The Coaching System

The second half began before the whistle even blew. In their heads, in their breath, in the way Barnes nudged Rojas slightly forward before stepping back himself. Everyone knew what was coming.

And it didn't take long.

Forty-six minutes in—Partizan came surging, like a match tossed onto oil. Their front three pressed as if they'd been starved of oxygen for the entire break. High line. Wide spacing. They didn't want possession—they wanted panic.

A long diagonal screamed past Taylor's shoulder. Cross incoming.

Cox didn't wait.

He punched through traffic, knuckles first, sent the ball skimming beyond the arc. Barnes cleared with no ceremony—laces through leather, upfield, away. Rojas spun and barked at Silva, motioning him back. No luxury now. Shape first, flair later.

Jake stood still near the fourth official, hands folded behind him, eyes scanning the pitch like a surgeon about to cut. When Rojas glanced over, Jake only pointed one finger down—flatten the line, don't bite, don't go.

At the 51st minute, it nearly snapped.

Ethan clipped a soft floater just inside Partizan's half. Not a hopeful pass—no spin, no weight wasted.

Silva drifted under it. Chest-controlled it clean. Turned.

And found himself surrounded.

Three defenders. No time. No air.

One shoulder dip to the left—nothing. Another to the right—space, maybe.

He toe-rolled the ball behind his standing leg, dragging it diagonally through two ankles like he was slicing through paper. He skipped past one—then the second—legs coiling like springs—

But the third never even played the ball.

Studs clattered through Silva's ankle. The crowd roared. The whistle came a half-beat late. Free kick. Just outside the box.

Silva got up, brushing off the hand offered by the ref. No complaints. He adjusted his sock, shook out the pain.

The Belgrade crowd howled behind the wall. But Vélez didn't flinch. He placed the ball down himself. Stepped back. Measured.

Right-footed. Curled.

The keeper froze.

So did Jake.

It missed by inches—barely kissing the post as it skimmed wide.

From the far end, Cox clapped once. Not for drama. Just signal.

Michael Johnson's voice floated through the airwaves:

"They'll fear every set piece now. Vélez doesn't miss often."

And Partizan knew.

Next time, they might not be so lucky.

Under the fifty-second minute, Ethan's pass rose like a question mark. Backspin held it just enough—landed on Silva's chest like a secret. He brought it down between shoulder and boot, feet already shifting angles. The crowd roared—three black shirts swarmed. One cut his right, another lunged left.

Silva didn't freeze.

He danced.

A left-footed feint. A right-footed dummy. Then a toe-roll between the narrowest crack of space.

He burst through the first two defenders. A gasp from the crowd. But the third came like an axe—no subtlety, just steel through bone. The ankle clattered. Silva hit the grass.

Free kick. Twenty-two yards out. Left of center.

The whistles came sharp from the home end. Fans leaned over the hoardings, throwing hands, curses, whatever they had.

Silva stayed down for a beat. Then sat up. No grimace. Just pulled his sock back into place and nodded once toward Vélez.

Jake didn't gesture. He just watched from the technical box, coat zipped, jaw still.

Vélez didn't ask for the ball.

He walked up, placed it himself, eyes on the far post. No glance at the keeper. Just one deep breath, then one step back.

Michael Johnson's voice crackled through the cold:

"They'll fear every set piece now. Vélez doesn't miss often."

The whistle blew.

Right foot. Curl. Over the wall. The dip came too late.

Inches.

So close it scraped the outside netting.

Cox clapped from the other end—gloves smacking loud even through the noise.

Partizan fans jeered again, louder this time. Not because of danger avoided—but because they knew what could've come.

Three minutes later, near the fifty-fifth, it snapped.

Partizan broke after a Bradford turnover in midfield. Their winger flew through the inside channel. Kang Min-jae saw it coming, stepped hard, and chose violence over vulnerability.

He didn't go for the ball.

He took the body—shoulder to ribs—clean enough to avoid red, hard enough to stop everything.

Whistle. Sharp.

Card raised before the referee even reached him.

Jake turned to Paul Robert at once. His voice didn't rise.

"Prep Holloway."

Paul was already walking. The board was ready.

And Kang?

He didn't argue. Just nodded once at Barnes, then backpedaled into the line, yellow card already fading into the mist.

Belgrade hissed.

Bradford held.

Sixty-three minutes in, the silence that followed Silva's flickered pass felt heavier than the miss itself.

Rin had peeled off his man at the perfect moment. His run was clean, timed between the collapsing backline and the keeper's aggressive step forward. Silva saw it. Slipped him through—one of those disguised reverse balls he hit like it was nothing.

Rin took it in stride. One soft touch forward. Space opened like a curtain.

Jake didn't shout. He leaned forward slightly, almost like he was holding the strike in his own chest.

Rin swung his left. Tried to place it across the keeper. Clean shape. Wrong margin.

The ball kissed the outside of the post and rattled against the side netting. The entire stadium thought it was in for a second. A few Bradford fans stood—then sank back into their seats, hands on heads.

Rin didn't swear. Didn't complain. He just bit his lip, turned, and jogged back into position.

Jake raised three fingers toward him from the sideline.

"Next time. Third time. Hit it."

Rin nodded. That kind of nod that stung.

Four minutes later—sixty-seven on the clock—Jake made his move.

Holloway was already warming. The physio had gestured at Taylor ten minutes ago—tight hamstring, not yet a tear. No gamble.

Jake tapped the board. Holloway ON for Taylor.

Paul Robert lifted it. Numbers flashed. Taylor clapped once for Holloway and jogged off slowly, hand brushing the back of his thigh. No limp, just caution.

Second switch—Soro for Vélez.

Vélez didn't fight it. He jogged to the sideline, handed off the armband to Barnes with a brief squeeze on the forearm. A midfielder for a midfielder, but one with fresh legs and steel in the press.

Then came the last move.

Costa OFF. Richter ON.

Jake met Costa at the edge. Not with tactics. Just a sentence, short and low:

"That was the kind of quiet I needed."

Costa's chest rose once, heavy with breath. He nodded. Didn't ask for more.

He unstrapped his gloves, sat down at the far end of the bench. Boots loose. Gaze locked on the pitch.

Richter sprinted on, all buzz and bounce. He slapped hands with Soro on the way past. Holloway stepped into the line. Barnes shifted slightly left to close the space.

Bradford had made their changes.

The wind hadn't died.

But the structure? It held.