with a no-nonsense attitude and a fierce protectiveness of her players. Her approval rating of me, according to the system, was a frosty 44%. Which, to be fair, was probably generous given that I'd just injured one of her lads.

"How is he?" I asked.

"He'll be fine," she said, without looking up from her notes. "A few weeks of rest and rehab. But you were pushing them pretty hard out there, Danny."

"I know," I admitted. "I'm just trying to get them up to the level of intensity we need to play my system."

She finally looked at me, her eyes sharp and intelligent. "There's a difference between intensity and recklessness. These are still developing bodies. You can't just run them into the ground. You need to manage their load, monitor their fatigue levels, and know when to push and when to pull back."

She was right, of course. But the problem was, I didn't know how to do that. I didn't have the expertise. The system, as if on cue, flashed a new notification in my vision. [SYSTEM] New Feature Unlocked: Player Fatigue Tracking.

A series of color-coded bars appeared next to each player's name in my holographic display: green for fresh, yellow for tired, red for at risk of injury. Tyler Webb's bar was a flashing, angry red. Several other players were in the yellow.

The data was there, but I didn't know what to do with it. It was like being given the keys to a Formula 1 car without knowing how to drive. Or, more accurately, like being given a spreadsheet in a language I didn't speak. I needed a specialist. I needed a fitness coach. Preferably one who wouldn't look at me like I was an idiot.

The injury to Tyler cast a shadow over the rest of the week. By Thursday and Friday, I'd reduced the intensity of the training sessions, focusing more on tactical walk-throughs and technical drills. I was afraid of another injury, of losing the trust of the players and the medical staff.

The progress we had made stalled. The players were cautious, and the sessions lacked the competitive edge that had been building. I spent hours in the evenings studying the new fatigue tracking data the system had unlocked, trying to make sense of it.

I read articles on periodization, on load management, and on sports science. But it was all theoretical. I lacked the practical experience to apply it effectively. My case for hiring a coaching staff, already approved by Gary, felt even more validated.

I had concrete evidence of my limitations in two key areas: player psychology with Connor, and physical conditioning with Tyler's injury. I was a good tactical coach, but I wasn't a complete manager. Not yet.

By the time the weekend arrived, I was mentally and emotionally exhausted. The third week had been a rollercoaster of progress and setbacks. I had seen glimpses of the team I wanted to build, but I had also been confronted with my own glaring inadequacies.

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