I turned to the rest of the squad.

"This is our first preseason match. It's about performance, not just the result. I want to see everything we've worked on. The pressing, the transitions, the communication. Brighton are good well-organized, physical, and aggressive. But we're better. Go out there and show me what you've learned."

The coach ride to Brighton's training ground was quiet, filled with that pre-match tension that's both unbearable and necessary. I sat at the front next to Sarah, who was reviewing her tactical notes one last time, her expression focused and calm in a way that I envied.

"You ready for this?" she asked, not looking up from her tablet. "No," I admitted. "But I don't think I ever will be." She smiled, a small, knowing smile. "Good. The day you feel ready is the day you stop improving."

The Brighton training ground was immaculate, a far cry from the muddy pitches I'd started on, with pristine grass and modern facilities that reminded me painfully of how far JJ had come.

Their U18s were already warming up when we arrived, and I watched them for a moment, trying to see what Sarah had seen in the video analysis. They were big, physical, well-drilled. This wasn't going to be easy.

The match started at 2 pm sharp, and for the first twenty minutes, it was a caggy, tense affair, both teams feeling each other out, testing for weaknesses.

Brighton were exactly as Sarah had described them: organized, physical, and aggressive in their press, their striker closing down our center-backs with an intensity that immediately put us under pressure.

Our own pressing system, which had looked so sharp against Millwall, was disjointed, the timing off, the triggers missed. Eze, for all his technical brilliance, was a weak link in the system.

He was slow to react to the pressing triggers; his positioning was off too deep when he should have been higher, too wide when he should have been central and twice in the first fifteen minutes, he was easily pushed off the ball in midfield, leading to dangerous turnovers that had Reece screaming at the defense to get organized.

Nya and Jake were working overtime to cover the gaps, their voices hoarse from shouting instructions, trying to compensate for Eze's defensive lapses. Connor was a frustrated figure up front, making intelligent runs that were never seen, his arms thrown up in exasperation every time the ball went backwards instead of forward.

I stood on the touchline, my hands shoved deep in my pockets to stop them from shaking, watching the match unfold with a growing sense of dread.

This wasn't working. The system that had looked so promising against Millwall was falling apart against a team that actually knew how to press. Sarah was next to me, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

"He's not tracking back," she said quietly, nodding towards Eze.

"I know," I said, my voice tight. "Give him time."

"We might not have time," she replied, and I knew she was right.

But then, at 25 minutes, a moment of magic that reminded me why I'd fought so hard to sign him. Eze, who had been drifting, invisible, finally found a pocket of space between Brighton's midfield and defense, exactly where I'd told him to be.

Jake Morrison, who had been one of the few players to show any real composure, played a sharp, incisive pass into his feet. Eze's first touch was sublime, killing the ball instantly despite the defender breathing down his neck.

He turned, and for a split second, the game seemed to slow down around him, everything else fading into the background. He looked up, saw Connor's run a diagonal dart between the center-backs and played a perfectly weighted through ball that split the Brighton defense like a knife through butter.

Connor was onto it in a flash, his first touch taking him past the last defender, his second a cool, calm finish into the bottom corner.

1-0.

It was a goal of pure quality, a glimpse of the player Eze could be, the player I'd seen in the Millwall match, the player worth 175 potential. The celebration was muted, a mixture of relief and frustration. We were ahead, but we weren't playing well, and everyone knew it.

Our lead lasted all of three minutes. The goal came from another mistake by Ryan, a painful, almost identical echo of the Millwall match that made me want to scream.

He received a back pass from Lewis, had time and space, but hesitated, his touch heavy, his decision-making slow. Under pressure from the Brighton striker, he tried to play a pass to Reece, but it was underhit, weak, and easily intercepted.

The Brighton striker was left with a simple finish, slotting it past Ryan's despairing dive.

1-1.

I saw Ryan's shoulders slump, the same look of despair on his face that I'd seen last week, and I felt a surge of frustration mixed with sympathy. Michael was standing next to me on the touchline, and he just shook his head, his expression grim.

"We're working on it," he said quietly.

"I know," I replied. "Keep working."

At half-time, the changing room was quiet, the lads sitting with their heads down, frustrated, angry with themselves. I let them sit in it for a moment, let the silence stretch out, before I spoke.

"That wasn't good enough," I said, my voice calm but firm, no anger, just honesty.

"The pressing was sloppy. The communication was nonexistent. And we're making the same mistakes we made last week." I paused, looking around the room, making eye contact with each of them.

"But," I continued, "we're still in this. We've shown flashes of what we can do. That goal was a moment of pure quality. Now we need more of it. We need to be braver on the ball, stronger in the challenge, and smarter in our decisions."

I looked at Eze, who was staring at the floor, his chest heaving.

***

The time for the match is 60 minutes.

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