Two hours before kick-off.
The Tactical Briefing Room is dark. The only light comes from the massive smart screen on the wall, casting a blue, artificial glow over the faces of the twenty-six players.
The air conditioning is humming. It's the only sound.
Johnny stands in front of the screen. He holds a laser pointer. The red dot dances on the digital pitch like a sniper's scope.
"Jamaica," Johnny says.
He taps the screen. The formation animation shifts.
"On paper, they play a 4-4-2. Traditional. Two banks of four. Fast wingers, strong strikers."
Johnny clicks a button. The digital players on the screen drop back. They compress. The space between the defenders and the midfielders vanishes.
"But the reality," Johnny says, his voice cutting through the dark, "is this. A 6-2-2. They aren't going to press us. They aren't going to play football. They are going to build a wall and wait for us to run into it."
Robin sits in the back row, arms crossed. He watches the screen.
He hates this tactic. The "Low Block." It's the tactic of cowards. It's the tactic West Hall Town used. It's anti-football. It turns the game from a dance into a siege.
"They want us to get frustrated," Johnny continues. "They want us to force passes through the middle so they can intercept and counter. They have speed on the break. Antonio. Bailey. If we lose the ball in the center, we are dead."
Johnny turns to the squad.
"So, how do we break a wall? We don't smash our heads against it."
The laser pointer moves to the right side of the pitch. To Andrew Smith.
"Andrew," Johnny says.
Smith sits up straighter. "Coach."
"You are the release valve," Johnny says. "I want you tucking inside. Overload the midfield. Make it a 4 v 2 in the center. Keep the ball moving. Short, sharp passes. Drag their midfielders out of position. Make them chase ghosts."
Smith nods. He pulls out a notebook and scribbles something down.
Robin watches him. Of course. Smith gets the safe job. Keep the ball. Pass it in triangles. Do the math. It's perfect for him. It's risk-free. If Smith passes backward to retain possession, he's 'following instructions.' He's an accountant in cleats.
Then, the laser pointer swings across the screen. To the left flank.
To the wide open space on the wing.
"Robin."
Robin doesn't uncross his arms. "Coach."
"You are not tucking in," Johnny says. "You are staying wide. Hug the touchline. Get chalk on your boots."
Johnny clicks the remote. A profile pops up on the screen.
Name: Marcus Sterling.Position: Right Back.Club: Millwall (English Championship).Age: 31.Stats: 12 Yellow Cards. 2 Red Cards.
A collective groan from the offensive players. Everyone knows Sterling. He's not a footballer; he's a bouncer. He spent ten years in the lower leagues of England kicking people for a living.
"Sterling is their anchor," Johnny says. "He is experienced. He is physical. He is dirty."
Johnny looks directly at Robin in the dim light.
"He will hit you. He will step on your toes when the ref isn't looking. He will whisper things about your mother. He wants a reaction. He wants you to lose your head and get a red card."
Robin looks at the face on the screen. Sterling looks mean. Scar over his eyebrow. Dead eyes.
Robin feels a twitch in his shin. The metal rod hums.
"I don't want you to play safe," Johnny says. The tone shifts. It gets harder. "I want you to isolate him. Every time you get the ball, you drive at him. You make him turn. You make him run toward his own goal."
"He's thirty-one," Johnny adds. "His knees are gone. You are nineteen. You are electric."
Johnny turns off the laser pointer.
"Kill him."
Robin smiles in the dark.
Smith gets to be the accountant. Robin gets to be the hitman.
"Understood," Robin whispers.
"Coach?"
A hand goes up in the front row. It's Adam Richards. The "Glass Cannon."
Richards looks nervous. He's staring at the midfield diagram.
"Their CDMs..." Richards starts, his voice wavering slightly. "Johnson and Lowe. They're... big. If I receive the ball in the pocket, and they collapse on me..."
He trails off. He doesn't say I'm scared I'll get hurt, but everyone hears it. Richards is brilliant when he has time. When he gets hit? He disappears. Or he breaks.
Johnny sighs. He walks over to Richards.
"Adam," Johnny says, his voice dangerously calm. "They are big. Yes. If you hold the ball for three seconds, they will break you. They will put you in the third row."
Richards swallows hard.
"So don't hold the ball," Johnny snaps. "One touch. Two touches. Move it fast. If you dwell on it, you die. I don't want to hear about how big they are. I want to see how fast you think."
Richards nods quickly, shrinking into his seat. "Right. Fast. Got it."
Robin shakes his head. Cowards. The whole spine of the team is made of glass. Richards is scared of contact. Smith is scared of risk. Voss is scared of the press.
It's a house of cards waiting for a breeze.
Johnny walks back to the front of the room. He looks at the clock on the wall.
"Two hours," Johnny says. "Get your heads right."
He turns off the screen. The room goes pitch black for a second before the overhead fluorescents flicker on, blinding and harsh.
"One last thing," Johnny says, standing by the door.
He looks at every single player.
"Output is King. Possession stats don't win tournaments. XG doesn't put trophies in the cabinet."
He opens the door.
"0-0 is a loss. Get out."
The chairs scrape against the floor. The players stand up, zipping up jackets, putting on headphones, retreating into their own bubbles of anxiety.
Robin stands up slowly.
He looks at the blank screen where Sterling's face used to be.
Kill him.
Robin walks out of the room. He doesn't need headphones. He has the mission.
He isn't going to play football today. He is going to retire a veteran.