The Coaching System

Morning practice was ready to start, and Jake Wilson stood at the edge of the pitch, arms crossed, watching his players walk onto the field.

It had been three days since the 3-0 defeat against Eastleigh Town, and while there had been some progress, it was insufficient. The problem remained the same: the players did not totally respect him.

Some of them followed his instructions begrudgingly. Others ignored them outright, thinking he was just another lower-league manager who'd be gone in a few weeks.

Jake let them think whatever they wanted.

Soon, reality would hit them.

As the last player jogged onto the pitch, Jake clapped his hands, drawing their attention.

"Alright, listen up." His voice was calm, but firm. "We're making changes."

A few of them exchanged glances, and Jake could see the skepticism already.

Good. Let them doubt. It'll make the lesson hurt more.

"We're done playing passive football." Jake gestured toward the tactics board, where a new formation was drawn.

"Starting today, we transition to a high-pressing 4-2-3-1. Two holding midfielders, wingers cutting inside, fullbacks overlapping."

There was a beat of silence before a few players scoffed.

"You want us to press?" one of the defenders, Callum Price, said with a smirk. "Coach, no offense, but we don't exactly have prime Barcelona here."

A few chuckles rippled through the squad.

Jake ignored them.

"I don't need you to be Barcelona," he said coolly. "I need you to stop acting like statues every time we lose possession."

Silence.

He turned toward the captain, James Holbrook, who had his arms crossed, watching like a spectator rather than a leader.

"Holbrook, you're playing as a deep-lying playmaker. Your job is to dictate tempo, control transitions, and feed the wingers."

Holbrook raised an eyebrow. "You mean sit deep and do all the dirty work?"

"I mean do your job as a midfielder," Jake said bluntly. "Unless you'd rather keep losing 3-0 every week."

The players shifted uncomfortably. Some looked away, others avoided eye contact.

Jake exhaled.

"I understand that you're accustomed to kicking the ball up the field and crossing your fingers. We are in the lower half of the table because of this. Today is the last day of that."

More silence.

Then, one of the strikers, Ben Holden, snorted.

"We don't have the legs for a high press. We'll be gassed by halftime."

Jake's lips curled into a smirk.

"Then you'd better start running."

The next hour was hell for the players.

Jake drilled them relentlessly.

Pressing drills. Counter-pressing transitions. Defensive shape maintenance.

Every time someone slacked off, he restarted the drill.

Players muttered curses under their breath. They were used to soft training sessions—this was military-level intensity.

Callum Price, the cocky defender, was the first to crack.

"Coach, this is pointless!" he shouted after missing a run. "We're not built for this!"

Jake met his glare.

"Then adapt or sit on the bench."

The other players fell silent.

They weren't used to this.

Previous managers had begged them to play a certain way. Jake wasn't begging.

He was telling them how it was going to be.

Price gritted his teeth and reluctantly got back in position.

Holbrook was the next to resist.

During a possession drill, he kept drifting too far forward, ignoring Jake's instructions to stay deep.

After the third time, Jake blew his whistle and called over his assistant, Paul Roberts.

"Switch Holbrook out."

Holbrook's head snapped up.

"What?"

Jake's expression was unreadable. "You heard me. Barnes, take his spot."

The squad went completely still.

No one benched the team captain.

Holbrook stormed over, his jaw clenched. "You're taking me off in training?"

Jake shrugged. "You're not following instructions."

"I'm the captain."

"Then act like one."

It appeared for a moment that Holbrook would argue. His nose flared and his fists clenched, but then he noticed how the other players were observing him.

If he refused to leave, it would look weak.

He let out a sharp breath, then ripped off his training bib and tossed it onto the grass.

"Fine," he muttered, storming toward the sideline.

Jake watched him go, then turned back to the others.

"Anyone else want to do things their own way?"

Silence.

The last part of the session was a full-pitch scrimmage.

For the first time, the players actually tried.

The pressing wasn't perfect, but they moved as a unit. They didn't just sit back and let the opposition dictate play.

Holbrook silently observed from the sidelines.

The players were worn out by the end of the practice. Some fell to their knees, palms on their thighs, gasping for air.

Jake made his way to the middle of the players.

"You're all tired, aren't you?"

No one answered, still catching their breath.

Jake let a slow smirk spread across his face.

"Good. That means you're learning."

Paul Roberts leaned in, muttering. "You really think they'll buy into this?"

Jake glanced toward Holbrook, who was still sitting on the bench, deep in thought.

"They don't have a choice," Jake murmured back.

As the players headed inside, Holbrook stayed behind.

Jake walked over, standing beside him.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Holbrook let out a small chuckle.

"You're not like the last guy."

Jake smirked. "Is that a compliment?"

Holbrook shrugged. "I don't know yet."

Jake studied him.

"I benched you because I need a leader. Not a rogue midfielder trying to play hero."

Holbrook looked away.

Jake turned to leave but paused.

"You want to keep the armband? Prove to me you deserve it."

Holbrook didn't respond.

But he didn't argue either.

As Jake walked away, he checked his system screen.

[James Holbrook – Trust Level: +5]

Jake smiled.

It was a small step. But a step nonetheless.