Back on the pitch, it was slightly better. The players were thinking more, their movements more considered. But the intensity, the instinct, wasn't there yet. It was like they were performing a dance they'd just learned, counting the steps in their heads. The Pressing Success Rate crept up to 22%. A marginal gain, but a gain nonetheless.
At the end of the session, I asked a few players to stay behind for some extra technical work. Nya, Reece, and a few others eagerly agreed. I glanced over at Connor, who was already walking towards the changing rooms. "Connor, a word?"
He turned, a look of annoyance on his face. "Yeah, gaffer?"
"A few of us are doing some extra work on passing drills. Fancy joining?"
He shrugged. "Nah, I'm good. Got stuff to do."
"What stuff?"
"Important stuff."
"More important than improving?"
He flashed that grin again. "Gaffer, I'm Connor Blake. I don't need extra work. I'm already brilliant."
