The buzz from his conversation with Leo, combined with the thrill of his first transfer, kept Ethan awake long past midnight.
He finally drifted off, his dreams a chaotic mix of black and gold kits clashing with his own blue and white, and the phantom image of a Danish teenager he'd never met scoring goals.
He woke late the next morning to an unfamiliar sound: a happy, high-pitched yapping coming from downstairs.
Confused, he stumbled out of his room and was greeted by a scene he never expected. In the middle of the living room, his sister, Sarah, was on her knees, laughing as a tiny, fluffy golden retriever puppy clumsily pawed at her face.
"No way," Ethan breathed.
Sarah looked up, her usually tired and serious face illuminated with pure joy. "Isn't he perfect? I saw him at a shelter near my office. They said he was the last of his litter. I couldn't just leave him there."
His dad was watching from the armchair, a wide smile on his face. "Your sister has a soft spot, it seems."
The puppy, hearing Ethan's voice, bounded over to him, its tail a blur of motion. It sniffed his toes before letting out another excited yap. Ethan knelt and scooped the little furball up. It was warm, wriggly, and immediately started trying to lick his chin.
"What's his name?" Ethan asked, already smitten.
"Haven't decided yet," Sarah said, coming over to scratch the puppy behind its ears. "But seeing him… it just made me happy. I figured we could all use a little more of that around here."
Ethan looked at his sister. For the first time in a long time, she didn't look like she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.
She just looked like a young woman who had fallen in love with a puppy. It was a grounding, wonderful moment of real-world happiness.
He spent the next hour playing with the new, unnamed member of the Couch family, the high-stakes world of football management a distant memory.
Later that day, after a hearty lunch, it was time to get back to work. The Ipswich match loomed. He said goodbye to the puppy, who was now asleep in a cardboard box, and made his way to his room.
Lying down in the pod, he transitioned back into the world of Apex United. He appeared on the training pitch, where his team was already going through light warm-up drills.
Standing awkwardly to the side, looking completely lost, was a skinny, sandy-haired teenager in a brand-new Apex tracksuit. Viktor Kristensen had arrived.
Ethan walked over, offering a warm smile. "Viktor. Welcome to Apex United. I'm Ethan Couch, your manager."
"Hello, Coach," Viktor said, his voice quiet, his English accented but clear. "It is… very big." He gestured vaguely at the empty stadium around them.
"You'll get used to it," Ethan assured him.
"Listen, I know this is a huge move for you. New country, new club, new everything. I just want you to know that we're all here to support you. There's no pressure. I just want you to work hard and enjoy your football."
"Thank you, Coach," Viktor said, looking slightly relieved. "The other manager… at my old club… he said I was a risk."
"Every young player is a risk," Ethan said honestly
. "But they're also an opportunity. I didn't sign you because of a data report. I signed you because I believe you and our number 10, Emre, can become something special together. You'll meet him properly in a minute. He's a lot like you—quiet, but with magic in his feet."
A flicker of determination appeared in Viktor's nervous eyes. He wasn't just a risk; he was part of a plan. He was wanted.
Ethan called the team together. He introduced Viktor, who gave a shy wave that was met with welcoming nods and a few friendly shouts from the senior players.
"Alright, lads," Ethan began, his tone serious. "Tomorrow, we face Ipswich. They're a Championship side. They're stronger, faster, and better organized than Bradford were. This is a step up. This is our first real test against a superior opponent. I don't want to see any fear. I want to see us take the game to them with the same intensity as last time."
He looked around the huddle, making eye contact with each player. "I'm making a few changes for this match. I want to test some new partnerships. Here's how we're lining up."
A holographic display of the pitch appeared in front of him.
"In goal, Angus Gunn.
The back four is unchanged: Jack Stacey, Grant Hanley as captain, Ben Gibson, and Dimitris Giannoulis.
In the midfield, I want a more defensive pairing to start. Kenny McLean and Jacob Sørensen.
On the wings, Onel Hernández on the left, and Jonathan Rowe on the right.
And up front," he paused, "a new partnership. Emre Demir, you'll play just behind our new signing, Viktor Kristensen, who will be making his debut."
He had switched to a 4-4-2, the formation that had won him the last game, but with a twist. Emre wasn't a second striker; he was a 'shadow striker', free to roam.
He saw Emre and Viktor exchange a quick, curious glance. The partnership was born.
"The goal is the same," Ethan concluded. "Press them high, win the ball back, and create chaos. Let's have a sharp session."
After training, just as he was about to log off, James Pearce approached him. "Gaffer, one more thing. The press wants a word. Pre-match press conference in five minutes."
Ethan's stomach did a nervous flip. A press conference? He hadn't even considered it.
He followed James into a small auditorium. A dozen NPC journalists sat waiting, cameras and notepads at the ready. He sat down at a table with an Apex United backdrop, a bottle of water, and a microphone.
The first question came immediately. "Mr. Couch, a fantastic win in your first match, but Ipswich are a different beast. Are you concerned your aggressive style will be exposed by a higher quality of opposition?"
Ethan leaned into the microphone, his heart pounding. "Thank you. We respect Ipswich, but we don't fear them. We have our philosophy, and we believe it can be effective against any team. We won't change for anyone."
Another journalist stood up. "You've just signed 16-year-old Viktor Kristensen, an unknown quantity, and he's slated to start tomorrow. Can you explain the thinking behind throwing such an inexperienced player into a tough match?"
"We believe in talent, not age," Ethan said coolly.
"Viktor is a special player who fits the profile we were looking for perfectly. The best way for a young player to get experience is by playing. He has our full confidence."
The questions kept coming, about Gabriel Sara's injury, about his own lack of experience, about the club's long-term ambitions.
Ethan answered them all, his confidence growing with each response. He wasn't just a kid playing a game; he was a manager, defending his players, explaining his vision.
After ten minutes, the press conference concluded. He felt a new kind of thrill. This was another part of the job, another battle to be won.
The next day, he was back in the virtual world, standing in the tunnel of a new stadium. It wasn't his home ground. This was Portman Road, Ipswich's historic home. The atmosphere was different—less hopeful excitement, more established, intimidating noise from the home fans.
His players looked focused, but there was a palpable tension in the air.
He gave Viktor a final, reassuring nod. The young striker took a deep, shaky breath and nodded back.
As they stood waiting to walk out, a holographic notification, visible only to him, flashed in his vision. It was from his 'Managerial Instinct' trait.
[OPPOSITION INSIGHT: Ipswich's left-back (#3) has a tendency to be over-aggressive in the tackle. He has received 3 yellow cards in his last 5 matches. A fast, tricky player attacking his flank could provoke a mistake.]
Ethan's eyes widened. On his right wing, he had Jonathan Rowe, his fastest and trickiest player. He now had a key, a specific weakness to target.
He caught Rowe's eye and gave him a subtle, pointed look, then gestured down the right flank. Rowe, a smart player, seemed to understand instantly, a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
The referee blew his whistle, signaling for the teams to enter the pitch. This was it. The next big test. Ethan took a deep breath and stepped out of the tunnel into the roar of the hostile crowd, a secret weapon already tucked away in his mind.