The rejection email sat in Ethan's inbox like a slap across the face.
Thank you for your interest in the assistant coach position at Coventry City. Unfortunately, we have decided to pursue other candidates with more suitable experience.
He stared at the computer screen until his eyes burned. The timestamp read November 18th, 9:23 a.m., three days since Villa had thrown him out like yesterday's rubbish.
His finger hovered over the delete button as the question surfaced: what was the point in keeping it, to remind himself how unwanted he was?
He clicked delete.
The phone had not rung once since he had come home. Word travelled quickly in football circles, and Henderson had made sure everyone heard the story about the so‑called tactical leak. Ethan Carter was poison now.
His flat felt like a tomb. Empty pizza boxes sat on the kitchen counter beside bills he could not pay. The heating was off to save money, and his breath made small clouds when he spoke to himself.
He tightened his jacket around his ribs. "Brilliant career, Ethan," he muttered. "Really showed them."
The Ford Escort sat in the car park with a dying battery. There was no point driving anywhere when nobody wanted to see him.
---
By November 25th, the routine had become his prison.
He woke late, checked emails, and deleted the few rejection notes that bothered to arrive. Most clubs ignored him completely now.
Lunch was whatever remained in the fridge; usually nothing but expired milk and mouldy bread.
Afternoons meant football on the television. Sky Sports became his only companion, the commentators' voices filling the silent flat.
He watched Thierry Henry tear apart Blackburn's defence and shook his head as Arsenal moved the ball with easy rhythm.
He leaned towards the screen. "Stupid defending," he said to the empty room. "Why are the centre-backs sitting so deep? Give Henry space to turn and he'll punish you every time."
The Blackburn manager looked lost on the touchline. Henderson would have made the same mistakes. The thought used to make Ethan angry; now it only made him tired.
His phone rested on the arm of the couch with twelve per cent battery. He had not charged it in days.
He glanced at the blank screen. Who was going to call anyway?
The silence stretched until Arsenal scored again. Henry lifted his arms to the crowd while Blackburn's players dropped their heads.
Winners and losers. Ethan knew which category he belonged to now.
---
December arrived with an eviction notice under his door.
Final demand for payment of rent arrears. Amount due: £847. Payment required by December 15th or legal action will commence.
He crumpled the paper and threw it at the wall; it bounced once and landed beside the electric bill he had ignored for a week.
Eight hundred and forty‑seven pounds might as well have been eight million.
The job search had become a joke. Bristol Rovers: no response. Walsall: position filled before he finished typing his application. Conference clubs would not return his calls.
Henderson's poison had spread everywhere.
He caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror and winced. A stranger stared back: hollow cheeks, dark circles, stubble shadowing his jaw. The bandage on his head looked dirty and frayed.
He rubbed a hand over his face. When had he stopped caring what he looked like?
The coffee was instant and bitter. The milk had gone off two days earlier, but he drank it anyway; his stomach had stopped caring about taste.
He watched Chelsea play Liverpool on the television, Mourinho's team moving like a machine. Every pass had purpose; every run arrived on time.
He pointed the remote at the screen. "Look at that midfield triangle," he said. "Lampard, Makelele, Essien. They're not giving Gerrard a second on the ball."
His voice sounded hoarse in the empty flat. He tried to remember the last time he had spoken to another person and came up blank.
The phone buzzed on the cushion. A text from an unknown number glowed on the screen.
Hi Ethan, heard about Villa. Tough break. Give me a call if you want to chat about opportunities. – Dave Matthews, Kidderminster Harriers.
He stared at the name. Kidderminster Harriers meant Conference football: part‑time players with day jobs and training twice a week on a pitch that turned to mud when it rained.
It was not close to what he deserved, but it was something.
His thumb hovered over the reply field as the cursor blinked.
He stared at the tiny box. Was this what his life had become, begging for scraps from clubs that could not afford proper grass?
He cleared the message and put the phone face down.
Pride was all he had left; he was not ready to sell it yet.
---
On December 12th, the electricity died at eight in the morning.
He wrapped himself in a blanket and listened to Manchester United struggle against Arsenal on a battery‑powered radio. Without Roy Keane driving them, Ferguson's team sounded lost.
The commentator's voice crackled through static. "United's midfield has no leadership. They're crying out for someone to take charge."
He stared at the far wall. Leadership was what Henderson had never understood. You could not pick eleven good players and hope they would sort it out; someone had to make hard choices, set standards, and demand excellence.
He had tried to be that voice at Villa. Look where it had led.
The radio died at half-time. Even the batteries had given up on him.
He walked to the window and looked down at Birmingham's grey streets. People moved with shopping bags and purpose. Everyone had somewhere to be and something to do.
Everyone except him.
His reflection in the glass looked like a ghost. Three weeks of rejection and cold takeaway had hollowed him out. This was not living. This was waiting to disappear.
The pile of bills on the coffee table had grown into a small mountain: rent, electricity, phone, council tax. The totals added up to more money than he would see again unless he called Dave Matthews back.
Conference football. Part‑time dreams.
Maybe that was all he was worth now.
---
On December 14th at eleven at night, the television ran on the last few pounds in the electric meter. Ethan sat in his cold flat and watched Manchester United beat Crystal Palace without really seeing it.
The local news followed the match: roadworks, council meetings, Christmas charity drives.
He rubbed his hands together for warmth as the sports segment began.
The presenter faced the camera. "There's been drama at Millwall FC tonight. Billionaire owner Alexander West has dismissed nearly half the club's staff in what he calls a complete restructure."
Ethan sat forward and set the cup on the table.
The screen showed a young man in an expensive coat standing outside The Den. Alexander West looked confident, perhaps arrogant, the kind of rich kid who assumed money solved everything.
The presenter continued, voice measured. "West bought the struggling League One club six weeks ago. He says he's bringing fresh ideas to Millwall. Critics call the mass dismissals reckless, especially as West has no football experience."
The camera cut to fans outside the ground.
One supporter shouted at the lens. "He's destroying our club. Millwall's not a toy for rich boys."
Another fan shook his head. "We've been rubbish for years. Maybe change is what we need."
Ethan found himself leaning closer. Millwall had history and a support that bled for their team.
They were also desperate now. Desperate enough to take risks on unknown coaches.
Desperate enough to give someone like him a chance.
He thought of the previous manager's approach: route‑one football, long balls to a big striker and hope for scraps. Any coach with modern ideas could improve them quickly.
And Alexander West clearly did not care about safe appointments. He was making bold moves and taking chances.
He reached for his laptop when the light arrived.
A cool blue shimmer gathered at the edge of his sight, its brightness building until the interface came into focus like an old friend.
=== SYSTEM ===
Mission Created
Apply for coaching position at Millwall FC
He stared at the window as the silence of the flat pressed in. Three weeks without a sign, and now this; the system had waited for the right moment.
His phone buzzed against the table. A text from the landlord appeared.
Final warning. Pay by tomorrow or we start eviction.
He looked at the bills around his feet and then back at the glowing panel. The blue light felt warm in the freezing room.
Alexander West was taking risks. It was time for Ethan to do the same.
He tapped ACCEPT without hesitation.
=== THE COACHING SYSTEM ===
Mission Accepted
New objectives loading...
For the first time in three weeks, Ethan Carter smiled.
The game was starting again.