The victory over Fulham should have been a release, a validation, a quiet moment of satisfaction before the relentless march of the season began. It should have bought me a week of peace, a brief respite from the gnawing anxiety that had become my constant companion.

But peace was a luxury this job did not afford. The text from Gary, a simple, clinical sentence that had landed with the force of a physical blow, had seen to that.

Tyler Webb was coming back. And with his return, the fragile, hard-won harmony of the squad was about to be shattered. I couldn't run this morning.

The 5:30 am alarm, usually a call to action, a signal to begin the ritual of sweat and suffering that cleared my head, felt like a summons to a trial I had already been convicted of.

I sat on the small balcony of the flat, a mug of black coffee growing cold in my hands, and watched the first, faint streaks of dawn paint the London skyline in shades of grey and bruised purple.

My world had shrunk to the size of a single, impossible decision. Lewis Grant. The name was a weight on my conscience. He had been a rock, a quiet, unassuming leader at the heart of our defence throughout the entire preseason.

He had done everything I had asked of him and more. He had earned his place. He had earned my trust. And now, I was going to betray him.

The system, my silent, ever-present companion, had already laid out the cold, hard facts in my mind. It was a cascade of data, a waterfall of comparative metrics that painted a picture so clear, so brutally one-sided, that it left no room for sentiment.

Tyler Webb, CA: 118. Lewis Grant, CA: 108. The numbers didn't lie. Tyler's 'Tackling' was a solid 15, his 'Marking' a 14, his 'Positioning' a 16. Lewis, for all his heart, lagged behind with 13, 12, and 12 respectively.

But it was the mental attributes that were the true killer. Tyler's 'Composure' was a rock-solid 15, his 'Leadership' a 14. Lewis's were 12 and 11. The system even projected the outcome of the next match with each of them starting.

With Tyler, our probability of a clean sheet was 48%. With Lewis, it dropped to 31%. It was an open-and-shut case. A logical, rational, undeniable argument for making the change. But my heart, my stupid, sentimental, working-class heart, just couldn't accept it.

It screamed in protest, a silent, primal howl of outrage against the tyranny of numbers, against a world that had no place for loyalty, for effort, for the simple, human decency of rewarding a man who had given you everything he had.

I was at war with myself, my ambition and my conscience locked in a bloody, brutal battle for the soul of my management. And I knew, with a cold, sickening certainty, that whichever side won, I was going to lose.

The atmosphere at the training ground on Monday morning was electric. The news of Tyler Webb's return had spread like wildfire, and the players were buzzing with a genuine, unadulterated joy.

When he walked through the doors of the canteen, his familiar, easy grin lighting up his face, a spontaneous roar of applause and cheers erupted. He was mobbed, engulfed in a sea of back-slapping, hair-ruffling affection. He was their leader, their captain from last season, the one they all looked up to.

He was the king, returned to reclaim his throne. And I, the architect of this happy reunion, felt like a fraud. I watched from the doorway, a forced smile plastered on my face, my eyes scanning the crowd for the one face I was dreading to see.

And then I found him. Lewis Grant, standing at the edge of the celebration, held a cup of tea in a white-knuckled grip. He was smiling, a wide, bright, utterly false smile that didn't reach his eyes.

His eyes were dead, hollowed out with the certain, sickening knowledge of what was to come. He saw me watching him, and for a fraction of a second, the mask slipped, and I saw a flash of raw, unfiltered devastation, a silent plea that I knew I was about to ignore.

He quickly looked away, his smile back in place, but the damage was done. I had seen his soul, and I had seen the wound I was about to inflict upon it.

The training session that followed was a masterclass in cognitive dissonance. On the one hand, there was the undeniable, objective reality of Tyler Webb's quality.

He slotted back into the defence as if he had never been away, his communication, his positioning, his calm, authoritative presence instantly elevating the entire back line. He was a natural leader, a coach on the pitch, and the system's assessment of his 118 CA felt like an understatement.

He made everyone around him better. And then there was the other reality, the human cost of that quality. Lewis, relegated to the second team for the training match, was a ghost, a shadow of the player he had been just three days ago.

He was isolated, humiliated, his every touch hesitant, his every decision clouded by the public demotion he had just suffered. During a defensive shape drill, the contrast was so stark it was almost comical.

Sarah would shout an instruction, and Tyler would be there, a half-second ahead of everyone else, a blur of intelligent movement and calm, authoritative communication.

The system's notifications were a constant, shimmering stream of validation in my mind's eye: "Tyler Webb: Positioning: 16/20. Anticipation: 15/20. Communication: Excellent." And then there was Lewis.

He was trying, God, he was trying so hard, but his mind was a fog of self-doubt and humiliation. He was a beat behind, a yard out of position, his movements hesitant, his voice a choked, uncertain whisper.

The system's assessment was a brutal, unsparing counterpoint: "Lewis Grant: Positioning: 11/20. Composure: 8/20. Concentration: 7/20. Status: Spiralling."

At one point, a simple attacking move that should have been easily snuffed out resulted in a goal because Lewis, caught in a moment of crippling indecision, failed to step up and play the striker offside.

Tyler, ever the professional, didn't yell, didn't scream. He just jogged over to Lewis, put a calm, reassuring arm around his shoulder, and quietly explained the positioning he should have taken.

It was a gesture of kindness, of leadership, of a genuine desire to help a teammate. But I saw the look in Lewis's eyes. It was the look of a man who was being patronised, a man whose failure was being so publicly, so gently, so devastatingly exposed. It was the look of a man who was utterly, completely broken.

***

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