The silence in the away dressing room at Portman Road was heavy and suffocating.
Players sat slumped on the benches, staring at the floor, the ghost of the 4-1 defeat hanging over them. The elation from the Bradford win felt like a distant memory, replaced by the bitter taste of a reality check.
Ethan walked into the center of the room, letting the silence hang for a moment longer before he spoke, his voice calm and devoid of anger.
"I want every single one of you to lift your heads," he said. Every player, from the veteran Grant Hanley to the crestfallen Viktor Kristensen, looked up.
"Good," Ethan said with a nod. "Now, let's talk about what just happened. We lost. We didn't just lose; we got thoroughly beaten in that second half. And you know what? That's okay."
A few players exchanged confused glances.
"That team out there," he continued, gesturing towards the pitch, "is a top-half Championship side. They have players on wages that are bigger than our entire transfer budget. They are a well-oiled machine that has been playing together for years. We have existed for three days. We went into their backyard, scored the first goal, and gave them a real scare for an hour. Don't you dare be ashamed of that."
He saw some of the tension leave their shoulders. He wasn't blaming them.
"Did we make mistakes? Yes. Did my all-out tactical gamble at the end backfire spectacularly? Absolutely," he said with a wry grin, which drew a few weak smiles from the players.
"But we didn't hide. We didn't sit back and hope for a lucky 1-0 win. We tried to play our football. We learned more in that 45-minute collapse than we would have in ten easy wins. This loss is a gift. It's a map that shows us exactly where we need to improve."
He clapped his hands together, his tone shifting from analytical to upbeat.
"So, we take it on the chin, and we move on. We have one final pre-season match in a couple of days to get the bad taste out of our mouths before the league starts."
"Who is it, gaffer?" Kenny McLean asked.
Ethan broke into a wide, mischievous grin. "It's a newly formed club, just like us. They're called Orion FC. They're managed by a guy who thinks a 4-4-2 is the peak of tactical innovation and whose favorite player is probably still Peter Crouch."
The players looked confused by the oddly specific, personal jab.
"He's also my best friend," Ethan clarified, "and he just got the game yesterday. So, let's be clear. This is the most important match of our pre-season. I don't care about the league, I don't care about the cups, I only care about having bragging rights over him for the next year. So, we are going to go out there and we are going to dismantle his team, piece by piece. Understood?"
The absurdity of the situation, the sudden shift from a professional team talk to a personal grudge match between two friends, was so unexpected that the entire room burst out laughing.
The heavy, defeated atmosphere shattered, replaced by genuine amusement.
"Don't worry, boss," Jonathan Rowe chuckled. "We'll win it for you."
"Good," Ethan said with a final nod.
"Get showered. Get on the bus. We go again tomorrow."
As the players headed for the showers, Ethan pulled his assistant aside. "James, a word."
They stood by the tactics board, the 3-4-3 formation still mockingly displayed.
"That was my mistake," Ethan said quietly. "I got emotional. I let the 'Managerial Instinct' push me into a move we weren't ready for."
"We learned, boss," James said. "That's the point of these games."
"Right. And now we apply it. Tomorrow's training session, I want the entire focus on defensive shape when we lose the ball. Drills on how the midfield and defense communicate, how we track runners, how we stay compact. I want it drilled into them until they can do it in their sleep."
"Consider it done," James replied, already making notes on his tablet.
"And one more thing," Ethan said, lowering his voice.
"I want you to design some specific partnership drills for Emre and Viktor. Small-sided games, two-on-two situations, drills that force them to read each other's movements. They're the future. We need to get them on the same wavelength as quickly as possible."
James looked impressed.
"Pairing them up in specialized training. Good call, gaffer. I'll get right on it."
Satisfied, Ethan logged off, the virtual world fading away.
He emerged from the pod feeling mentally drained but clear-headed. The loss stung, but the lessons learned were invaluable.
He walked downstairs to find his sister and his dad in the living room, a tiny, fluffy whirlwind of golden fur yapping and tumbling between them.
"He's a menace," his dad said with a laugh as the puppy tried to untie his shoelaces.
"We've decided on a name," Sarah announced, scooping the puppy into her arms. "We're calling him 'Gaffer'."
Ethan stared at her, then burst out laughing. "Gaffer? Seriously?"
"Well, you're always in your room being a 'gaffer'," she said, mimicking his serious tone. "It seemed fitting. Plus, he likes to bark orders."
"I like it," Ethan said, scratching Gaffer behind the ears. "It's perfect."
He spent the rest of the evening completely unplugged from the football world. He helped his dad with a crossword puzzle, watched a silly movie with his mom and Sarah, and played tug-of-war with Gaffer until his arm was sore. It was normal.
It was peaceful. It was the perfect antidote to the high-pressure, high-stakes world he now inhabited for hours every day.
Lying in bed later that night, scrolling on his phone, he felt a sense of balance he hadn't had before. The game was incredible, his ambition was real, but this—his family, his home, a goofy puppy named Gaffer—this was his anchor.
Just as he was about to fall asleep, a notification popped up on his phone.
It was from a major real-world sports news app. He almost ignored it, but the headline caught his eye.
[EUROPEAN GOLDEN BOY SCOUTING REPORT: OUR HIDDEN GEM FROM DENMARK]
Curious, he tapped on it. The article was a deep dive by a well-respected football journalist who specialized in identifying unknown youth talent.
"...while all eyes are on the established wonderkids," the article read, "my sources in Scandinavia point to a name you won't know yet: Viktor Kristensen at FC Midtjylland. A 16-year-old striker with a rare combination of explosive pace and ice-cold finishing. One scout told me, 'He's the most natural goal-scorer I've seen at this age since a young Erling Haaland.' While no official bids have been made, I'm told a surprise transfer could be imminent, with a newly-formed, data-driven English club rumored to be the secret front-runners..."
Ethan's phone slipped from his hand and clattered onto the floor.
He stared at the ceiling, his heart doing a frantic drum solo against his ribs.
It wasn't a secret anymore. The real world was catching on. His £300,000 gamble wasn't just a smart move in a game.
He had, completely by accident, beaten the entire world's scouting network to a player they were just now discovering.
The clock was ticking. He had to develop Viktor, and fast, before the real-life giants came calling.