Halles Sieger had recently partnered with Stevenage in an affiliate deal. It wasn't glamorous, but it gave them access to loan players and fringe prospects, an essential lifeline for a club with a shoestring budget.
The arrangement only came together thanks to strings pulled by club owner Ross Vassilev, whose wealth, while modest by footballing standards, still opened a few doors.
For now, both clubs shared Stevenage's Lamex Stadium, a temporary fix until Halles Sieger either earned enough to buy their own grounds or folded and sold out to a more ambitious investor.
Paul Sczerny slept in one of the unused rooms tucked away in the facility, snoring softly. A half-open suitcase sat nearby, his suit coat lay discarded on the floor, and his phone rested face-down on the table.
Despite sharing the stadium, they didn't share facilities. Ross wasn't that poor. Over the weekend, he'd bought two large buildings near the Lamex—converted office towers now repurposed into training and staff quarters for Halles Sieger. It wasn't luxury, but it was theirs.
Morning light spilled into the room as staff began filing into their new offices for the first time, hired hastily by Ross in the days prior.
Then, the door creaked open.
Inside, they found Paul, hunched over the table, drooling in his sleep.
A moment passed.
Then a phone rang.
Shape of You blared embarrassingly through the room. The ringtone played far too long before Paul suddenly jolted awake, blinking and scrambling for his phone.
He grabbed it.
"Hello," He rubbed his eyes, "who is this?"
"I got all the players you asked for Paul, and some!" Andre screamed out, excited. "I managed to snag three released players on free's before any teams got word!"
"Is that so." Paul leaned back in the chair, not seeing the staff members waiting by the door, confused. "You do good work, Dre. Keep doing, what... you're doing..."
He yawned.
"And here's the best part!" Andre screamed. "One of them's from Chelsea!"
Paul shot up, grabbing his briefcase and suit and dashing out the room, waving toward the confused staff as he made way to the small pitch outside, nestled in the middle of both buildings. "Who is it?" Paul asked. "Did they release Josh Acheampong? Oh my God, do you know how good this is for us, that guys a freaking—"
"Shin Ha-jun!"
Paul paused, now looking back, only now noticing he'd brushed past the staff. "Who?"
"Shin Ha-jun?" Andre echoed again, "you know? Brother of Song Ha-jun? The current left winger for Burnley?"
"And why exactly would this be the best part?"
"Weren't you creating a little brother squad or something?" Andre said, "You better be hyped, Paul. I had to use most of my connections to get this guy."
"Yay..." Paul faked enthusiasm.
"Anyways," Andre said. "I've already sent most of them your way, they should all be there now, if not soon."
"It'll probably be later—" Paul started, phone still in hand. Then he glanced out the window, eyes narrowing at the sight below.
Haircuts he didn't recognize. Cleats he'd never seen.
"Scratch that. They're already here," he muttered, ending the call and bolting down the stairs.
Outside, the ball was being passed around on the small training pitch. Some players lounged on the sidelines; others knocked the ball aimlessly between themselves. The more familiar groups clustered together, likely the academy holdovers who'd survived the club's collapse.
Paul reached the bottom landing, pressing a hand to his mouth. He sniffed, recoiled, then popped a mint into his mouth. As he stood at a distance, watching his squad from afar, he straightened his hair in a hallway mirror, buttoned up his jacket, adjusted his collar, and pulled himself together.
This was their first impression of him. He couldn't look like a disheveled has-been... even if, technically, he was.
His dress shoes crunched over the dusty path as he crossed toward the pitch, one hand in his pocket, the other gripping the leather handle of his case. As soon as the players spotted him, they gathered in a loose semi-circle, backs straight, hands behind their backs in respectful silence.
He nodded in return and walked down the line, sizing them up again. He knew every name, every face, save for the last batch sent by Paul.
He'd spent all night reviewing their files, drawing up training regimens he'd hand off to the fitness staff later. He'd already slotted each of them into his tactical system.
They had two weeks to understand their roles, after all.
Two weeks to become a team.
He stopped, faced them.
"Alright," he began. "Most of you know by now—I'm Paul Sczerny. Head coach. Albeit temporary, for now. That could change if we win our next match against Eastleigh on Thursday."
He let the words settle. Then a voice spoke up.
"I think you're mistaken, coach." Tobias, 22. The oldest player on the pitch and one who'd overstayed in the youth ranks crossed his arms. "Our win record's just as bad as yours."
"Yeah," Jabari added, a wiry left back from the youth team. "Didn't we get smashed six-two last time out? You showing up here is career suicide if anything."
"Are you proud of that?" Paul asked, "Or just so ashamed you're trying to make a joke of it?"
No one spoke.
"Is it career suicide?" He shrugged. "Maybe. The moment our first match goes live, one pundit sees me on the touchline, and boom—front page. Paul Sczerny, coaching a throwaway team, out of options."
"Exactly," Jabari muttered.
Paul turned, fixing him with a stare. "Are you a throwaway team?"
Silence.
"I've studied every single one of you," Paul continued. "Jabari, you've got pace. Enough to compete with any proper left back. But you're unconfident. Unambitious. Somewhere in that head of yours, you've convinced yourself that playing fifth-tier football for the rest of your life is good enough."
Jabari looked down.
"If that's really what you believe," Paul pointed toward the exit, "then leave. Right now. I have no use for a player who gives up before his coach even starts."
The air was still. The players watched him closely.
"But I don't think that's what you want," he said, pacing in front of them. "None of you walked away. That means something."
He gestured around. "Nobody likes losing. First few losses, you bounce back. But when it becomes a pattern? You adjust. You lie to yourself. You pretend it's normal."
He stopped walking.
"I know. I did the same. I won the Premier League—I thought a few bad seasons meant nothing. I thought I was legendary, and that eventually I'd retain that title." He gave a dry laugh. "But as you all know, it followed me. Like a curse."
He glanced around. "And it followed you, too."
A harsh comparison, maybe. Halles Sieger had never even come close to glory—in the Bundesliga 2. Or lower—not like Paul had. But in failure, they shared the same scars.
"Thursday, that all ends," he said. "That's the day we break the curse. The day the world sees what fallen stars can become."
He raised his voice.
"But before that. I want to hear it from you. Old or new. Forgotten or unproven. Do you think you can shine? Do you believe you can prove the world wrong?"
"Yes!" they shouted back in unison.
Paul smiled.
"Good. Twenty laps around the pitch. All of you."
Groans rippled through the group.
"Oh, and Jabari, Tobias?" Paul added with a smirk. "You two get thirty."
"Aww, man!" Jabari whined, already jogging behind the others.
It wasn't the perfect opener, not by a long shot. Paul still had to learn some of the newer names, gauge personalities, watch for hidden talent. But for now, it would do. The deeper pieces—chemistry, identity, structure—could come later. Right now, he needed to start drilling tactics and shaping the beginnings of his first starting eleven.
"Good speech."
Paul turned at the voice, eyes meeting a woman in a fitted dark suit, clipboard tucked under one arm. Her brown, almost fluffy hair framed a calm, focused face.
"Harriet Andressa," she said, extending a hand. "Assistant coach."
Paul paused.
The deal he made with Ross hadn't given him authority over certain backroom appointments, assistant coach included. He already had someone in mind for the role, someone he trusted. But politics were politics. He took her hand anyway.
"Paul Sczerny."
"I'm aware," Harriet said with a small smile. "The iconic coach who turned Norwich from a relegation side into a Premier League contender. Shame what happened after."
"Yeah..." Paul muttered, brushing past her and heading toward the bench. He opened his briefcase and started sorting through folders.
"You met the players yet?" he asked.
"Been working with them for days now. I've even had time with the three that showed up this morning—lively bunch."
Paul nodded, still rifling through papers. "How do you rate the squad? With the new additions, you think we can push for playoffs?"
Harriet didn't hesitate. "Not unless we're in a fairy tale. In a world without magic or an outerversal scriptwriter, we're still too weak. We've got a long way to go."
An outerversal scriptwriter? What?
Paul looked up at her. "What do you think we're missing?"
"For starters, a proper captain." She pointed subtly at the pitch. "Tobias wears the armband, but he's only started ten games for the main team in his entire youth career, and most of those were due to starter injuries. He doesn't have the presence. Or the skill."
Paul followed her gaze. Tobias and Jabari lagged at the back of the running group, their effort half hearted. His speech had lit a fire, sure—but that fire flickered out just as quickly.
"What else?"
"A seller. Or a superstar," Harriet said. "Someone the team can rally around. Like Cristiano in Madrid—someone who demands the ball, no questions asked. We don't have that."
"A crazy striker, then." Paul pulled a file from his bag. "Someone like Zlatan."
"Exactly like Zlatan. When everyone's on the same level, there's no one to chase. No benchmark. No pressure. Just complacency."
Paul glanced toward the pitch. "Don't you think we can create that kind of player? Benjamin's got the raw material."
"It's possible," Harriet admitted. "And you've done it before. But do you have the time for organic growth this time around?"
Paul didn't answer. He clicked his tongue and looked out toward the pitch. His gaze landed on Benjamin and Liam, the first two to finish their laps. They walked back, breathless but energized.
"I heard about your deal with Ross," Harriet continued. "One match to prove your worth is... insane. Guardiola didn't even win his first game with Barcelona."
"Well," Paul stood, closing the briefcase, "that's life, isn't it?"
He began walking toward the returning players.
"Do you really think you can win on Thursday?" Harriet called after him.
He didn't answer.
He'd told himself yes, over and over. But now that he'd seen what he was working with—raw bones and blunt tools—he wasn't so sure anymore.
Instead, he stepped into the circle, took out his pen, and began roll call.