Football System: Touchline God-Chapter 46: The Test II

The twenty young faces stared back at Maddox with the kind of casual attention that came from countless practice sessions. They’d heard it all before. Every coach who’d stood in front of them had promised something different. Most had delivered disappointment.

A few of them smiled. The tall kid with the bleached hair actually grinned.

"I’m not going to waste your time pretending I know everything about you," Maddox continued, pacing slowly in front of the group. "I’ve got thirty minutes to watch you play, and you’ve got thirty minutes to show me what you can do. Fair enough?"

Nods around the circle. The skepticism in their eyes was fading, replaced by something that might have been curiosity.

"What I will tell you is this—football is about moments. The pass you make when you’re tired. The tackle you commit to when you’re scared. The run you make when no one’s looking." He paused, meeting each of their gazes. "Today, I’m looking. So make your moments count."

The whistle around his neck felt heavier now. Behind him, he could hear the observers settling into their positions, clipboards ready to document every word, every decision, every failure.

After getting familiar with their names, he began the the session.

"Kyle, Tommy—you’re captains. Pick your teams. We’ll play fifteen minutes each way, no substitutions unless someone gets hurt."

The tall kid with bleached hair, Kyle, stepped forward. "What formation do you want us to play?"

"What formation do you want to play?" Maddox shot back.

Kyle blinked, clearly not expecting the question to be turned around. "Four-four-two?"

"Why?"

"Because... that’s what most youth coaches want?"

Maddox shook his head. "Wrong answer. What formation suits your strengths? What formation gives your team the best chance to win?"

The kid thought for a moment, his forehead creasing with concentration. "Three-five-two. We’ve got pace on the wings, and Marcus there is solid at the back."

"Better. Tommy, what about you?"

The other captain—a stocky kid with intelligent eyes—didn’t hesitate. "Four-three-three. Press high, win the ball back quickly."

"Good. Both of you thinking about how to use what you have, not just following orders." Maddox clapped his hands together. "Get sorted. We start in three minutes."

The players scattered across the small pitch, their voices rising as they organized themselves. Maddox watched their movement, noting who took charge, who hung back, who looked comfortable with the ball at their feet.

He also observed their player cards through his system, looking to spot any surprising talent. But he was left disappointed at the result as only Kyle barely had a two-star potential.

Behind him, Peterson’s pen scratched against paper. The sound was like fingernails on a blackboard.

"Interesting approach," Sarah Chen said quietly. "Most coaches in these tests micromanage every detail."

The others nodded in agreement, now keen to see how things play out.

Kyle’s team lined up in their three-five-two formation, the wing-backs already pushing high. Tommy’s four-three-three pressed into shape, their front three moving like sharks sensing blood in the water.

Maddox raised the whistle to his lips. The metal was cold against his skin, the weight of the moment settling into his bones.

Fweeeee!

The whistle’s sharp call cut through the morning air.

The game exploded into motion.

Kyle’s team moved the ball quickly, their wing-backs stretching the play wide. But Tommy’s high press was relentless, forcing hurried passes and uncomfortable touches. Within two minutes, they’d won the ball back three times.

"Kyle!" Maddox called out. "What’s happening to your possession?"

"They’re pressing us too high, Coach!"

"Drop deeper and give yourselves more space"

Kyle’s face screwed up in concentration as he backpedaled, watching his team struggle to keep the ball. "Alright, Coach!"

The adjustment was immediate. Kyle’s team began dropping their defensive line, creating space between themselves and Tommy’s pressing forwards. Suddenly they had time to think, to pick their passes, to play their way out of pressure.

"Good," Maddox muttered, more to himself than to the players.

Behind him, Peterson’s pen continued its relentless scratching.

The game flowed back and forth, neither team able to establish complete control. But Maddox could see the chess match developing. Kyle’s team using their pace on the wings to stretch the play. Tommy’s team pressing in waves, trying to win the ball high up the pitch.

It was in the eighth minute that everything changed.

Tommy’s left winger—a slight kid with quick feet—picked up the ball near the corner flag. Kyle’s right wing-back was out of position, caught too far forward after a failed attack. The winger had space to run.

"Track him!" Maddox shouted, but the center-backs were already committed to covering the front three.

The winger cut inside, his first touch taking him past the recovering wing-back. His second touch set up the shot. His third sent the ball curling toward the top corner.

The goalkeeper dove, fingers outstretched, but the ball was already nestling in the net.

"Goal!" Tommy’s team erupted in celebration.

Maddox felt his stomach tighten. This was the moment. The test within the test. How would he respond when his team—Kyle’s team—went behind?

"Kyle, bring your team in!" he called out.

The players jogged over, their faces showing the mix of frustration and determination that came with conceding a goal. Kyle’s jaw was tight, his fists clenched at his sides.

"What went wrong?" Maddox asked.

"Marcus was out of position," Kyle said immediately. "He should have tracked the run."

"Should he?" Maddox’s voice was calm, but his eyes were sharp. "Where was Marcus supposed to be?"

Kyle opened his mouth, then closed it. His eyes darted to Marcus, who was standing with his shoulders hunched, clearly expecting to be blamed.

"He was covering the striker," Kyle said quietly. "Like he was supposed to."

"So whose fault was it?"

The question hung in the air like smoke. Kyle’s team exchanged glances, each of them running through the goal in their minds.

"Mine," Kyle said finally. "I pushed too high up the pitch. Left Marcus exposed."

"And what do you do about it?"

Kyle’s jaw worked as he thought. Behind Maddox, the observers were looking on with interest now, their pens scratching the clipboard like insects in the walls.

"Stay disciplined," Kyle said. "Don’t get caught forward when they’re countering."

"Good. But that’s not enough now, is it? You’re losing. You need to take more risks. Push higher and create more chances."

Kyle looked at his teammates, then back at Maddox. "Yes, Coach."

"Good. Sometimes you have to risk losing by more to have a chance of winning at all."

Fweeee!

The whistle blew for the restart. Kyle’s team lined up with new purpose, their formation shifting subtly forward. The wing-backs pushed higher, the midfield pressed closer to Tommy’s defensive line.

It was riskier. More dangerous. But it was also more alive.

The game opened up like a flower in sunlight. End-to-end action, chances at both ends, the kind of football that made your heart race and your palms sweaty, despite it being a game between teenagers.

In the twelfth minute, Kyle’s pace on the left wing finally paid off. He beat his man with a stepover that would have made Ronaldo proud, crossed to the back post, and watched his striker head home the equalizer. ƒгeewёbnovel.com

"Yes!" Maddox pumped his fist before he could stop himself.

Behind him, Peterson made another note.

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