Around the twenty-fifth minute, their right-back received the ball deep in his own half. Tom pressed him immediately, cutting off the pass down the line. The right-back panicked and played it inside to their midfielder.

But Jake was waiting. He intercepted the pass, took one touch to control it, and played it forward to Nya. Nya drove forward, saw Connor making a diagonal run across the defense, and played a perfect through ball into the space behind their center-back.

Connor was through on goal. One-on-one with the goalkeeper. But their center-back made a brilliant recovery tackle, sliding in from behind to clear the ball just as Connor was about to shoot. It was a great tackle, to be fair. Saved them a goal.

Corner.

Sam took it, whipping it in toward the near post. Reece attacked it, getting in front of his marker and flicking it on with his head. Connor was waiting at the back post. He didn't even have to jump. He just guided the header into the net.

4-0.

Thirty minutes played. Four goals. All from our pressing system. All from the work we'd put in over the past eight weeks.

I looked at Sarah. She was grinning, her eyes bright.

"This is what we've been working for," she said.

I nodded. I still couldn't speak. My throat was tight, my chest was tight. I felt like I might burst.

But then Millwall pulled one back, and it was our own mistake. Ryan had the ball at his feet, trying to play out from the back like we'd been working on with Michael.

But he took too long, his touch was heavy, and when he finally played the pass, it was straight to their midfielder. The midfielder played it wide immediately, their winger ran onto it, cut inside past our left-back, and shot.

Ryan scrambled back, got a hand to it, but it wasn't enough. The ball squeezed under his body and into the net. I saw Ryan's shoulders slump, saw the frustration on his face. Distribution was still his weakness.

4-1.

I clapped my hands, forcing myself to stay calm. "Reset! Stay focused! Don't drop off!"

The lads responded well. Nya organized the midfield, shouting instructions to Jake and Sam. Reece, our captain, did the same with the back four, his voice calm and authoritative as he directed Lewis and the full-backs. They didn't panic. They didn't let their heads drop. They just got on with it. And then I noticed him.

Number 17 for Millwall. I hadn't noticed him before, but now I couldn't look away. He was small, slight, not particularly physical. The kind of player who'd get bullied in a Sunday league match. But every time he got the ball, something happened.

Their goalkeeper played it short to him, trying to build from the back despite everything we'd done to them. Connor pressed immediately, exactly as we'd coached.

But number 17 just dropped his shoulder, turned away from Connor like he wasn't even there, and played a perfect pass to their winger.

The ball fizzed across the grass, weighted perfectly. The winger controlled it and tried to cross, but Tom was there to clear. I blinked, processing what I'd just seen. That was... that was quality. That was a different level.

A minute later, number 17 got the ball again. This time in the center circle. Jake and Nya pressed him together, closing the space, trying to force a mistake. He received the ball with his back to goal, killed it with his first touch, the ball just died at his feet, and then spun between them with a simple body feint.

One movement, and he was through. He drove forward, and Lewis stepped up to challenge. Number 17 dropped his shoulder again, glided past him like he was skating on ice, and hit a shot from twenty-five yards. Ryan had to tip it over the bar. It was a brilliant save, but it was an even better shot.

"Who the hell is that?" I muttered.

Sarah was watching him too. "Number 17. He's different from the rest of them."

The system activated in my vision, the familiar blue text appearing.

[SYSTEM] Player Detected: Eberechi Eze. Age: 18. Position: AM/W.

Current Ability: 115. Potential Ability: 175.

Status: Free Agent. Released by Millwall FC.

I stared at the text. Released. Free agent. A player with a potential ability of 175 that was Premier League quality, maybe even top-six quality and he'd been released. How the hell had that happened?

I watched him more closely for the rest of the half. He was playing in a team that didn't suit him at all. Surrounded by big, physical lads who just wanted to kick and run, who couldn't see the passes he was trying to make.

But his quality was obvious. The way he received the ball under pressure, always comfortable, always in control. The way he turned, using his body to shield the ball and create space. The way he saw passes that no one else did. He was playing a different game to everyone else on the pitch.

The halftime whistle blew. Crystal Palace U18s 4-1 Millwall U18s. I gathered the lads in a huddle, but part of my mind was still on number 17. Eberechi Eze.

"Brilliant first half. Really brilliant. The pressing is working exactly how we want it. But we got sloppy for their goal. Lost our shape, stopped pressing as a unit. Second half, I want the same intensity from minute one. Don't let up."

They nodded. Focused. Ready.

"And watch number 17," I added. "He's different from the rest of them. Don't give him space. Press him quickly. He's technical, but if you get tight on him, you can force mistakes."

Connor frowned. "He's good."

"He is. So don't give him time."

The second half started, and immediately I could see Millwall had adjusted. Their midfielder played it back to number 17 Eze right from kickoff. He received it, turned in one smooth movement, and played a perfect diagonal pass to their winger.

The ball was weighted beautifully, dropping right into the winger's stride. The winger crossed first time, and their center-forward got his head to it, but the ball flashed just wide of the post.

I made a mental note. Number 17 was their playmaker. Everything good they did went through him. If we could shut him down, we'd shut down Millwall.

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