Three days passed in a blur.
Jake barely slept. Between analyzing the squad, reviewing tactics, and trying to wrap his head around the system's data, he was running on nothing but caffeine and pure determination.
And now, here he was.
Standing in the cramped, worn-out locker room of an outdated stadium, facing eleven players who didn't believe in him.
The air was thick with indifference. The players' faces expressed everything from quiet dislike to boredom as they sunk back on the benches with their arms folded.
Jake wasn't an idiot. He knew exactly what they were thinking.
He's a nobody. He won't last. Why listen to him?
Fine. Let them doubt him. For now.
He glanced at the small, outdated tactics board behind him, then back at his players. The assistant manager, Paul Roberts, stood off to the side, arms folded, watching.
No more wasting time.
Jake clapped his hands together, snapping the players' attention toward him.
"Alright. Listen up."
Some of them looked at him. Others didn't bother.
A smirk tugged at the lips of James Holbrook, the captain. The man Jake knew he had to sell next season.
He was testing him.
Jake didn't take the bait.
"I know what you're thinking," he continued, voice firm. "New manager, new tactics. Same old bullshit. You think you've seen this before."
No one denied it.
"But here's the truth. We're four points away from safety. You've got eight games to prove you belong in this league. Eight games to keep your careers alive. Because if this club goes down, a lot of you won't have contracts next season."
Now, they were listening.
Jake turned to the tactics board, drawing a quick formation.
"We're switching to a compact 4-4-2. Banks of four, low defensive line. We don't have the legs to press high, so we sit back, absorb pressure, and counter."
He tapped the forward positions.
"Nathan Barnes, Scott Williams—you two stay narrow, hit them on the break."
Barnes, the young center-back, nodded, clearly interested. Williams, however, just shrugged.
Jake turned back to the room.
"We are not here to play pretty football. We are here to survive. Stick to the plan, and we win. Ignore it, and we lose. Simple as that."
Silence.
Then, Holbrook scoffed.
"What's the point? We're just going to let them attack us." Arms crossed, he said. "Playing like cowards?"
A few of the players muttered in agreement.
Jake met Holbrook's gaze, unblinking.
"You can play however the hell you want," he said. "But if you ignore my tactics, I'll pull you off by halftime."
The room went dead silent.
Holbrook's smirk faded slightly.
Good.
Before anyone could argue further, a staff member poked his head inside the room.
"Coach, we're ready for you."
Jake gave one final look at his players.
"Prove me wrong," he said simply, then turned toward the tunnel.
The roar of the small but passionate Eastleigh Town fans filled the night air as Jake stepped onto the touchline.
The stadium was small, old, barely holding 5,000 people. A far cry from the Bundesliga.
Jake took a deep breath, centering himself.
This was his reality now.
He watched as his players took their positions on the field. The referee blew his whistle, and the match kicked off.
For the first ten minutes, everything looked steady.
Bradford sat deep, keeping their defensive shape. They absorbed pressure and waited for a counter.
Then, the cracks started to show.
The midfield was too slow to react, allowing Eastleigh's players to pass through them effortlessly.
Holbrook, instead of following instructions, kept pushing forward, leaving a gap in midfield.
The opposition took advantage immediately.
A slick one-two pass. A cross into the box.
GOAL.
1-0 to Eastleigh.
Jake gritted his teeth.
From the bench, Paul Roberts sighed. "That was too easy."
Jake didn't respond. He already knew what the problem was. Holbrook had abandoned his position.
Jake turned toward the field.
"HOLBROOK! STAY BACK!" he shouted.
The captain barely acknowledged him.
Jake clenched his fists.
The game restarted, but the same patterns repeated. Bradford refused to sit deep, refused to defend properly.
Another gap.
Another pass through midfield.
2-0.
By halftime, it was 3-0.
Bradford were completely outplayed.
The locker room at halftime was deathly silent.
The players sat on the benches, heads down, avoiding Jake's gaze.
Even Holbrook, for all his arrogance, looked shaken.
Jake exhaled slowly, then stepped forward.
"Do you know why we're losing?" he asked, voice calm.
Nobody answered.
He looked directly at Holbrook.
"You ignored my tactics."
The captain bristled. "We were trying to win!"
Jake snorted. "You weren't trying to win. You were trying to play hero. And now we're three goals down."
Holbrook opened his mouth to argue—but couldn't.
Jake leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees.
"You can hate me all you want. But if you don't start listening, we'll be relegated in two weeks. And when that happens, none of you will have a job next season."
Silence.
Jake straightened and turned to his assistant.
"No changes," he said. "Send them back out. Let them fix their own mess."
Roberts raised an eyebrow but nodded.
Although the second half was slightly better, the damage had already been done.
Final score: 3-0 loss.
The fans booed loudly as Bradford walked off the pitch.
Jake didn't react.
He knew what was coming next.
Back in his office, Paul Roberts stood in front of him, arms crossed.
"Rough start," the assistant said.
Jake leaned back in his chair. "They don't trust me yet. But that'll change."
Paul studied him for a long moment.
"You're different from the other managers we've had."
Jake smirked. "Good. That means I'll last longer."
Paul shook his head. "Or it means you'll be the fastest one to fail."
Jake didn't respond.
Because in front of him, the system had just unlocked a new function.
[Ding! New Feature Unlocked – Live Tactical Adjustments]
[Modify formations and player roles in real time.]
Jake's smirk widened.
Let's see who fails first.