The team bus left Rockliffe Park five minutes past seven on Sunday morning.

Will had been there early, as he always was. He was sitting on his kit bag near the entrance, watching the other players arrive alone or in pairs. The tiredness of being made to wake up early evident on their faces. Liam arrived at seven exactly and looked like a person who had fully reconciled themselves with being awake.

On a good dat, the journey to Sheffield would take about an hour and thirty minutes to two hours. This was a Sunday morning, so the motorway was clear and they made good time. Will sat near the back, beside Marcus who slept most of the journey, putting Will in very uncomfortable positions as he shifted his body throughout his sleep.

On Will’s other side, his main competition, Daniel Price had his headphones on and was watching something on his phone.

Will watched the motorway for a while, then he willed the system and reviewed his stats. He basically had everything committed to his memory, but he just wanted to look at them.

He saw a very familiar digits

[Player Rating: 59]

[Potential Cap: 72]

[Credits: 375]

He let out a soft sigh. He had been spending credits and training at full force since the last friendly, but his rating which was improving at a steady rate refused to budge at 59. It was like something invisible was holding it back.

The Sheffield United training ground was a proper training facility. It looked newer and better than the Rockliffe facilities in almost every way. It had a better pitch, the surfaces were more even. Will looked at the groundskeeper’s trailer parked near the far corner and thought, yeah, alright. He understood why Gary Webb, his dad’s old teammate, called it the football factory business. You could tell a lot about a club by how the grass looked.

The pre-match warmup lasted about thirty five minutes. Will did his with the subs. Unlike the starters, they didn’t do much practice. They just jogged a few laps, did a few low intensity rondos, and then random set piece practices before the coach called everyone together and went through the game plan once more.

Through out the training warmup, the system was running in his peripheral vision. By now, he had gotten used to the system. It was like hearing a buzzing noise for an extended period of time, after a while, you simply got used to it.

It was there and it showed him things and he used the things it showed him and that was the arrangement. He did not think about it the way he had in the first few days, with the mixture of excitement and suspicion. It was just part of how he functioned now.

After the training warmups, the two teams went back to their respective locker rooms and changed into their jersey. David said a few more words of motivation and then they went out for the match.

The starting lineup walked out while the bench players detoured to their respective benches, and after all the pre match formalities were completed, the referee blew his whistle and the match commenced.

From the bench, official matches looked different to training. Everything was slightly faster than it looked from the touchline, the pitch seeming smaller than it was because of how quickly the ball moved and how compressed the positions became under proper competitive pressure. Sheffield United’s U18s were well organised, kept a high line, pressed in a clear coordinated pattern. They were better than the Rangers side from the friendly. More deliberate. Less frantic. 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

Callum took a heavy touch in the opening ten minutes and was dispossessed and the Sheffield striker ran clean through before Marcus covered across and won the ball back with a tackle that was a fraction away from being a foul. David said nothing from the touchline. He just moved two steps to the right and recrossed his arms.

Will watched.

He watched not as a passenger watching television but as someone actively building a map. He was noting the pressing triggers, which position received the ball and caused the Sheffield press to activate. He was noting the spaces that appeared in behind their high line when they stepped up and how long those spaces lasted before the defensive shape recovered. He was noting Daniel Pryce’s tendencies in possession, the slight preference for the right side, the tendency to hold the ball a half second longer than was optimal when under pressure.

The system annotated the things he was noticing with its own data, the numbers ticking quietly in amber at the edges of his vision.

At half time it was nil nil.

David came into the dressing room, pulled his jacket off and draped it over the bench in one movement. He was not angry. He was in the particular state that was somewhere between disappointed and purposeful, the state that meant he was about to say something worth listening to.

"First half. Good and bad." He pointed at the back four. "Shape, very good. You held the line well when they pressed and the transition defending was excellent." He moved to the midfield. "Marcus, your work rate was exceptional. That tackle in the first ten saved us a goal." Marcus nodded. "Daniel." He paused. "Right side. You’re playing everything right. I need you to go left occasionally. Break the pattern or their left back will keep you shut down." Daniel said nothing. He just looked at the floor and nodded once.

David scanned the bench players. His eyes landed on Will for a moment. Just a moment.

"Smithson, you’re coming on second half. You’ll play off Daniel, give him some cover on the left side." He turned back to the room. "Everyone else. The goal is there. Their high line leaves space. We’ve worked on this. The balls in behind are on, we just need to execute them cleanly." He looked around once more. "Second half. Let’s go."