Maddox pinched the bridge of his nose, a long, exasperated sigh escaping his lips as the sound of another wild shot from the Colts echoed across the pitch.
His team hadn't touched the ball in nearly six minutes, their defense crumbling like a sandcastle under a tidal wave. He had a youth squad playing like they belonged in a retirement home, and a system that rated him like a Sunday League mascot who'd wandered onto the wrong sideline.
And yet, for the first time since waking up in this nightmare, Maddox didn't feel helpless. He felt angry instead.
It wasn't the emotional, red-faced anger that had gotten him tossed from games in his younger days, the kind that led to screaming matches with referees and fines he couldn't afford. No, this was a different kind of fury—a cold, focused rage that burned with purpose.
This was tactical fury, calculated frustration, the kind that made a man dangerous not because of what he felt, but because of what he could do with that feeling.
Because now he had a tool. A system. Something to work with. Even if it rated him like a third-string PE teacher who'd barely passed his coaching badges, it was better than nothing. It was a lifeline, a glimmer of hope in a match that had already spiraled into a massacre.
The Colts' winger darted down the left flank again, his speed a blur as he burned past Silvergate's right-back—a lanky kid named Jamie Dunstall who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
Dunstall didn't even attempt a tackle, his feet were rooted to the ground as the winger sent a low, dangerous cross into the box. Another shot followed, the ball rocketing toward the goal, only to deflect wide off a desperate lunge from a Silvergate defender.
The crowd groaned, some in disappointment, others in mocking amusement, their voices a constant reminder of the Sailors' futility.
Maddox turned his gaze to the players on the bench—his boys, though he barely knew their names. They were kids, really, most of them barely old enough to shave, their faces a mixture of acne and despair.
Blank stares. Sunken shoulders.
The body language of the already defeated, as if they'd accepted their fate long before the fifth goal had even gone in. Some kicked at the grass, others stared vacantly at the pitch, and a few whispered to each other, their words no doubt laced with the kind of defeatist cynicism that could poison a team from the inside out.
But they weren't out of the game yet. Halftime was coming, and with it, a chance to regroup, to reset, to fight back.
Maddox clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he made a silent vow. When that whistle blew, he was going to march into that locker room, look these boys in the eye, and remind them what it meant to fight.
He'd done it before—turned hopeless matches into battles, transformed broken teams into warriors. He might be a D-grade coach in this world, but he still had the heart of a man who'd spent a lifetime defying the odds.
He glanced back at the floating display, its blue glow casting an eerie light across his face. "Alright, PMS," he muttered, his voice low and resolute, a dangerous edge to his tone. "Let's see if you're more than a fancy screen with attitude."
The system shimmered silently, as if waiting for him to make the next move. The clock ticked on, the crowd's jeers grew louder, and the Crestford Colts pressed their attack with relentless ferocity.
But Eric Maddox stood a little taller, his shoulders squared, his jaw set with grim determination. He didn't know what this Pro Manager System could do, or how it would help him claw his way out of this disaster. But he did know one thing: he wasn't going down without a fight.
***
The holographic screen in front of him pulsed with a faint, rhythmic glow, as if it were alive, mirroring the erratic thumping of his own heart.
It was a surreal sight, this shimmering display of text and icons, hovering in the air like a window into another reality. And maybe, in a way, it was his heartbeat—his new lifeline in this strange, unforgiving world he'd been thrust into.
The realization settled over him like a heavy fog: he hadn't just opened a status window. He'd unlocked something far bigger, far more intricate—a backend to this madness, a labyrinth of mechanics and systems that felt like a coaching simulator from hell, but with the stakes of real life.
He was no longer just a man on the touchline; he was a player in a life-like sci-fi RPG he'd been unwillingly drafted into, and the rules were only just beginning to reveal themselves.
On the pitch, another Crestford attack fizzled out in a moment of rare clumsiness from his midfielders. Their striker, a cocky teenager with a flashy haircut, attempted a backheel that went horribly wrong, his foot slipping on the dew-slicked grass.
He stumbled, arms flailing about, and the ball rolled harmlessly out of bounds. The crowd let out a collective groan, a mix of disappointment and amusement, their voices echoing through the stadium like a tidal wave.
For once, the football gods had shown Maddox a sliver of mercy, a brief reprieve from the relentless onslaught his Silvergate Youth Sailors had endured for the past forty minutes. It wasn't much, but in a match where his team was trailing 5-0, he'd take any small victory he could get.
Maddox squinted at the holographic display, his curiosity piqued as new text began to unfold beneath his profile, like a divine drop-down menu revealing powers and possibilities he could scarcely comprehend. The words shimmered with an ethereal glow, each line a promise—and a challenge.
---
[Core Mechanics:
1. Manager Level & EXP
Level 1 – (0/20 EXP)
Earn EXP through matches, training success, transfers, and tactical innovations. Leveling up unlocks new system abilities, traits, and upgrades. It also increases your coaching rank.
"Right," Maddox muttered, his voice low and gruff, barely audible over the hum of the crowd. "Like a damn video game. So I'm a Level 1 scrub and I need to grind my way up." He scratched his chin, the stubble rasping under his fingers as a wry smirk tugged at his lips. "Fine. Been here before—except back then it was FIFA 09 on my grandson's Xbox, and he was kicking my ass while I fumbled with the controls."
The memory brought a flicker of warmth to his chest, but it was quickly overshadowed by the cold reality of his current situation. This wasn't a game he could quit when the score got too lopsided. This was his life now, and the stakes were all too real.