Connor had been our top scorer in the Millwall game, but Eze was clearly more talented. I could see the threat Connor felt, the worry that he might be replaced.

I saw the way the other lads were whispering, glancing over at Semenyo, who was sitting by himself in the corner, looking small and lost. He was only fifteen, younger than most of the squad, and it showed in his body language. He looked like he wanted to disappear.

"Right, lads, listen up," I said, my voice cutting through the chatter.

"As you know, we've got two new players joining us today. Eberechi Eze and Antoine Semenyo. They're both here on trial, and they're both here to make our squad stronger. I expect you to treat them with respect, to help them integrate, and to make them feel welcome. We're a team, and that means we support each other. Understood?"

There was a chorus of "Yes, boss," but I could still feel the tension in the room. Reece, my captain, stood up. He walked over to Eze, shook his hand firmly, and said, "Welcome to the team. Work hard, we'll support you."

Then he did the same with Semenyo, his calm, authoritative presence immediately setting a different tone. Nya, ever the enthusiast, was already asking Eze about his preferred position, his eyes wide with excitement.

"You play between the lines, yeah? Like a ten? That's brilliant, mate. We need that creativity." But Connor just watched, his expression unreadable. Something told me that was going to be a problem.

The system confirmed it a moment later, a notification flashing in my vision that only I could see. [SYSTEM] Squad Cohesion: 91% → 82%. The new arrivals had disrupted the chemistry we'd spent weeks building. It was up to me to fix it.

The training session started with a warm-up led by Rebecca, her voice clear and encouraging as she guided the players through a series of dynamic stretches. Eze moved with a natural grace, his movements fluid and effortless.

He was a joy to watch, a player who seemed to have been born with a ball at his feet. Even in the warm-up, you could see the quality. The way he controlled the ball, the way he moved into space, the way he seemed to have an extra second on the ball that other players didn't. But the moment we moved into a possession drill, the problems started.

I set up the drill myself: eight versus eight, two teams trying to keep possession in a tight grid. The emphasis was on quick passing, movement, and pressing when out of possession. It was a drill we'd run a hundred times in preseason, and the lads knew it well.

Connor, playing on the opposing team, made a point of pressing Eze every time he got the ball. The first time, Eze tried to turn him, but Connor was too strong. He bodied him off the ball, winning it cleanly and starting a counter-attack. Eze hit the ground, a look of pure frustration on his face. He wasn't used to this level of physicality. He wasn't used to being challenged.

I let it go, wanting to see how he'd react. The second time, Eze was smarter. He saw Connor coming and played a quick one-two with Nya, bypassing the press entirely. It was a brilliant piece of play, the kind of instinctive football that can't be taught.

Nya gave him a thumbs up, and I saw Eze's confidence grow slightly. But the third time, Connor was on him again, closing him down, giving him no space to turn. Eze tried to shield the ball, but his technique was poor.

He was too upright, too easily unbalanced. Connor simply pushed him off the ball, and Eze stumbled, losing his footing and landing on the turf again. This time, the frustration was mixed with anger. He slammed his fist on the ground, the sound echoing in the quiet of the training pitch.

I blew my whistle, stopping the drill. I walked over to Eze, who was still on the ground, his head in his hands. "You okay?" I asked, my voice quiet.

"He just pushed me," Eze muttered, not looking at me.

"He was stronger than you," I corrected gently. "There's a difference. Get up."

Eze looked up at me, his eyes flashing with defiance. But he got up. I pulled him aside, away from the other players. "You've got the skill, Eze. More skill than anyone else on this pitch. But that's not enough. Not at this level. You need to be stronger. You need to learn how to shield the ball, how to use your body, how to absorb contact."

"I've heard that before," he said, a bitter edge to his voice. The four rejections, the four times he'd been told he wasn't good enough, were all there in that one sentence.

"Then let's actually do something about it," I said. "Rebecca's going to work with you in the gym. Strength training, core work, balance. It's not going to be easy, and it's not going to happen overnight. But if you put in the work, you'll see the results. Do you trust me?"

He looked at me for a long moment, his expression a mixture of doubt and hope. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Okay. I'll try."

"Good," I said. "Now get back in there."

If Eze's problem was physical, Semenyo's was purely tactical. In the pressing drill, he was completely lost. He was supposed to be playing on the wing, pressing the opposition's full-back, but he kept drifting inside, drawn to the ball like a moth to a flame.

He left the passing lane wide open, giving the full-back an easy outlet every single time. Sarah, who was running the drill, stopped it. "Antoine, your positioning," she said, her voice patient but firm. "You need to cut off that pass. Stay wide."

"I thought I was..." Semenyo started, but Sarah cut him off.

"You weren't. Again."

***

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