Mitch seemed to always be stacking cones whenever I found him. He always needed something in his hands. Cones, bibs, a clipboard, even just the zip of his jacket. The angrier he got, the busier they were. If his hands stopped moving, it usually meant he was about to explode.

  Good to know.

  “You said something earlier,” I said.

  He shifted the stack to his other hand. “Did I?”

  “The other day. About us working as a unit.”

  He snorted, nudged a cone along the grass with the toe of his boot, then bent to pick it up and added it to the pile. Still didn’t look at me.

  “And?”

  “I think I’ve got a solution for Boras.”

  That did it. The cones stopped clacking for half a second.

  “Oh, you do?” Mitch said, then started again, dropping them into the crate one by one. Plastic on plastic. “You’ve had him two sessions,” Mitch went on. “He’s already pissed you off. What makes you think you’ve cracked what I couldn’t?”

  “Because you were on your own, and he knows it. Kowalski didn’t back you up. Heck, he told me to back down.”

  Mitch dragged the crate a foot to his left with his boot, crouched again, started gathering the last few cones.

  “He doesn’t respect coaching,” I said. “He respects consequences. When it’s just you, he makes it personal. There’s two of us now. “He needs to hear it from you, without a filter. You say exactly what you think of him and where he stands.”

  He exhaled through his nose, slow. “So I tear strips off him, and you come in after with a cuddle.”

  “No,” I said. “You tear strips off him and walk away. I come in and tell him you meant every word.”

  That got a grin out of him. Mitch seemed the type to enjoy some good old verbal abuse if he was enabled.

  “You reckon he’ll bite?”

  “I reckon he hates the bench more than he hates us.”

  Mitch glanced back over his shoulder, already walking. “So what are we calling this, then?”

  I followed. “Good cop, bad cop.”

  He laughed, once. “Alright. Let’s go ruin his afternoon.”

  Training resumed like nothing had changed.

  I blew the whistle and waved them back into shape, stepped away, let the drill roll. Back four versus the front three again. And Boras did exactly what Boras always did.

  He crept higher. Half a yard. Then another. Barked at Kowalski to step with him. Took charge of the line like it belonged to him. The moment a runner checked short, Boras lunged anyway, stabbed a foot in, won the ball, crowed about it.

  “Again,” I called, neutral. No need to correct him just yet.

  That seemed to confuse him more than anything else. He glanced over once, expecting the whistle. Didn’t get it. Took that as permission.

  Next rep, he stepped even earlier.

  Reeves wasn’t a fan. You could see it in the shoulders—tightening, that little flare of irritation. He threw his arms out when Boras vacated space again, a sharp for fuck’s sake muttered under his breath. Palmer noticed too, but it wasn’t his zone so he didn’t do anything about it. Good.

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  Let it rot.

  Another rep. Same thing. Boras surged, won his duel, left a hole behind him the size of a bus. Goal conceded. He laughed it off, clapped his hands once.

  “Unlucky,” he said, like it wasn’t his fault.

  Reeves turned away, shaking his head now, properly annoyed.

  That was the tell.

  I glanced over my shoulder.

  Mitch had stopped stacking cones. He walked onto the pitch, and the training ground went quiet on instinct alone. Someone nudged someone else. A ball rolled to a stop. Say what you will about Mitch, but he really does walk like Sir Alex Ferguson. He just had that type of energy.

  “Boras,” Mitch said.

  Boras turned with a lopsided smile. “Yeah, gaffer?”

  That was a mistake.

  Mitch closed the distance until they were chest to chest.

  “Do you know what you are?” he snapped. “You’re thirty and you still think football’s about winning your little duel and getting a pat on the back.”

  Boras opened his mouth.

  “No. Shut the fuck up.” Mitch jabbed a finger into his chest. “You’ve been benched by every manager you’ve ever had, and you still think it’s bad luck. It’s you.”

  A ripple went through the line. No one pretended to stretch now.

  “I win my tackles—”

  “You lose matches,” Mitch barked, louder. “Congratulations. You’re a fucking problem.” He laughed then. “Nearly non-League, and you can’t even stay on the pitch here. When this contract’s up, no one’s calling. No one remembers benchwarmers with attitude.”

  Boras’s eyes burned. He didn’t look away. Stubborn to the last.

  Mitch leaned back, disgust plain on his face. “You want to keep doing this? Fine. Do it somewhere else.” He turned and walked off the pitch without another word.

  The line stood frozen for a beat.

  Then the noise came back in pieces—clearing throats, a nervous laugh from somewhere, Reeves staring straight ahead like he’d been vindicated and didn’t want to enjoy it too much.

  I waited until Mitch was out of earshot.

  Then I walked over and stood beside Boras, not in front of him. Gave him space to save face.

  “He meant every word,” I said quietly.

  Boras didn’t look at me. His fists were clenched, and veins were standing out at his temple.

  “But here’s the thing,” I continued. “He’s done with you. I’m not.”

  That raised a scoff from him.

  “You’re gonna let him talk to you like that, or you’re gonna prove that he’s wrong? Listen, you’ve got the fundamentals.” I thought about reaching for one of Mitch’s old references—some war film, some obscure manager from the seventies who’d once ‘sorted lads like him out’—and stopped myself. This wasn’t the moment for borrowed authority, and I wouldn’t be able to do it like Mitch did either. Instead, I raised a finger. “One week. Do exactly what I say. Stop lunging, and no hero shit. Hold the line. You do that, I’ll make sure your name’s on the sheet.”

  “And if I don’t?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Then Mitch’s right, and this is where it ends.” I stepped back and raised my voice just enough as I turned to the lads. “Reset,” I called. “Same drill.”

  Boras stood there for a second longer. Then he turned, jogged back into position, and dropped a yard deeper than he’d been all session.

  I didn’t look at him when I spoke.

  “Back four,” I said. “Hold. Don’t step unless the ball travels past you. Let it come.”

  The front three moved the ball side to side. A runner feinted inside. Boras twitched.

  You could see the habit creeping up to him, but then he stopped himself. The pass came anyway, slipped into the channel he’d usually abandoned.

  And there he was.

  Side-on, shepherding the runner wide, buying time until Kowalski slid across and Palmer recovered.

  The move fizzled out.

  For a second, no one said anything.

  Then Reeves nodded, not at him but at me.

  Boras looked at me, then turned away, reset his stance, and waited.

  Our win, today.