Danny was beyond embarrassed; he felt utterly humiliated and ashamed.
He had stepped forward with such confidence, only to deliver a dismal performance.
He couldn't even look up in shame.
He had shown nothing—not his confident ball control, his precise passing, or anything else.
Every time he got the ball, it was immediately taken away. His body felt sluggish. No wonder; he hadn't properly maintained his fitness during the off-season.
Now that he had retired and was starting his coaching career, he had probably let his guard down a bit.
But he never imagined it would be this bad.
Have I really become washed up?
He couldn't even hold his own against reserve team players.
How could he possibly compete with the physicality of these young players in their early twenties?
Even if that were the case, it was a matter of pride.
The fact that he couldn't control the ball even slightly.
The fact that he couldn't pass or quickly evade opponents before they collided with him.
Anyone with eyes to see couldn't possibly miss how utterly pathetic he had become.
Next season, I don't think there will be a place for you on my team.
That was what the manager had said last season.
After his injury, when he struggled to recover and even his substitute appearances dwindled.
Hearing those words, Danny was surprisingly calm.
He had already felt his body slipping rapidly from its prime, and he knew the injury had delivered the final blow.
Above all, he was terrified.
The way people looked at him when he was on the field.
The moment the cheering gazes turned cold.
The frustration and despair of knowing he couldn't overcome the situation.
Even the unwavering support from his family and a handful of fans. The reality of failing to meet their expectations.
He was terrified of it all.
It felt like relief, just like I'd been waiting for it.
When the manager delivered the devastating news that he wasn't part of the plan, he actually felt a sense of relief.
It was as if the manager had decisively severed the lingering attachment he alone couldn't let go of.
He calmly announced his retirement, and the manager, out of consideration for their long-standing relationship, offered him a coaching position.
He understood how generous the offer was—to start his coaching career with a Championship team.
He made up his mind and retired.
Thirty-six years old.
His 18-year professional career, which had begun at the age of 18, had come to an end.
I thought it would be like this.
Thump.
When was the last time his heart had raced at a single word?
Danny turned his head.
A man stood with his arms crossed, casually observing the field.
"Eric."
When he had handed over the business card bearing that name.
When he had called Danny a "player" with an enigmatic smile.
Danny realized he wasn't a coach yet.
His heart, unlike his deteriorating body, was still beating as a player.
But the world isn't as dreamy as that, is it?
He was honestly afraid.
Afraid of playing for a club that was already failing?
No, that wasn't it at all.
What if I can't even make it in League Two?
A sliver of doubt crept into his mind.
That was it.
How high were Mansfield's expectations?
A Championship player with Premier League experience was joining a Fourth Division club!
What if he failed to meet the fans' hopes?
What if he heard the same old taunts: Washed up, too old, retire already?
What if his daughter and wife, who came to watch his games, had to endure the fans' jeers and ridicule?
Fear gripped him. Desperate to ignore his own feelings, he refused.
He kept telling himself that even his heart had retired as a player. It was self-brainwashing—trapping himself in a lie and building a cage of deception.
So, you still have some pride left, huh?
Despite his resolve, a bitter smile escaped his lips.
To have reacted so impulsively to a single remark, rushing to prove myself?
But what else could he have done?
I refuted that man's words so rudely—the man who called me a player, who respected me enough to say he wanted to take me with him.
He was accustomed to being insulted.
His deteriorating body, declining skills, hardening gaze, and the cold indifference of the coaches—the criticisms and insults hurled at him no longer stung.
But this was different.
To directly contradict the words of a man who acknowledged his worth felt deeply unsettling and infuriating. That's why he had stepped forward.
But now, seeing myself in this state... haven't I betrayed someone who believed in me again?
He sighed heavily.
Just then, Max, wearing his horn-rimmed glasses, approached Eric.
Eric, who had been listening to Max, raised his hand.
"Can I have just three more minutes?"
"Halftime's over! The players are already getting ready on the field," Coach Daniel's snapped, his voice dripping with sarcasm. But Eric remained calm and insistent.
"Three minutes is all I need. It's just a scrimmage—what's the harm?"
His unwavering demeanor was striking. His expression suggested he wouldn't budge, no matter the criticism or glares.
Coach Daniel's clicked his tongue before nodding grudgingly.
"Ah, fine, whatever. Three extra minutes won't make any difference anyway."
Danny didn't know the full story, but he had a pretty good idea of what was going on.
It's obvious the Coach is taking over because of me. That Daniel guy probably wants to subtly prove he's better than the actual Manager.
It was a truly cunning move.
Could a coach who'd worked with some players for seasons possibly lead them the same way he'd lead players he'd only seen for thirty minutes today?
Eric couldn't possibly be unaware of this, yet the fact that he'd accepted it was puzzling.
But when Eric looked only at Danny amidst the gathered players, Danny understood.
Just so I can play.
A deep, indescribable emotion surged within him.
At that moment, Eric began giving tactical instructions.
There were no changes to positions or formations. Changing them now would be pointless.
"Forwards, don't overthink your shooting timing. The moment you feel the ball connect, when the angle opens up and the chance feels right at your feet, shoot without hesitation."
"..."
"It's okay to miss. It's okay if it's a high shot. It doesn't even need to be on target. Just don't whiff. So, swing freely. And central midfielders, yes, you—forget about tempo and all that. Just focus on intercepting the ball..."
As Danny listened to the instructions, his face gradually flushed crimson.
Wait, is this...?
On the surface, nothing seemed to have changed much.
But.
Aren't these the best adjustments we can make right now?
Having just played in the game, he knew.
He felt everything: who wasn't performing, what was lacking, who was playing out of position, and who was fulfilling the wrong role. It was a sensation only Danny knew.
Exceptional football intelligence.
This phrase appeared in every scouting report on Danny Scott.
Danny possessed an exceptional level of football intelligence, allowing him to instantly assess and understand the dynamics of the game with a single glance across the stadium.
This was his greatest strength.
But I only know this because I know these players so well.
As a former player and now preparing to become a coach, he had played alongside and observed these players firsthand. That's why he knew them—he instinctively understood how they moved and which tactics would be most effective.
But how does he know all this?
Eric's tactical instructions were remarkably close to what Danny considered the optimal approach.
In fact, some aspects were even superior.
Where did this insight come from?
Danny eyes lit up with realization.
He sees the whole picture!
A chill ran down his spine.
He wasn't just showing individual plays; he was revealing a cohesive, interlocking system.
All through a few tactical instructions.
It wasn't solely Eric's power, he sensed.
It was Maximilian's best effort, wrung from his mind.
But conveying it clearly, precisely, and concisely, hammering the message into their ears, was uniquely Eric's ability.
This seems even more impressive than Coach Ulans, he thought.
Ulans was the manager of Nottingham Forest.
He wasn't the only one who felt this way. Even the initially indifferent players gradually began to focus, their eyes lighting up with concentration.
The players knew it too. They might not grasp the theoretical brilliance of Eric's instructions, but as athletes, they instinctively sensed their accuracy and effectiveness.
"Hani, let's do this. Just this. Even if it's brief, showing your absolute best is what matters. I want to see your peak performance."
The voice was concise, firm, and undeniably motivating.
Danny nodded.
He's a manager. This guy's no amateur. He's the real deal.
His 18 years of professional experience told him so.
This man was a manager, and a damn good one at that.
Just then, Eric spoke to Danny.
"Danny, you're restricted to operating solely around the box."
"What?"
"No free role. Don't worry about the overall game. Focus entirely on your assigned role. I'll oversee the entire match and direct the strategy. There will be no field commander."
"What does that mean...?"
"You're only allowed strictly limited movements. Stay in position and focus solely on distributing the ball."
"But that's—!"
"Just because you understand some football doesn't mean you should overreach and try to take on roles beyond your capabilities."
"!"
At first glance, it sounded like a harsh rebuke.
Yet Eric's voice remained low and steady, lacking the venom of an insult. Danny nodded, his face still dazed.
Eric glanced at his wristwatch and said casually, "Three minutes have passed. In these three minutes, you've become the best. Don't doubt it. I guarantee it. Now go out there and play."
"That's not the personal instructions I gave Danny," Max said, his tone laced with dissatisfaction.
He was particularly meticulous about this. After all, he had painstakingly devised the tactics himself, so naturally he wouldn't take kindly to arbitrary modifications.
"Max, don't lose sight of our objective."
"What?"
"I didn't come here to win the scrimmage. I came to recruit Danny Scott."
"!"
"Victory or defeat? Irrelevant. Let that incompetent coach celebrate his win if he wants. I only need Danny Scott. I want him to fall completely for me."
Max's pupils flickered.
"You see Danny as a player with exceptional football intelligence, right? That's why you assigned him to be the field commander, despite his limitations."
"His innate talent is obvious. If he'd had the physical attributes from a young age, he'd be a Premier League regular by now."
"His physical strength is naturally weak. No matter how old a player is, getting pushed around like that is just due to his innate physical limitations."
"It's a shame. If only he had that... Well, if he were physically strong, he'd be playing in the Premier League, not the Championship."
"That's the problem. Danny overthinks things."
"What do you mean?"
"He sees the game too clearly. He knows exactly where to penetrate, where to pass, which passing lanes to block to stop counterattacks, and which opponent to mark to suffocate their attack."
"That's just football intelligence."
"The problem is he's also too ambitious."
"Ambitious...?"
"How can he resist? When the opportunities are right there, when the plays are practically reading themselves in his mind? When he feels like just one more move could secure the win? So he tries to take matters into his own hands."
In an instant, Max seemed to grasp the problem and let out a short sigh.
The original instructions for Danny in Max's tactics should have been a free role.
Danny's exceptional ability to read and penetrate the game on the field meant that restricting his role would only prevent him from fully utilizing his strengths.
"The problem is his age," Max said, nodding heavily. He finally understood my instructions. His eyes, now fixed on me, held a mixture of faint surprise, a hint of envy, and a glimmer of admiration.
"With his aging physique, trying to do everything has left him unable to do anything at all. Yet restricting his role would be a waste of his brilliant mind. It's no coincidence the manager offered him the coaching position. His mind shines brightest as a coach."
"So you limited his role?"
"As I said, winning the game isn't my goal. I don't care if we lose the scrimmage. I'm only focused on whether Danny fits the purpose I have in mind."
"What purpose is that? To have a smart player?"
"I'm going to use him as a component."
"!"
"He needs to step down from being the commander who roams the entire field and directs the game. He needs to abandon those sentimental notions from the past."
Perhaps it was the coldness in my voice.
Max's expression subtly shifted.
"That's why I crushed his pride. What I need is a component that fits and functions seamlessly in any position—just a cog in the machine."
"..."
"That's the Danny Scott I want to bring in. As Head Coach."
Max's lips moved as if to speak, but he quickly clamped them shut and focused on the game.
Just then, the striker received a killer pass from Danny and scored.
"Goal?"
"What an incredible shot!"
"Wow, it actually went in?"
"Coach! That was an amazing pass!"
The players raised their thumbs, their faces still dazed.
The Blue Team's striker, who had scored the goal, grinned widely.
He had simply sprinted forward when the ball vaguely arrived at his feet. In the ensuing scramble, the ball had rolled into the net.
But the truly stunned one was Danny, who had earned the assist with that impossible key pass.
"...The game is... opening up."
He stared at Eric, whose expression remained indifferent, his eyes flickering with faint surprise.