The scrimmage had ended.
Max glanced sideways at Eric, then lowered his gaze.
Had he unconsciously clenched his fists? Both palms were drenched in sweat.
Max chuckled involuntarily.
Just a scrimmage. And not even my team.
His palms were clammy. He felt exhilarated. It was thrilling.
This was a first. After spending over a decade immersed in the football world, countless visits to stadiums, and scouting trips to various clubs, Max, the obscure power analyst, could confidently say he had never experienced such a feeling before.
Not even during fierce clashes between big clubs or the hellish derbies where teams would die for victory had he felt this sensation. Yet now, this tremor coursed through his fingertips.
What was it? The answer was simple.
My instructions, my tactics. Living, breathing players moving exactly as I commanded!
A thrilling shiver raced down his spine.
He glanced at Eric again.
Even after securing victory, Eric's expression remained impassive. Staring at that face, Max suddenly felt as if cold water had been splashed on him, jolting him out of his euphoria and forcing him to confront reality.
The players' positions and actions were all my strategies, but...
What had allowed him to devise such precise instructions?
It was thanks to quickly identifying the players' weaknesses that I could formulate them so easily.
His mind snapped into sharp focus.
This guy even pinpointed weaknesses in each team that I hadn't included in my reports. I'd assumed it was simply because he'd observed them for so long.
To identify a player's weaknesses after watching just one game is an extraordinary feat. Typically, it takes several games to gain even a basic understanding of a player.
Yet he grasped the strengths and weaknesses of all twenty-two Blue-White players in a single glance.
It wasn't a complete assessment, of course. He had merely pinpointed the glaring flaws in each player's performance.
But Max knew how utterly absurd this was. If weaknesses could be exposed with a mere glance, why would countless coaches and analysts spend days burning the midnight oil, poring over game footage?
Granted, these were only superficial weaknesses.
Max's throat tightened.
How many games must he have watched and analyzed to develop such an eye?
He had initially dismissed Danny Scott as just another former player who had lucked his way into the coaching staff.
That notion shattered quickly during their conversations. I subtly realized that his analytical skills regarding players were even sharper than mine, despite my being the power analyst.
Someday, this man will definitely become a Goat manager, I thought. He'll take charge of his own team and start a brilliant career.
He was one of the few coaches whose abilities I truly respected.
So when he suddenly announced he was taking over a struggling Fourth Division Club, I was immediately puzzled.
This wasn't an ordinary challenge. He seemed like the kind of composed man who could handle most situations with ease.
But managing a team... that's different, isn't it?
Just because someone is a coach doesn't mean they can become a manager.
The skills required for managing a team are distinct from the duties of a coach.
The captain, who commands and leads the team.
Enduring that immense pressure and weight is no easy task. At least, that's been Max's experience in the soccer world, which he's witnessed countless times.
But could I deliver instructions so concisely and accurately in that position?
His head shook involuntarily.
The tactics and various directives had all originated from his own mind.
Even Eric acknowledged and trusted this, assigning him that role.
Players aren't just graphics in a computer game. They don't respond instantly to a click of a mouse or a console controller.
Players are living beings. They think and make decisions while actively playing on the field.
They might disregard instructions or interpret them arbitrarily.
The manager's role is crucial for controlling these variables.
Max pondered deeply.
If I were in Eric's position right now...
Would these players have followed the instructions I gave them?
"..."
Absolutely not. I couldn't deliver instructions with the same conciseness, precision, and clarity as Eric, nor with his unwavering tone. What had compelled them to follow the words of a coach they'd never met before was his gaze, his expression, and the crisp, resolute voice that carried his words.
Conviction.
Max suddenly understood what it was.
The voice that had summoned him by phone.
The force that had made him believe, despite the absurdity, that this team could compete for the Premier League, Champions League, and FA Cup titles.
It was the tone of conviction.
Max stared into Eric's eyes.
In those indifferent eyes, he saw something no manager could ever convey—a conviction so absolute that not even a flicker of doubt could arise, despite his own fervent belief.
That unwavering certainty was the reason the players followed Eric's instructions.
And the moment the effectiveness of those instructions was proven, the players made their judgment: following Eric's guidance would lead to better plays.
A single act of faith expanded into unwavering trust, culminating in flawless execution of his directives.
All this from players he had met for the first time today.
Max exhaled deeply.
He couldn't help but think that Eric wasn't so different from himself. He saw the position of Head Coach as simply a way to support each other, guiding the team together.
Because Eric had said it.
Because he had heard Eric's words: "You devise the tactics." Because he had confirmed that trust.
Believing that the game of soccer stemmed from tactics, he might have even thought that he himself was the one helping Manager Eric.
It was arrogance.
It was just a scrimmage, but...
The manager's shoulders, seen from right beside him, were different.
The manager's vision, glimpsed from beyond those shoulders, was something he couldn't yet grasp with his own eyes.
All he could see was Manager Eric's shoulders blocking his view.
He realized and acknowledged the gap between them. And his eyes lit up.
I'll watch and learn.
He was the head coach, assisting the manager.
As the game ended, Coach Daniel, his face twisted in a grimace, glanced at us before hesitating and approaching. Without offering a handshake, he muttered something about needing to write the training report and abruptly turned away.
"Unbelievable," Max scoffed beside me. "He acted all superior, but now that he's lost, look at him blushing. A mere coach in the lower leagues, acting like he's above the Manager."
"It's fine. I didn't want to shake his hand anyway. Consider it a favor."
Whether Daniel was in a bad mood or not was irrelevant to me. My gaze drifted to Danny, whose eyes glowed with quiet intensity.
"How do you feel?" I asked.
"Ha, great. It's just a scrimmage, but yeah, that feeling when the ball connects with your foot—it's exhilarating."
"Do you prefer being a player or a coach?"
There was no need for a lengthy conversation. Everything that needed to be said had already been said. So I cut straight to the point.
Danny gave an awkward smile, then spoke with a sense of relief.
"Good. I guess you still want to play."
"Yes. Then I'll see you in Mansfield."
"...I'll make my decision after speaking with the Manager."
When I stared at him intently, Danny added, "This isn't a rejection. And I'm not planning to reverse my retirement and stay in Nottingham. The Manager offered me a coaching position, so I feel I should at least discuss it with him respectfully."
If that was the case, the signing was as good as done.
Even without a signed contract, this kind of resolve wouldn't waver under any circumstances.
"Then you're my player now."
"Haha, 'player.' Yes, that has a nice ring to it. You're right, Eric—or should I say, Director?"
"Then let me give you some tough feedback."
"Huh?"
"That last goal you scored. Why did you do that?"
Was it the suddenness of the question?
Or the unexpected nature of the remark?
Or perhaps just the seemingly indifferent tone?
He looked slightly bewildered.
"Why score a goal...? What do you mean?"
"The role I assigned you was to focus solely on passing."
"!"
"Who told you to shoot?"
"But it led to a goal, didn't it?"
Seeing his confusion turn to indignation, I cut him off firmly.
"That was a goal only because the goalkeeper was utterly incompetent. If he'd been even remotely competent, it would have been a wasted opportunity."
"!"
"Danny Scott, since you're my player now, you must follow my instructions precisely. If you can't do that, then... yes, that's fine. You don't have to come to Mansfield."
His mouth gaped slightly at my words.
Max, standing beside him, looked beyond bewildered, his expression bordering on frustration.
After coming all this way, just moments before signing the contract...
To suddenly renege like this was understandable.
But I knew.
Danny Scott had already realized it himself.
He was a player, not a coach.
Therefore...
"...Understood, Manager."
He had no choice but to be my player.
The atmosphere grew heavy. We followed Danny back to the office in silence.
As if having made up his mind, Danny glanced down at the office desk he had been tidying up and let out a long sigh.
Just then, I noticed the flower in the water bottle that I hadn't seen earlier. Max, perhaps feeling awkward about the heavy atmosphere, remarked, "It's amazing how a single flower can brighten the mood."
"Ah, the flower? Haha, my seven-year-old daughter gave it to me. To celebrate my retirement."
"Congratulations?"
"Yes, I got injured a lot during my playing career. She was so happy I wouldn't get hurt anymore when I retired. But now that I'm going back to playing, I feel a little guilty about accepting this flower."
I blurted out, "You can always change its meaning."
"Change its meaning?"
"Make it a bouquet dedicated to the key player who led Mansfield to promotion to the Premier League."
"But... I thought Mansfield was in the Fourth Division?"
"He'll be in the Premier League."
"Ha, really."
Danny laughed, as if he had no idea what to say, and went to meet the Manager.
Max suddenly asked, "Why are you making such a fuss about him scoring?"
"He disobeyed instructions."
"But it was a shooting opportunity! A decent chance to score—you can't just let those go, can you?"
"The moment you give a clever player freedom, they'll always crave more. To me, he's just a component—a part of a complex machine that performs only the functions I need, in the positions I assign."
"!"
"That's the kind of player I want."
I cut off the conversation and stared at the flower in the water bottle.
"It's just a flower, after all."
"...What?"
"It's just a single flower, but he put it on his desk. Maybe he was trying to convince himself that retiring and becoming a coach was the right thing for his daughter too. Just a single flower."
"..."
Seeing Max's bewildered expression, I said, "I'll head to Mansfield first."
"Wait, what about the contract?"
"I've already drafted it. Just tell him to sign."
"What if they want to revise the terms?"
"Tell them to shove it."
"!"
"No need to offer a higher weekly wage or bonuses. Proceed as is. He'll sign it, no matter what."
My forceful tone left Max speechless.
"Wait, where are you going? How am I supposed to get to Mansfield?"
"Take the bus."
"What's this? I thought you were going on a business trip. How did you get here?"
Lucy, lying in her hospital bed, looked a little tired but her face was bright.
I suddenly reached out my hand.
For a moment, surprise flickered across Lucy's face—whether it was genuine shock or just awkwardness, I couldn't tell. Somewhere in between.
"What's with the bouquet?"
"Just... to celebrate your successful surgery."
"Huh. Wait, you did sign the contract, right? You didn't skip the deal just to give me flowers, did you?"
Lucy's voice softened, sounding both reproachful and tinged with anticipation.
I explained defensively, "They said the Head Coach was enough for this. I just followed the Chairman's orders. Max will finalize the contract."
"...Oh, right. What kind of flowers should I get?"
I handed Lucy the bouquet.
It wasn't anything special, but sometimes people appreciate the little things.
Though she tried to act indifferent, her brightening face confirmed that coming here was the right choice. Life is a series of choices, and I seemed to have made another good one.
"Ah, that reminds me. I only checked this after my surgery."
Lucy suddenly remembered something and handed me her tablet.
"An email?"
I glanced at the open email window and shot her a look.
"You check your inbox right after surgery?"
"Ahem, I may look like this, but I'm actually incredibly busy. There are quite a few things that would fall apart without me."
"So? What's up?"
"Check your latest email."
The most recent email was...
"Coach Alensky?"
"Yeah. It's a long-winded message saying there are no players to release, that unilateral player sales are wrong, and that it would be a major blow to the club's vision and future."
Lucy's summary made me glance away without even reading the email.
"What are you going to do? Since he sent this directly to me, it seems like he's trying to persuade me."
"Nothing much. It's exactly what I expected."
"Hmm?"
"I'll be right back after making a quick call."
I left the hospital room and dialed.
Two coaches: Alrop and Alensky.
"Bring the release list to me tomorrow morning."