That afternoon, I found Rebecca in the gym, reviewing Eze's baseline assessment results. "How did it go?" I asked.

"He's weak," she said bluntly. "Upper body, core, balance. All below where they should be. But he's coachable. He listened, he worked hard, he didn't complain. That's a good sign."

"Can you fix it?" I asked.

"In three days? No. In three weeks? Maybe. In three months? Definitely. But he needs to commit to the program. Three sessions a week, core work daily. No shortcuts."

"He'll do it," I said.

"I hope so," Rebecca said. "Because without the strength, all that skill doesn't matter. He'll just keep getting pushed off the ball."

That evening, I was back in my flat, reviewing the training footage, when Sarah called. "Danny, I've finished another Brighton analysis. I'm sending it over now. Their striker is quick, their wingers are tricky, and their midfield is physical. We're going to need to be smart."

"Send it through," I said. "I'll review it tonight."

"You should sleep," she said, and I could hear the concern in her voice.

"I will," I lied. "Danny..."

"I'm fine, Sarah. Really."

There was a long pause, and I could almost see her shaking her head on the other end of the line. "Okay. But if you burn out, you're no good to anyone. Remember that."

"I know," I said. "I will. I promise."

After she hung up, I sat there for a moment, staring at my phone. She was right. I knew she was right. But I couldn't stop. Not with Brighton three days away. Not with so much still to do. I opened the file she'd sent.

Brighton's tactical setup, player profiles, key threats, and weaknesses to exploit. It was thorough, detailed, and exactly what I needed.

Sarah had done an incredible job, breaking down their system, identifying their patterns, and highlighting the spaces we could exploit. I spent the next two hours going through it, making notes, thinking about how we'd approach the game.

We'd press high, force them into mistakes, and exploit the space behind their aggressive full-backs. Eze would play between the lines, linking midfield and attack, using his creativity to unlock their defense.

Semenyo would come off the bench, give us pace and directness in the final twenty minutes when their legs were tired. Connor would lead the line, his physicality a weapon against their young center-backs. It was a good plan.

It could work. But only if the lads executed it. Only if Eze didn't get pushed off the ball. Only if Semenyo understood his positioning.

Only if Connor put aside his ego and worked for the team. There were a lot of "ifs." Too many ifs. I made more notes, refining the plan, thinking through contingencies.

What if Brighton pressed us higher than expected?

What if Eze struggled physically?

What if Semenyo came on and made a mistake that cost us the game?

I needed backup plans, alternatives, and ways to adapt if things didn't go according to plan. By the time I looked up, it was past midnight, and my eyes were burning from staring at the screen.

My phone buzzed. A text from Emma: Still awake?

Yeah, I replied.

Thought so. Go to sleep, Danny. The work will still be there tomorrow.

I know. Just finishing up.

You said that two hours ago.

I smiled despite myself. How did you know?

Because I know you. Now sleep. I'm serious.

Okay. I will.

Love you.

Love you too.

I put my phone down and closed my laptop. She was right. The work would still be there tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that. This was the job.

Not just the matches, not just the tactics, but the endless preparation, the constant worry, the weight of responsibility for twenty-two players and their futures. It was exhausting. It was overwhelming. But it was also exactly what I'd signed up for.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind still racing. Three days until Brighton. Three days to get Eze stronger, to get Semenyo smarter, to get Connor on board, to get the squad working as a unit again.

Three days to prove that everything we'd been building wasn't just theory. I closed my eyes, trying to quiet my thoughts, but they kept coming. What if Eze gets injured? What if Semenyo makes a costly mistake? What if Connor refuses to pass to Eze? What if we lose?

The thoughts spiraled, one feeding into the next, until I felt like I was drowning in them. I thought about the system notification from earlier, the one telling me to take a rest day. Maybe it was right.

Maybe I was pushing too hard. But I couldn't afford to slow down. Not now. Not with so much at stake. Eze and Semenyo were depending on me. The squad was depending on me. Gary was depending on me. I couldn't let them down.

Eventually, exhaustion won, and I drifted off into a restless sleep, dreaming of tactical boards and passing lanes and the weight of two futures resting in my hands.

In the dream, I was standing on the touchline, watching a match unfold. Eze had the ball, but every time he tried to turn, he was pushed off it. Semenyo was running, but he was always in the wrong position, always leaving gaps.

Connor was shouting, his face red with frustration. And I was frozen, unable to help, unable to change anything. I woke up at 4:47 am, thirteen minutes before my alarm, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding.

The dream lingered, its images burned into my mind. I got up, splashed cold water on my face, and stared at myself in the mirror. I looked exhausted. Dark circles under my eyes, stubble on my jaw, the weight of the past weeks etched into my face. But there was no time to dwell on it. I had work to do.

***

Thank you for 100 Power Stones.

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