The knowledge that there were other managers out there, other brilliant minds to compete with and learn from, was an exhilarating motivator.
He spent the next day in a state of focused calm. His shift at CostMart flew by, his mind occupied with tactical conundrums and the memory of Maya's brilliant, infuriating smile. He got home, ate dinner with his family, and then, with a sense of clear purpose, he headed for the pod.
It was the day before the Fleetwood match. It was time to work.
He materialized on the virtual training ground.
The digital sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows across the pristine grass.
His players were finishing up their final, light session before the game, their movements sharp, their passes crisp.
The disastrous loss to Accrington felt like a distant memory, a necessary fever that had broken, leaving the team stronger and more immune to the disease of arrogance.
