The Coaching System

Jake's Study, Monday Night

The house was quiet again, just as it always was on Monday nights when Jake Wilson chose strategy over sleep.

In the stillness of his study, only the low hum of the system's interface filled the room—an ambient thrum that danced across the surface of his desk as holographic stats, formations, and data lines floated into view.

Jake leaned forward, coffee going cold at his elbow, eyes narrowing as the algorithm projected its result:

Bradford City win probability: 50%

Draw: 10%

Club Brugge win: 40%

He read the numbers once, then again—calm but unsatisfied.

Jake (under his breath): "No margin for error."

He gestured to expand the analysis panel. Club Brugge's last five European outings flickered across the screen. Three of their goals had come from Vanaken—one-touch finishes or late surges into space. Jake keyed in the midfielder's heatmap and watched the red clusters light up central areas like a wildfire.

He opened their tactical breakdown next.

— High line exposed when pressed early. — Slow to recover when full-backs overlap. — Heavy reliance on central midfield link-up. — Vulnerable to inside-out wing rotations.

Jake watched two clips. One where a low block unraveled them. Another where a quick vertical ball bypassed four players.

He paused the screen on a frame showing Brugge's back four in a straight, shallow line—too flat, too high.

Jake: "Perfect for Silva. And Roney."

He made a mental note: Vélez deeper to hold, Ibáñez free to roam. Costa rested—Richter leads the line. Silva plays tight on the left, pressing the gap between their right-back and centre-half. One trigger, and Brugge could crack.

Jake stood slowly, flexing his shoulders.

Fenerbahçe had been chaos.

This would be precision.

Training Ground, Tuesday

Training Ground, Bradford City – 8:07 AM

The air hung still over the practice pitches, low grey clouds dimming the light as a line of cones glittered with dew. Jake Wilson stood in front of the whiteboard inside the meeting room, marker in hand, one finger tapping a circled name: Vanaken.

"He's the link," Jake said, underlining twice. "Everything filters through him. But it's their fullbacks that give us the game."

Paul Roberts nodded from the edge of the table, arms crossed. Behind him, the players filtered in, boots squeaking against the tile, seats taken without a word.

Jake turned to the room. "They press with four. High. Reckless."

He pointed at the diagram.

"Meeus? Plays like a winger in disguise. If Silva times it right, he's through. Djalo pushes up too early—Roney, it's yours. But not just pace. Movement. Short pass. Layoff. Spin. Behind."

No one spoke, but heads nodded. Vélez leaned forward slightly, eyes already narrowed. Silva rolled his shoulders once.

Jake stepped away from the board. "They expect us to play slow. We go direct. Quick, clean, but never rushed. Sharp touches. No passengers."

—

Out on the grass, the tempo was blistering from the start.

The rondos weren't light-hearted this time—whistles shrieked at mistakes, and silence greeted showboating. Ibáñez barked directions in Spanish. Chapman pointed before he passed. Roney drilled the ball through a defender's legs and didn't even smile.

Jake prowled the edge of the square, arms folded, chin low.

"Move it faster," he said, not raising his voice. "The press doesn't wait."

They moved into pressure drills—4v2s, then overloads. Barnes called out a striker's run before it even came. Taylor flung himself into a clearance, boots skidding across slick turf.

Silva and Roney practiced transitions. Jake tossed the ball into the center circle—Ibáñez scooped it wide—Roney burst into space, squared it—Silva clipped the shot across goal.

"Again," Jake said before the ball had stopped rolling. "Again."

And again they went.

—

Toward the end, the session slowed. Final sequence: oblique passing lanes. Vélez to Richter, Chapman interchanging, Silva darting past the shadow cones, Ibáñez sliding the final pass on the third touch. A rhythm. Clean.

Jake stood still now.

"They think this is just another English team."

His eyes moved across each player.

"Remind them it's not."

He turned and walked off. Training ended in silence—no laughs, no handshakes. Just fire beneath the skin.

Pre-Match Press Conference (Wednesday Afternoon)

Location: Media Suite, Valley Parade

The room hummed with static tension. Bright overhead lights cut down on the panel where Jake Wilson sat alone, back straight, water bottle untouched. Behind him, the club crest loomed beneath UEFA's midnight-blue branding.

Microphones extended like reaching fingers across the table. Journalists shuffled notes. Some had watched Bradford's match against Fenerbahçe on a screen. Some had been there. All of them had questions.

🗣️ Reporter 1 – Sky Sports Europe:

"Jake, how would you rate your side's chances tomorrow night against a side like Club Brugge?"

Jake:

(quiet, composed)

"They're experienced. Technical. But we're not here to survive. We're here to take control."

🗣️ Reporter 2 – The Guardian:

"After the chaos of Fenerbahçe, are you expecting something similar tomorrow?"

Jake:

(shakes his head)

"Different kind of game. Fenerbahçe came to impose. Brugge will look to absorb, then punch. It's about timing. Not speed. Precision."

🗣️ Reporter 3 – BT Sport:

"What have you worked on in training that supporters might notice tomorrow?"

Jake:

(pauses)

"Clean transitions. Vertical pressure. And control in tight spaces. But they'll notice more in how we recover than how we attack."

🗣️ Reporter 4 – BBC Sport Yorkshire:

"Are you rotating the squad again, like you did last time?"

Jake:

"Some changes. We're managing minutes. But every name on the sheet is trusted. It's not rotation. It's readiness."

🗣️ Reporter 5 – UEFA.com:

"Brugge are known for exploiting midfield gaps. How do you stop Vanaken?"

Jake:

(deadpan)

"You close space before he opens it."

(he waits a beat)

"Watch tomorrow. You'll see it."

🗣️ Reporter 6 – FanTV:

"What can fans expect from this Bradford side under the lights?"

Jake:

(still calm, but a hint of steel)

"A team that doesn't play like they're lucky to be here."

(leans in slightly)

"We're not passengers. We drive the pace. We write it."

A flicker of shutters. No smile. No exit line. Jake nodded once and stood, stepping off the podium without waiting for the moderator.

The room didn't buzz when he left.

It quieted.