They ran the drill again. And again, Semenyo made the same mistake. He just didn't see it. He didn't understand the concept of pressing as a unit, of cutting off passing lanes, of forcing the opposition into mistakes.

He was a chaos player, an individual who thrived on instinct, and our structured system was completely alien to him. I saw the frustration building in his face, the way his shoulders slumped, the way he started to shut down.

He was used to being the best player on his team, the one who could win a game on his own. Here, he was just another cog in the machine, and he didn't know how to function.

Nya tried to help, jogging over to him between repetitions. "Mate, just stay wide. Don't come inside. Your job is to stop that pass." But Semenyo just nodded, looking confused, and then made the same mistake again.

After the session, while the other players were heading to the showers, I asked Semenyo to stay behind. He looked terrified, like he was about to be told he was being released. "Antoine, can we talk?" I asked, keeping my voice gentle.

"I know I messed up," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"You're not in trouble," I said.

"I want to help. But I need to understand how you see the game." I took him to the video analysis room, the two of us alone in the dark, the only light coming from the large screen on the wall. I pulled up the footage from the pressing drill. "When the center-back receives the ball here," I said, pausing the video, "where do you think you should be?"

"Pressing him?" Semenyo guessed, his voice uncertain.

"Not just pressing," I explained. "Cutting off his options. Look." I drew on the screen with the analysis tool, showing him the passing lanes. "He's got three passes available. Your job is to take away the easy one, to force him into a mistake. Football isn't just about what you do with the ball. It's about what you do without it."

We spent the next hour like that, me breaking down the game for him, showing him the tactical side he'd never been taught. He was a quick learner, asking intelligent questions, starting to see the patterns he'd been missing. "So I'm not just running at him?" he asked at one point. "I'm cutting off the pass?"

"Exactly," I said. "You're making his decision for him. You're forcing him to play where you want him to play."

I could see the moment it clicked for him, the way his eyes widened slightly, the way he leaned forward in his chair. "That makes sense," he said. "No one's ever explained it like that before."

"We'll work on this," I told him when we were done. "One-on-one sessions. Every day if we have to. I'm not giving up on you."

He looked at me, his eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and gratitude. "Why are you helping me?"

"Because I see what you could be," I said honestly. "And I'm not letting that go to waste."

That afternoon, Rebecca took Eze to the gym for his baseline assessment. The results were what I'd expected. He was incredibly fit, with excellent cardiovascular endurance, but his upper body strength was well below average for a player his age.

His core was weak, which explained why he was so easily unbalanced. "We're going to build a program," Rebecca told him, her tone professional and encouraging. "Strength training three times a week, core work daily. It'll make you better. Trust me." Eze, to his credit, just nodded and said, "Okay. Let's do it."

That evening, I was in my flat, exhausted, reviewing the training footage on my laptop, when my phone rang. It was Emma. "How was day one with the new lads?" she asked, her voice a welcome comfort after a long and difficult day.

"Complicated," I admitted, rubbing my eyes. "Eze's got all the talent in the world, but he gets pushed off the ball like he's made of paper. And Semenyo… he's completely lost in our system. It's like he's never been coached before."

"And you're going to fix both of them?" she asked, and I could hear the gentle teasing in her voice.

"I have to try," I said.

"Danny, you can't save everyone," she said, her tone softening.

"I know. But I have to try anyway."

There was a long pause, and then she said, "I miss you. It's been eight weeks."

"I miss you too," I said, and the words felt inadequate to express the ache in my chest. "Two hundred miles feels like two thousand."

"When this settles down, I'm coming to visit," she said. "Properly. Not just for a weekend."

"I'd like that," I said, and for the first time all day, I felt a genuine smile spread across my face. "I really would."

"How are you holding up?" she asked. "Really."

I thought about lying, about saying I was fine, but this was Emma. She'd see through it. "I'm tired," I admitted. "And scared. What if I can't do this? What if I fail them?"

"Then you fail them," she said simply. "But you won't. You know why? Because you care too much to let that happen. That's your superpower, Danny. You care."

"That doesn't feel like a superpower," I said.

"It is," she said. "Trust me. Now get some sleep. You need it."

"I will," I said. "After I finish this footage."

"Danny..."

"I promise. One more hour."

She sighed, but I could hear the smile in her voice. "One hour. Then sleep. I'll know if you don't."

"How?" I asked.

"Because you'll text me at 2 am with some tactical insight you just had."

I laughed, the sound surprising me. "Fair."

"Love you," she said.

"Love you too," I said, and meant it with everything I had.

After we hung up, I sat there for a moment, staring at my phone. The work was hard, the pressure was immense, but I wasn't alone. I had my staff. I had my players. And two hundred miles away, I had Emma. It was enough. It had to be.

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