A Manager's Code

July 2000 – Loughborough University, Sports Science Block

James hadn't walked these halls in over a year, yet the hum of vending machines, the faint echo of trainers squeaking on indoor courts, and the low murmur of discussion spilling out from lecture rooms all felt comfortable.

He paused outside Lab 3C — a performance analysis breakout room he'd practically lived in during his final year. The room still smelled of instant coffee and ambition.

"Oi, if it isn't Coach Ashford!"

James turned just in time to catch a flying tennis ball, followed by a familiar grin.

"Tommy Doyle," James said, grinning. "Still deflecting from assignments with trick shots?"

"Only when I know I'll pass anyway," Tommy replied, giving James a friendly clap on the back. "Didn't expect to see you here — thought you'd be too busy running a football empire."

"Empire's generous," James chuckled. "Trying not to run it into the ground is more accurate."

Another voice chimed in from the corridor.

"Well, if it isn't our graduation prodigy."

"Alina!" James turned as she approached. A tall brunette with a clipboard, glasses, and the sort of no-nonsense energy that once terrified their biomechanics lecturer.

Alina raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess — tactical revolution, nutrition overhaul, and now back to poaching the only two brains who could keep up with you in simulation analysis?"

"Bingo," James grinned.

They moved to the standard room, where couches, vending machines, and old PlayStation controllers were scattered on a low table. Laughter, banter, and inside jokes flowed easily.

Tommy plopped down on the couch, grabbed a dusty PlayStation controller, and groaned. "Still no second analog stick… and yet they expect us to win at ISS Pro like it's the World Cup."

"You never won, Tommy," Alina shot back. "You rage quit every match after conceding from a corner."

"I was testing reflex degradation under simulated stress," he grinned.

James laughed. "Pretty sure shouting 'this game is broken' doesn't count as a scientific paper."

Tommy turned to Alina. "You still watching those weird Japanese cartoons at 2 a.m.?"

"They're called anime," Alina said, adjusting her glasses. "And Cowboy Bebop has better character arcs than half your love life."

James held up a hand. "Can confirm. I walked in on her once crying over a fictional bounty hunter with a tragic backstory."

Alina smirked. "Spike Spiegel deserved better."

Tommy scoffed. "You both need help."

Alina fired back. "Oh, please, like you lot were any better. Screaming 'Kamehameha!' down the hallway like you were powering up for battle."

James grinned. "Don't forget running around campus with Game Boys, trying to catch Articuno in the middle of nutrition lectures."

"And dragging me halfway across campus just so you could evolve your Haunter," Alina added.

"Hey, Gengar was worth the effort," James replied.

Tommy laughed. "Don't act like you didn't name your Pikachu' Roy Keane' just to mess with me."

James smirked. "He was aggressive and didn't take nonsense — felt fitting."

Alina shook her head. "And yet, somehow, we're supposed to be the generation that revolutionizes sports science."

Tommy leaned back with a dramatic sigh. "And to think, we're the best hope English football has."

Tommy leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eye. "So seriously, you really own Notts County now? Or is this one of your long cons, like that time you convinced Coach Evans we were trialing a cryotherapy chamber in the janitor's closet?"

James nodded. "Well, technically, yes. The family bought it. But I'm the head coach. Planning on an overhaul soon, but not at this moment. The next season is almost upon us."

Alina whistled. "That's mental. Most clubs won't let you warm the bench at twenty."

"I've got one shot to get it right," James said. "That's why I'm here."

He pulled out a folder from his bag — diagrams, performance module breakdowns, facility layouts.

"I'm building a first-of-its-kind integrated support system. Data-backed recovery routines, visual performance mapping, and full-body fatigue management."

Tommy laughed. "You trying to impress us with big words or hire us?"

James looked up with a half-smirk. "Both, and maybe a bit of revenge for all the times you two made me present solo because you were 'testing hydration protocols' at the pub."

Silence. Then Alina smirked. "You're serious?"

"I need a head physio and a performance analyst I can trust — people who get the vision and aren't afraid to test new ideas. One-year contracts. By the end of the season, we'll either be on the map… or back in this room, laughing about how I crashed Notts County. Well, you'll laugh. I'll be in tears as you lot comfort me."

Tommy leaned back. "And if it works?"

James smiled. "Then you'll be getting hands-on experience with top-level hires. Big names. Real science in football. You'll have the freedom to build programs from scratch."

Alina folded her arms. "You'll fund lab space?"

"I'll give you a medical wing to call your own," James replied. "Not a hospital — a workshop. Rehab, diagnostics, and athlete profiling. We're investing in facilities. Top-end stuff."

Tommy gave Alina a look. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Alina nodded, a rare grin breaking through. "You still have that ridiculous striped physio bag? The one with the Arsenal badge sewn on upside down?"

"Never left my car. It's been ready since the day we got that B-minus in biomechanics."

James laughed. "I take it that's a yes?"

They both stood.

Tommy clapped his hands. "To Notts County, then. Let's build something no one's ever seen."

Alina added, "And James — if you screw this up, I'm running your rehab drills personally."

"Deal."

Later That Night – James's Office, Meadow Lane

The squad list lay spread across his desk, lit by the dull glow of his desk lamp. James leaned back, pen tapping against a notepad as he stared down the names he'd grown up watching from the stands.

"Darren Ward — top class. Keep him. Liburd — versatile, solid. Captain material."

He drew a check beside Nick Fenton's name. "Young. Mobile. Defensive brain. A keeper."

He hesitated at Matt Redmile and Richard Holmes.

"Raw. Holmes needs polish. Redmile's been shaky. Decision pending."

A line crossed through Paul Bolland's name.

"Too inconsistent. Flashes don't win matches."

He circled Mark Stallard's name twice. "Goals. Need to build around him and get a backup striker in case he underperforms."

His pen slowed over the forward line. "Darby and Rapley. Slowing down. If the right offer comes…"

He paused, flipping to a fresh page.

Immediate Needs:

Creative midfielder with vision and tempo controlPace-driven forward who can press and counterBackup fullback with stamina and tactical discipline. Possibly a ball-playing centre-back with aerial strength

He exhaled and ran a hand through his hair.

"Will need a few signings. Not just a promotion-worthy team. Will have to think about the future."

The Soft glow of the room caught the silver edge of the new club badge on his desk.

James turned back to the laptop, the system already humming on standby.

[RECRUITMENT MODULE – ACTIVE]

Search Parameters Confirmed: Position – Midfielder | Age – 16 to 21 | Role – Creative, Tempo Control | Estimated Value – Low to Moderate

He clicked 'Scan.'

A dozen names populated the screen. He browsed quickly—some decent, others lacking the cutting edge.

Then, two profiles stood out:

Name: Michael Carrick

Age: 18 

Nationality: English 

Current Club: West Ham United 

Profile Notes: Composed under pressure, has exceptional passing range and tactical maturity beyond his age. Estimated cost: ~£550,000.

Name: Ricardo "Kaká"

Age: 18

Nationality: Brazilian

Current Club: São Paulo FC Youth

Profile Notes: Flair, dribbling, long-range passing, and rare vision. Estimated cost around £300,000.

James leaned forward.

"Carrick gives me control. Kaká gives me magic."

He clicked through the clips. Carrick pinging passes effortlessly in midfield. Kaká gliding past two defenders before slotting it low.

He scrawled into his notebook:

Primary Targets – Midfield:

Michael Carrick – deep-lying playmaker

Kaká – advanced creator with high potential

He murmured, "Carrick at one-fifty, Kaká at three… still under a quarter of the budget. We can make this work."

He sat back, satisfied. With players like these, his midfield wouldn't just compete—it would define games.

"This is it," James muttered. "Build from the middle. Control the tempo, change the future. Now, let's move on to the strikers."