The Coaching System

First Half –

The roar of the Mrsool Park crowd was deafening as the two teams stepped onto the pitch. Bright stadium lights illuminated the pristine grass, the humid Riyadh air clinging to the players' shirts.

Jake Wilson stood on the touchline, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the pitch. This was it. The first real test for his new squad.

He glanced at the system overlay in his vision.

[Ding! Match Prediction Updated]

Al Nassr – 65% Win Probability

Bradford City – 30% Win Probability

Nothing had changed. They were still the underdogs. But Jake wasn't interested in probabilities anymore.

He turned toward his bench, scanning his players' faces. Some were eager, some were tense. But none were afraid.

Good.

The referee blew his whistle.

Kickoff.

Starting Lineups

Al Nassr XI (4-2-3-1):

GK: Bento

RB: Sultan Al-Ghannam

CB: Mohamed Simakan

CB: Aymeric Laporte

LB: Saud Al-Najdi

CM: Otávio

CM: Abdulrahman Al-Khaibari

RW: Ángelo

CAM: Anderson Talisca

LW: Sadio Mané

ST: Cristiano Ronaldo (C)

Bradford City XI (4-4-2):

GK: Emeka Okafor

RB: James Richards

CB: Nathan Barnes (C)

CB: Kang Min-jae

LB: Aiden Taylor

CM: Daniel Lowe

CM: Elliot Harper

RW: Renan Silva

LW: Leo Rasmussen

ST: Lukas Novak

ST: Guilherme Costa

6' –

It didn't take long.

Too quick. Too easy.

Bradford had barely settled into their shape when the danger unfolded—a moment of hesitation, and Al Nassr punished them.

Talisca received the ball in midfield. One touch to control, another to shift his body into space. There was no pressure on him—Lowe was a step too late, Harper caught ball-watching. Dangerous.

Jake saw it unfolding half a second before it happened.

Talisca looked up, his eyes scanning ahead.

He wasn't looking for just any pass. He was looking for one man.

And he found him.

"Track him!" Jake shouted, but it was already too late.

Ronaldo was gone.

He peeled away from Barnes' shoulder, gliding into the pocket of space between the center-backs. A ghost in the box.

Barnes twisted his head, realizing the danger—too late.

Talisca's foot met the ball, delivering a cross that was nothing short of perfect.

It curled through the humid Riyadh air, dipping just beyond Min-jae's reach.

Ronaldo was already airborne.

The leap was effortless, his timing immaculate.

Min-jae jumped, strained, reached—but he was never getting there.

Ronaldo's forehead met the ball with crushing power.

Bullet header. No hesitation. No wasted movement.

The net rippled violently.

The stadium exploded.

Bradford City 0-1 Al Nassr.

Jake exhaled sharply, pressing his lips into a thin line. Six minutes in, and Ronaldo had already reminded them who he was.

This was the difference.

Barnes stood frozen for a moment, fists clenched, his breathing heavy. He had been tight to Ronaldo just seconds ago. And then he wasn't.

Min-jae shook his head, adjusting his shin pads, muttering under his breath.

"Reset! Get your heads up!" Jake barked, clapping his hands loudly.

This wasn't the time to crumble.

This was the time to respond.

18' –

Bradford had barely started to find their rhythm when they got hit again.

And this time, it was a counterattack. Fast. Ruthless. Clinical.

It started with a Bradford corner.

Harper delivered a lofted cross into the box, aiming for Novak. The Czech striker rose high, battling with Laporte, but the experienced defender won the aerial duel with ease.

The ball dropped near the edge of the box, where Otávio reacted first, his first touch perfect, setting himself for a pass before Bradford's midfield could close him down.

Jake saw the danger immediately.

"Drop back! Get into shape!" he shouted from the touchline.

Too late.

Otávio looked up and sprayed a pass wide to the left flank—to Mané.

Pure danger.

The moment the ball reached his feet, Mané exploded forward, his acceleration instant.

James Richards tried to react, stepping up, body low, ready to challenge.

It didn't matter.

Mané glided past him effortlessly, shifting into top speed in a matter of strides.

Richards lunged, trying to keep pace—but he was chasing a shadow.

The crowd rose to their feet, a wave of anticipation sweeping through Mrsool Park as Mané charged down the left flank, the ball glued to his feet.

Richards kept running, desperate to recover, but every step Mané took widened the gap.

Thirty yards… twenty… fifteen…

Jake clenched his fists.

Mané cut inside at the edge of the box, shifting the ball onto his stronger right foot.

Barnes stepped up. Too slow.

Curling shot.

The ball bent viciously toward the far post, curving over Okafor's outstretched hands.

Top corner. Perfect placement.

The net bulged.

Mrsool Park exploded again.

Bradford City 0-2 Al Nassr.

Jake let out a slow breath. Al Nassr were ruthless.

One mistake. One moment of transition. And they were punished.

On the pitch, Richards slammed his fist into the turf, his frustration boiling over.

Barnes jogged toward him, pulling him up.

Jake called Richards over.

Richards approached, his face red with anger.

Jake didn't yell. Didn't criticize.

"Forget it. Next play. Stay in the game."

Richards exhaled, jaw still clenched. Then he nodded.

Jake could see it. His team was rattled.

And they were only eighteen minutes in.

27' – Tactical Adjustment

Jake turned sharply toward Paul Robert, his assistant manager, frustration simmering beneath the surface.

"We're getting torn apart in transition."

Robert nodded, arms crossed, eyes locked on the pitch. "They're playing through us too easily. Otávio has too much time on the ball, and Al-Khaibari isn't even feeling the press."

Jake clenched his jaw. He had seen enough.

Bradford had spent the last five minutes trying to settle after Mané's goal, but Al Nassr wasn't letting them breathe. Every time they won the ball, it was back with Otávio or Talisca in seconds. Their midfield was suffocating Bradford's shape, forcing them to defend deeper and deeper.

No. That wasn't going to work.

Jake called over Daniel Lowe and Elliot Harper, his two central midfielders.

Lowe jogged over first, sweat dripping from his forehead. Harper followed, shaking his head slightly—he knew they weren't getting close enough to their men.

"We need to press higher," Jake said, his voice firm. "They're too comfortable in midfield. Otávio and Al-Khaibari are dictating the tempo."

Harper exhaled. "Yeah, we're letting them turn too easily."

"Then stop letting them," Jake snapped. He pointed toward Otávio, who was once again scanning for a pass, completely unbothered.

"The moment they receive the ball, you're on them. Make them feel you. Make them rush. Force them into mistakes. Got it?"

Lowe clenched his jaw. "Understood, gaffer."

Jake looked at Harper. "And you? Ready to make them work?"

Harper cracked his neck. "Always."

The shift was immediate.

Bradford's midfield pushed higher, cutting off passing lanes before Al Nassr could settle.

Harper stepped onto Otávio's toes, forcing him to release the ball quicker than he wanted. Lowe shadowed Al-Khaibari, sticking to him like glue, disrupting his passing rhythm.

Suddenly, Al Nassr didn't have the same effortless control in midfield.

Bradford started winning second balls, and for the first time, they had possession in dangerous areas.

Silva received the ball on the right, spun past Al-Najdi, and surged forward.

Rasmussen made a darting run down the left, forcing Al-Ghannam to track back.

For the first time in the match, Al Nassr looked slightly unsettled.

Jake could see it.

33' –

Bradford had spent the last six minutes pressing higher, forcing mistakes, and disrupting Al Nassr's rhythm. Finally, it paid off.

Harper hounded Otávio, forcing a rushed pass out wide. Richards intercepted, nodding the ball forward toward Silva.

And suddenly, the space was there.

Silva took his first touch on the right flank, near the edge of the final third.

Facing him was Saud Al-Najdi—a full-back who had already shown vulnerability in one-on-one situations.

Jake leaned forward on the touchline. This was it.

Silva vs. Al-Najdi –

Silva stopped the ball dead.

Al-Najdi hesitated, unsure whether to step forward or hold his ground.

Silva shifted his weight—a quick step-over, then another.

Then—boom.

A sudden, explosive shift inside.

Al-Najdi was left behind.

The Bradford winger was past him, sprinting into space.

Laporte saw the danger and started shifting across—but Silva wasn't slowing down.

Silva glanced up.

Novak was already making a run toward the near post—a perfect poacher's movement.

Silva whipped in a low, driven cross.

The ball sliced through the penalty box—and suddenly, Novak was there!

First-time strike!

Novak connected cleanly, hammering the ball toward goal.

For a split second, Jake thought it was in—but then, out of nowhere—

Simakan threw himself in the way.

The ball slammed into the defender's thigh, deflecting awkwardly into the six-yard box.

Costa reacted first!

The Brazilian striker pounced, stretching a foot out—but Laporte read it.

A last-ditch clearance.

The ball sailed out for a corner.

Jake clapped loudly on the sideline.

Finally.

38' –

And then, just like that—it was over.

Bradford had started to grow into the game, pressing higher, winning small battles in midfield. For a moment, it felt like they had found a foothold.

Then Talisca got the ball.

Halftime Whistle –

The referee's whistle pierced the humid Riyadh air, signaling the end of the first half.

For Al Nassr, it was a routine display of dominance. For Bradford, it was a lesson.

The scoreboard read 3-0, but it might as well have been a gulf in class.

Bradford's players trudged toward the tunnel, heads down, jerseys soaked with sweat. Some shook their heads in frustration. Others didn't say a word.

James Richards slammed his fist against his palm, cursing under his breath. Barnes walked alongside Min-jae, the two center-backs barely speaking, both knowing they had been exposed.

Silva pulled at his shirt, staring at the turf. Rasmussen wiped sweat from his forehead, breathing heavily.

This wasn't League One.

This was a different world.

Jake's Observations –

Jake followed behind them, his jaw clenched, but his mind sharp.

He wasn't angry.

He was watching. Analyzing.

Every mistake. Every weakness. Every hesitation.

He had seen it all.

Barnes and Min-jae losing Ronaldo in transition.

Richards getting burned by Mané's pace.

Otávio and Al-Khaibari dictating the midfield too easily.

Their press breaking down the moment Al Nassr switched the tempo.

But he had also seen something else.

Silva getting past Al-Najdi.

Harper starting to win duels.

Novak and Costa beginning to find space.

There were gaps to exploit—if they had the courage to do it.

Inside the Dressing Room –

The dressing room was silent, except for the sound of heavy breathing and water bottles being squeezed.

Some players slumped onto the bench, staring at the floor. Others leaned against the wall, hands on their hips, still processing the first half.

No one spoke.

Jake stood at the front, looking at them. Waiting. Measuring.

Then, finally, he exhaled.

"Alright."

His voice was calm. But firm.

Every head turned toward him, eyes weary, faces marked by exhaustion.

Jake let the silence hang for a second longer.

Then—he stepped forward.

"That's enough."

His voice carried a different weight now. Not frustration. Not anger.

Command.

"We're not here to survive. We're not here to admire them. We're here to fight. And we're not doing that."

Some players straightened. Others looked at him.

"You've seen it now. Their quality. Their speed. Their finishing. We've been hit. Three times. And it hurts."

Jake paused, looking at each player in the eyes.

"So what? You think they're going to take it easy on us? You think they're done?"

No one answered.

"If we don't change something right now, they'll embarrass us."

Still, no one spoke.

Jake took a step forward, his voice dropping lower—but sharper.

"You want to walk off this pitch knowing you let them dictate everything? Knowing you backed off? Knowing you gave them too much respect?"

Barnes clenched his fists.

Jake's gaze moved across the room.

"Or do you want to walk out there and fight?"

Silence.

Then—Harper nodded.

"We fight."

Lowe cracked his knuckles. Silva sat up straight.

Min-jae adjusted his socks, his jaw tight.

Finally, Barnes stood. "What's the plan, gaffer?"

Jake nodded. That was the right question.

"Time to fight back."

Jake saw it unfold before it even happened.

Bradford had pushed up. Too high. Too ambitious.

Anderson Talisca stood in a pocket of space just inside Bradford's half, his posture relaxed, effortless—like he had all the time in the world.

Lowe and Harper rushed toward him.

One second.

Talisca glanced up.

Two seconds.

With one smooth, elegant motion, he rolled the ball forward with his left foot and—without even looking—clipped a through ball between Barnes and Min-jae.

Perfect weight. Perfect timing.

The pass sliced through the Bradford defense like a scalpel.

And Ronaldo was already gone.

Nathan Barnes twisted his head, searching for Ronaldo.

Too late.

Min-jae sprinted, his legs pumping furiously.

Too late.

Ronaldo took one touch to control, soft and delicate.

One touch to look up.

And one touch to gently chip it over Okafor.

The ball floated over the Nigerian keeper's outstretched arms, its trajectory calm, almost lazy—like Ronaldo had written the script before the game had even begun.

It kissed the net.

3-0.

The stadium erupted.

Jake didn't even react.

What was there to say?

They were being schooled.

Ronaldo jogged toward the corner flag, a familiar smirk forming on his lips.

Then—he jumped.

Arms outstretched.

Legs spread wide.

"SIIIIIIIIIIUUUUUUUUUUU!"

The stadium shook as thousands of fans echoed the famous celebration, their voices blending into one deafening roar.

Bradford's players watched in silence, some with hands on their hips, others shaking their heads.

On the sideline, Jake stood stone-faced, arms crossed.

Not angry. Not even frustrated.

Just watching. Absorbing.

This was the level.

And right now, they weren't there yet.