The Silvergate Youth Training Grounds hummed with life as Maddox approached, the morning mist curling around his boots like a living thing.
He was fifteen minutes early, yet the air already crackled with the sharp trill of whistles, the rhythmic thud of boots on grass, and the low murmur of players calling to each other.
The scent of damp turf and sweat mingled with the faint tang of ozone from last night's rain, grounding him in the familiar chaos of football. But as he crested the hill overlooking the main pitch, confusion knotted his brow.
Through the thinning fog, he saw half the squad already on the field, their breaths puffing in the cool air as they ran drills. Some sprinted in tight formation, others worked on positional play, their movements crisp and deliberate.
A small scrimmage unfolded at the far end, the ball zipping between players with purpose. But what stopped Maddox cold wasn't the early start—it was the man at the center of it all, arms folded, voice barking orders with the authority of a general.
Nigel Crowther.
Maddox's pace quickened, his shoulders tensing as he descended the path. The assistant coach stood like a king holding court, his gaunt frame covered in a Silvergate tracksuit, his eyes scanning the pitch with a predator's focus.
Around him clustered the longest-serving staff—assistant coaches, trainers, even the goalkeeping coach, Tom Bradley, whose loyalty Maddox had never questioned. They nodded at Crowther's commands, their faces set in grim determination, as if this were a routine they'd run a hundred times.
Maddox reached the sideline, his voice slicing through the morning air like a blade. "What's going on here?"
The whistles fell silent. Players froze mid-stride, the ball rolling to a stop. Conversations died, and all eyes swung toward him, a mix of curiosity and unease rippling through the group.
The drizzle, light but persistent, misted the pitch, lending the scene an electric edge, like the calm before a storm.
Crowther turned, his expression a masterclass in false relief, as if he'd been reluctantly holding the fort. "Ah, you're finally here," he said, tilting his head with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "No big deal—we just started early since you were running late."
Maddox's frown deepened, his tone sharpening. "Late? Training starts in ten minutes. What are you talking about?"
Crowther's lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk laced with contempt. "Officially, sure. But unofficially…" He paused, gesturing to the players, who watched in uneasy silence. "The team's dead last in Youth League E, Coach. Figured we couldn't afford to waste time waiting for you to stroll in."
Murmurs rippled through the squad and staff, a low hum of agreement from some, discomfort from others. Maddox's jaw clenched, his pulse hammering in his ears. "So you took it upon yourself to run a full session? Without notifying me?"
Crowther shrugged, folding his arms with casual defiance. "It's not about ego, Eric. It's about initiative. Some of us are trying to salvage this season. Your… relaxed approach hasn't exactly built a winning culture."
The words landed like a punch, and Maddox stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. "Is that right? You're undermining the head coach because I don't run this place like a dictatorship? Or because I don't play favorites with the staff like you do?"
The accusation hung in the air, heavier than the mist. The staff behind Crowther didn't flinch—some nodded in quiet agreement, others averted their eyes. The players, caught in the crossfire, shifted uncomfortably, their boots scuffing the wet grass.
Maddox felt the sting of betrayal, but more than that, he sensed the setup. Crowther had orchestrated this—a public power play designed to fracture his authority.
"We're here for the boys, not to coddle your reputation," Crowther pressed, his voice rising to carry across the pitch, addressing the entire group now. "Maybe if the head coach showed more commitment, we wouldn't be scrambling to avoid a three-year exclusion from Youth League E."
The accusation was a dagger, sharpened by its half-truths. Silvergate's dismal standing wasn't Maddox's fault alone—the squad he'd inherited was five games in at the time, riddled with injuries, and demoralized by years of mismanagement. But Crowther's words painted him as the sole culprit, and the murmurs grew louder, a few players exchanging glances.
Maddox's eyes narrowed, his voice a low growl. "You want to say that again, Nigel? Go ahead. Say what you really mean."
Crowther stepped forward, the lines on his gaunt face deepening, his eyes glinting with challenge. "Fine. You're in over your head, Maddox. You stumbled into this job because of who you married, not what you know. We've been covering for you since day one, and it's time someone said it out loud."
The words echoed across the silent pitch, a gauntlet thrown down. Maddox's fists clenched, his blood roaring with the urge to wipe the smirk off Crowther's face.
But before he could respond, a soft tap-tap-tap broke the tension—footsteps padding through the damp turf.
A junior staffer, a nervous kid named Ollie, jogged toward him, clutching a clipboard like a shield. "Uh… Coach Maddox? Sorry to interrupt, but… the Youth Team Director just called. He's waiting in his office."
Maddox didn't blink, his gaze locked on Crowther. The assistant coach's expression shifted—just a flicker, from smugness to a thinly veiled glee, as if he'd been waiting for this moment. The staff behind him exchanged glances, some uneasy, others expectant.
"I see," Maddox said, his voice calm but laced with steel. He turned, leveling one last look at Crowther—sharp, cold, and promising retribution. "We'll settle this later, Nigel."
Crowther tilted his head, his smile condescending. "Of course, Coach. I'll keep things running smoothly while you're gone."
Maddox ignored the jab, striding off the pitch with Ollie trailing behind. The system interface flickered to life in the corner of his vision, its holographic text glowing with grim tidings.
---
[System Notice]
[Training Ground Morale Status:
> Staff Alignment: Fractured
> Player Respect: 43% (decreasing)
> Internal Authority Modifier: -12
New Alert: Director Meeting Imminent.
> Youth Team Director Marcus Varnell has summoned you. High probability of disciplinary action.
Side Note: Consider updating your CV]
---
Maddox's jaw tightened, the system's snarky tone grating on his nerves. 'Thanks for the vote of confidence,' he thought bitterly.
The path to the director's office stretched ahead, winding through the training complex's sleek, glass-walled buildings. The facility had once felt like a canvas for his ambitions, a place to mold a ragtag squad into something fierce.
Now, it was a battlefield, every nod from passing staff laced with whispers, every glance heavy with judgment.
The drizzle intensified, speckling his tracksuit as he walked. Memories of the morning with Alina flickered through his mind, and he realized something, Crowther's words stung deeper than he wanted to admit. 'You stumbled into this job because of who you married.'
The accusation wasn't entirely false. Alina's noble status, her father's influence in football circles, had opened doors for Eric Maddox that his commoner roots never could.
But Maddox, the new soul in this body, was determined to prove he belonged, not because of her but in spite of her father's disdain.
Inside the main building, the air was cool and sterile, the hum of holo-screens and muffled conversations filling the halls. Staffers glanced at him as he passed, their expressions a mix of pity and curiosity.
The whispers had turned louder now, a chorus of doubt fueled by Crowther's rebellion and the media's relentless churn.
Maddox paused outside the director's office, a polished wooden door with a plaque reading "Marcus Varnell, Youth Team Director". His reflection stared back from the glass panel—disheveled hair, shadowed eyes, but a jaw set with defiance.
Whatever waited inside—reprimand, demotion, or worse, he knew one thing: keeping his job today would be a fight. And he was no stranger to those.
He knocked once, the sound sharp in the quiet hall, and pushed the door open.
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