ACT 5 OF VOLUME 1

The final day of the season arrived with a cold, grey Manchester sky. The air was thick with tension, a metallic tang of fear and hope that clung to the back of your throat.

This was it. The culmination of ten months of blood, sweat, and tears. Ninety minutes to decide our fate. Ninety minutes to determine whether our impossible dream would become reality or a heartbreaking memory.

The journey to Hyde United's ground was a blur of nervous energy. The players were quiet, their faces grim with determination and anxiety. I tried to be calm, to be the leader they needed. But inside, I was a wreck. My heart was pounding, my palms were sweating, and my mind was racing through a thousand potential disasters.

My gamble weighed heavily on me. A 17-year-old kid in a formation we'd practiced for two days. The system had given me the data, the tactical justification. But it couldn't account for pressure, for fear, for the weight of expectation now resting on Jamie Scott's young shoulders.

As we walked out onto the pitch, the noise from the away end was deafening. Our fans had travelled in their thousands. They were a sea of green and white, a wall of sound, a testament to the power of community. They believed. They believed in us, in the miracle. And I was terrified I was about to let them all down.

I glanced at the stands and spotted Emma, her red hair visible even from the touchline. She gave me a small nod. My phone buzzed in my pocket, her text: "Salford kick off at the same time. I'll keep you updated. You've got this." I didn't feel like I had anything.

And then I saw him. Mark Crossley. Our former rock. Our former leader. The man Marcus Chen had poached two days ago. He was sitting in the away end, surrounded by our fans, wearing a Moss Side scarf.

His face was pale, his expression anguished. He had come to watch. Even though he couldn't play, even though his contract made him ineligible, even though he was the reason we were in this mess, he had come.

Our eyes met for a brief moment. He gave me a small, apologetic nod. I didn't know how to feel. Anger? Sympathy? Gratitude that he still cared? I turned away. I didn't have time for complicated emotions. I had a match to manage. A disaster to prevent.

The first ten minutes confirmed my worst fears. The 3-4-3 Diamond, which had looked so fluid on the system's display, was chaos on the pitch. Hyde United's manager, a grizzled veteran named Colin Briggs, had clearly done his homework. They were playing direct, physical football designed to exploit our inexperience with the formation.

Jamie received the ball from Big Dave and immediately, two Hyde players closed him down. He managed to turn, but his pass to Tommo was rushed and intercepted. Hyde counter-attacked. Big Dave shouted, organizing the defense, but the shape was wrong. We scrambled clear.

"Jamie, drop deeper!" I shouted from the touchline. "Tommo, cover him!"

But my voice was lost in the noise. The system flashed warnings: [Formation Cohesion: 42%. Team Confusion: High]. The players didn't trust the new system. They were hesitant, second-guessing their positions.

In the 15th minute, Hyde's striker, a big physical presence named Danny Whitmore, bullied his way past our makeshift defense and forced a save from Big Dave. Our captain was furious. "Get tighter! Mark your man!" But who was marking whom? The diamond was supposed to create numerical superiority in midfield, but instead we had gaps everywhere.

I caught a glimpse of Mark Crossley in the stands. He was on his feet, hands on his head, watching the chaos unfold. He knew. He knew exactly what was missing. His leadership. His organization. His ability to read danger and snuff it out before it became a crisis. Without him, our defense was a ship without a rudder.

The irony was bitter. Marcus Chen's sabotage had worked. But here was Mark, watching us struggle, unable to help. I wondered what he was thinking. Regret? Guilt? Or was he thinking about the money, about his family, about the future that £50,000 contract would provide?

I looked at Frankie Morrison on the bench beside me. His face was grim. "They're targeting the kid," he muttered. "Every time he gets the ball, they're on him like wolves."

He was right. Every time Jamie touched the ball, Hyde players swarmed him. Late tackles. Shirt pulls. Verbal abuse. The referee, a weak official who seemed intimidated by the home crowd, let it slide. Jamie was being bullied, and he was starting to crumble.

I could see it in his eyes when he glanced toward the touchline: fear, panic, the growing realization that he was out of his depth. He was seventeen years old, making his senior debut in the biggest game of the season, and I had put him in an impossible position.

My phone buzzed. Emma: "Salford 0-0, 20 minutes. Still in this."

Small comfort. We needed to win our game first.

In the 25th minute, JJ made a brilliant run down the left wing, his pace leaving Hyde's right-back for dead. He cut inside and unleashed a shot that their goalkeeper tipped over. Corner. For a moment, hope flickered. Maybe we could weather this storm.

I glanced at the away end. Our fans were on their feet, roaring. Mark Crossley was among them, clapping, shouting encouragement. Despite everything, despite the betrayal, despite Marcus Chen's manipulation, he was still one of us. Still Moss Side.

The corner came to nothing. Hyde cleared and immediately launched a counter-attack. Their pace on the break was devastating. Jamie tried to step up and intercept, but he was a fraction too slow.

The ball went past him, and suddenly Hyde had a 3-on-2 advantage. Their winger, quick and direct, exploited the space left by our advanced full-backs. He crossed low into the box. Whitmore attacked it, but Big Dave got there first, punching clear. "Wake up!" Dave roared at the defense. "We're all over the place!"

Baz, playing as one of the three center-backs, looked lost. "Gaffer, where am I supposed to be when they counter?" he shouted toward me.

"Hold your position! Let Jamie step up!"

But Jamie was nowhere near. He was ten yards too deep, confused about his role. The system had predicted this [Player Confusion: Jamie Scott 78%. Positioning Errors: 6] but seeing it unfold in real-time was agonizing.

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