Firdaus stared at his phone screen for the first time since the match ended. He was alone now, tucked in the back of the team bus as it rolled through the quiet streets of Leeds. The digital glow lit up his face, a soft buzz of notifications rattling the device in his hand.
His name was everywhere.
#FirdausMasterclass"Cardiff's Ice Man: Who is Ahmad Firdaus?""From Coaching Course to Touchline King – A Tactical Prodigy?"
Clips of Colwill's assist and Robinson's goal were trending on Twitter. Pundits broke down the play frame by frame. Every decision Firdaus made was suddenly a stroke of brilliance. Social media buzzed with speculation: was he a data-driven genius? Was he hiding a revolutionary tactical mind?
He scrolled through messages—some from old coaching contacts, others from numbers he didn't recognize. One even came from a verified account: a former Premier League manager.
"Interesting debut. Let's talk sometime."
Firdaus locked the phone and leaned his head back against the seat. His face remained calm, but his heart thudded with unease.
They think I'm a genius.
He didn't feel like one. Not yet.
The flight back to Cardiff was smooth, though the team was anything but quiet. The players were in high spirits. Joe Ralls mimicked Firdaus's post-goal poker face, making the whole back row of the plane burst into laughter.
Yakou Meite, who had played a brilliant game, approached Firdaus mid-flight.
"Gaffer," Meite said, half-joking, "what else are you hiding up your sleeve?"
Firdaus looked up from his notes. "Tired legs. Focus on recovery."
Meite chuckled. "Yes, boss."
Later, as the cabin lights dimmed, some players drifted off to sleep, their headphones in, heads tilted against windows. Firdaus remained awake. He kept reviewing the match footage on his tablet, highlighting patterns, noting minute player movements, even the press triggers that had succeeded or failed.
Riza slid into the seat beside him a few moments later, holding a cup of coffee. "You've got them," he said. "They believe in you already."
Firdaus kept his eyes on the tablet in his lap. "Belief can vanish in ninety minutes."
"Then don't give them a reason," Riza replied. "Honestly, I've worked under three head coaches here. You might be the first one whose calm makes me nervous in a good way."
Firdaus gave the faintest smirk. "That's new."
"Don't get used to the praise," Riza added with a grin. "It doesn't last in this league."
The next morning, Firdaus stood behind a podium, wearing a simple black training top with the Cardiff City crest. Cameras clicked nonstop. Journalists filled the small press room, notebooks open, livestreams active. The lights were warm, bordering on uncomfortable.
"Coach Firdaus," one reporter asked, "can you walk us through your thinking behind bringing on Rubin Colwill when you did?"
Firdaus tilted his head slightly. "He was ready. And the space was there."
Another chimed in. "Did you know Ayling would leave that channel exposed?"
"Football is predictable. If you're watching properly."
A few raised eyebrows. Another hand went up. "Are you an analytics-based coach? There's talk that you use advanced data."
Firdaus didn't blink. "I watch. I think. I trust the team."
The room buzzed again. One reporter leaned in, clearly pushing. "You don't show much emotion. Is that intentional?"
Firdaus let the silence hang.
"Emotion doesn't win matches."
Cameras clicked again. Murmurs echoed around the room. Some smiled, impressed by his composure. Others frowned, trying to poke holes in his facade.
A young journalist in the corner raised her hand and asked softly, "Are you enjoying this new role?"
Firdaus paused. A rare beat of vulnerability crept into the silence.
"I enjoy football. Not attention."
The press conference ended in a storm of speculation. Some labeled him brilliant. Others called him arrogant. But no one ignored him.
Later that afternoon, Firdaus was called into a boardroom at the training ground. The walls were bare, and the atmosphere sterile. A long glass window overlooked the pitch, empty for now. David Newton, Director of Football, sat at the head of the table, alongside a couple of club executives, laptops open, papers scattered.
"You did well," Newton began, steepling his fingers. "The media loves a mystery, and you've certainly given them one."
Firdaus nodded once. "I'm just here to work."
"This result buys us breathing room," Newton continued. "But understand—this is still interim. You're not here permanently yet."
"I know."
Newton leaned back. "There are eyes on us now. Fans are interested. We've seen a bump in engagement online. But you know how football works. Win, and you're a genius. Lose, and you're gone."
Firdaus glanced at the window, then back. "Then I won't lose."
Newton smiled slightly. "Keep winning, and we'll talk again."
As he stood to leave, Newton added, "You've got something, Firdaus. Don't let it burn out."
Firdaus hesitated at the door, then gave a brief nod before exiting.
He left the room with that sentence lingering in his mind.
That night, Firdaus sat alone in his flat, lights dimmed, laptop open but untouched. Rain tapped softly against the windows. His dinner sat half-eaten on the coffee table, forgotten beside a stack of coaching notes. The glow of the television lit the room, but he wasn't watching it.
The shadows in the room shifted as a soft chime echoed in his ears.
"System," he whispered.
The interface appeared immediately.
[NEW MODULE UNLOCKED – TRAINING GROUND INFLUENCE]
You can now customize drills, affect player growth, and set hidden training bonuses.
Firdaus exhaled slowly. This changed everything.
He tapped into the module. A clean interface displayed player growth bars, hidden potential indicators, training intensities. He could now plan drills that targeted specific weaknesses. Accelerate a youth player's development. Even subtly push a veteran's form back up.
He scrolled through player tabs—Perry Ng's defensive metrics, Colwill's finishing, Meite's positioning stats. Every click revealed new insight.
But it came with responsibility.
[Warning: Overtraining Risk. Fatigue levels must be monitored.]
He nodded to himself. This wasn't a cheat code. It was a scalpel.
He leaned back and looked at the ceiling, his thoughts racing.
Would the board still believe in him if they knew the truth? That he had help? That he wasn't some tactical prophet—just a man with a secret system?
Another alert appeared.
[Next Fixture: Sheffield Wednesday (Home) – 4 Days Away]
Pre-match prep to begin tomorrow. Tactical suggestions pending.
Firdaus sat forward.
"Four days," he muttered.
He closed the system, picked up his fork again, and forced a bite of now-cold pasta.
The pressure wasn't over.
It had just begun.
To be continued...
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