The Coaching System

It began with Rojas, of all people.

Ten minutes in—AZ still pressing high, still believing they could force the mistake—they didn't notice the shift. Rojas stepped inside with his first touch, eyes scanning ahead. Ethan was there, just off his shoulder, and he gave it to him early.

Ethan didn't stop it. Just redirected it, smooth and quick. And Rojas was gone.

The fullback exploded forward past halfway—head down, stride full, not wild but measured. One-two. The wall pass came from Roney, perfectly clipped between two defenders. Not too soft, not too loud.

Jake stepped forward at the same time—just one step. His arms stayed folded.

Rojas curved his run toward the right edge of the box. The defence was recovering late. He didn't look up. He didn't need to. His left foot hooked around the ball and dragged it hard and flat across the six-yard box.

It was too fast for defenders to stretch. Too low for the keeper to gamble.

Silva arrived like he'd been there the whole time.

Not running flat-out. Not forcing it. He slipped between the centre-backs with one step that felt almost lazy. But it wasn't. It was precise.

He stretched his leg just enough, side-footed cleanly through the pace of the ball, and sent it crashing into the far side netting.

Not top corner. Not flashy.

Just unanswerable.

The net rippled.

The stadium didn't cheer—it detonated.

Claret smoke tore upward from the far end. Fans banged the hoardings so hard they shook. Flags waved like war banners.

Silva didn't celebrate wildly. He turned and pointed once—back at Rojas.

Behind the mic, Seb Hutchinson's voice cut through the madness.

"Silva doesn't just score goals. He arrives where others hesitate."

Michael Johnson waited a beat, then added low, like he didn't want to talk over it.

"He makes timing look like instinct. That's repetition. That's hours."

On the sideline, Jake clapped once. Just once. Then lowered his hand.

He looked toward Paul Robert, then back at the pitch.

No words. Just a nod.

Bradford 1, AZ Alkmaar 0. Aggregate: 3–2.

They had drawn first blood. But nobody on that bench thought it was over.

the goal hadn't shaken AZ. If anything, it woke them up.

From the restart, their midfield moved like clockwork—tick, tick, tick—short passes punched between red shirts, one-touch layoffs that tested not just positioning but rhythm. They weren't playing through gaps. They were trying to create them. Shift by shift. Tempo by tempo.

Ethan saw it early.

He barked once—sharp and short—and Lowe responded. The two dropped half a step, angled their hips, and turned the centre into something narrow and thorned. Every time AZ tried to thread inside, they found arms, legs, shoulders. Not tackles. Just discomfort. Enough to deflect. Enough to reroute.

So AZ went wide.

Jake didn't yell. Didn't motion. He watched.

The shift was what he'd expected. Plan A was cracking. Plan B would take more patience.

By the sixteenth, Roney was pressing high again. He didn't wait for cues. He sensed weight in the AZ pass, stole a half-step on the fullback, and nicked the ball clean.

One touch forward—Costa was already sprinting.

The pass rolled out in front of him, angled just beyond the chalk. The keeper came early. Too early.

Costa lunged but the ball skipped just out of reach and ran over the byline.

He didn't complain. Just jogged back.

Jake didn't flinch. No gesture. Just checked his watch, then looked downfield.

On the far touchline, Walsh was warming up, jogging in straight lines, bouncing on his toes.

He clapped once—not at the move, but at the idea behind it.

He saw the pattern forming. The pocket Roney had found wasn't random.

AZ were wide now, and when they spread, their pivot got isolated.

In the twentieth, it nearly hit.

Roney picked the ball up just inside the left channel. He didn't look dangerous—head low, touch cautious.

Then he twisted.

A flick off the outside of his boot carried him past the first man. The second stepped in—too late. Roney shifted again, this time dragging the ball through the defender's legs like he'd planned it since Tuesday.

The crowd stood—not shouted, stood.

Roney cut in across the edge of the box, looked up once, and let fly.

Low. Fast. Curling just enough toward the far post.

The keeper moved late. Reached low.

Fingertips.

Just enough.

The ball flicked wide by inches.

No one groaned. No one booed.

The West Stand clapped—sharp, appreciative.

Roney didn't react. He didn't need to. His body said enough. He walked back into shape like nothing had happened.

But Walsh saw it.

From the sideline, still jogging slowly, he nodded once.

Not at the shot. At the balance.

There was no panic in Bradford. No overreach.

They weren't trying to kill the tie early.

They were making AZ breathe harder for every inch. Making them cover ground they didn't want to.

And above it all, Valley Parade stayed loud—not in chants, but in pressure.

That sound of thousands not yelling, but waiting—leaning forward in their seats, willing the next pass to come. Willing the press to hit. Willing the moment to break again.

Jake remained near the edge of the technical box, arms still folded.

Paul Robert leaned in.

"They're starting to feel it," he said.

Jake didn't reply.

He was already watching the next press unfold.

By the twenty-eighth, AZ pushed again—harder this time.

Their midfield line pressed as a unit now, tighter and higher, not leaving the same gaps they'd opened in the first twenty. Their fullbacks stepped up, and Kang had to drive the ball forward faster, forced into a pass under pressure.

It zipped into Vélez's feet—chest-high, fast, and sharp. He was back to goal, the touch line closing in behind him, two AZ midfielders lunging toward the space like they'd timed it.

But Vélez didn't panic. He didn't need to look. He just turned.

One pirouette, body pivoting inside the press. A drop of the shoulder left the closest marker leaning the wrong way. The other tried to adjust, too late.

Gone.

Vélez didn't accelerate. He just glided into the open channel, touching the ball forward like the pitch had opened up for him personally.

Silva was already moving on the right. Vélez picked the angle, slid it through without breaking stride.

Silva took one touch inside, rode a trailing foot, and opened up his body.

The shot came quickly—snatched a little. Dragged just wide of the far post.

The crowd groaned but only briefly. Silva raised his hand, head down.

Jake didn't flinch. He stepped forward, hand raised across his body, and called out over the wind.

"Settle again."

The bench heard it first. Then the message rippled across the pitch—subtle shifts in position, players falling back into block, the press momentarily withdrawn.

It wasn't retreat. It was control.

The kind you only earned when someone like Vélez could take pressure, spin out of it, and make defenders look like shadows.

And even with the miss, Bradford held the rhythm.

Not rushed. Not rattled.

Just steady in the cold, under floodlights, with a one-goal lead and more gears to find.