By early evening, I was pulling into Hungerford’s training ground off Priory Road.

  Youth training was in full swing when I arrived. Half a dozen drills were running at once, and Mitch was everywhere at the same time.

  Or at least, it felt that way.

  He moved between stations with that permanently overextended energy he got when he refused to simplify anything—correcting body shape here, stopping a drill there, barking a reminder about spacing, then jogging twenty yards to do it all again somewhere else. If he’d actually cloned himself, it would’ve made more sense than whatever this was.

  I’d texted him earlier. Told him I’d be late.

  He could’ve scaled it back. One or two focused drills. Something clean and manageable. The kids wouldn’t have suffered for it—probably would’ve benefited, honestly. But Mitch didn’t do ‘manageable.’ He did everything, all at once, then acted surprised when it nearly broke him.

  I knew exactly how this would play out. And play out it did.

  I didn’t even make it five steps onto the pitch before Mitch spotted me.

  “What time do you call this?” he snapped, jogging over without breaking stride. His voice was low but tight, compressed enough that I knew he’d already burned through his first fuse. “I’ve got six drills running, two lads sulking because they’re not starting, and you decide now is a good time to show up?”

  “I texted you an hour ago.”

  “Oh, I saw it,” he shot back. “Right around the time I was setting up your half of the session.”

  Yeah, I was not gonna rise up to that.

  “I’m here now,” I said. “And I’ve got something you’re going to want to hear.”

  He stopped short, jaw clenched. For a second I thought I’d pushed too hard, too soon. His eyes moved past me to the kids, then back again.

  “You don’t get to buy your way out of this with mystery,” he said.

  “I’m not buying my way out,” I replied. “I’m asking you to give me five minutes later. After the session. And if I’m wrong, you can tear into me properly.”

  “… Five. Not ten.”

  “Five.”

  He stared at me a beat longer, then stepped back.

  “Fine.” He jerked his head toward the defensive third. “Take care of the back line. They’ve been losing shape every time the ball turns over.”

  “On it.”

  He turned away before I could say anything else, already barking instructions as he went.

  I checked my phone out of habit.

  No messages from Maisie. Of course not. She’d said she’d find a café nearby and wait. She’d said she was free tonight. She’d said she didn’t mind, and she’d awkwardly made a ghosting joke again after that.

  I felt pretty bad doing this to her, and I couldn’t shake that feeling you got when you knew you had the wrong foot out the gate already.

  But that was a story for later.

  For now, there was work.

  I whistled the back line over and reset the drill—nothing fancy, just transition shape after a turnover and a few familiar drills.

  It didn’t take long to see Maxim Redding read the game a step ahead of everyone else. He adjusted before I finished explaining, held his line instead of chasing, and kept his head when the tempo spiked. Mansfield, by contrast, reacted late and needed reminders. Solid enough, but always responding instead of anticipating.

  Boras was worse. Skipped recovery runs, questioned instructions, trained like effort was something you could negotiate.

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  Maxim didn’t say much. He just listened and did the work. Again and again. His heading and positioning could use some work, but you couldn’t expect everything from a 17-year-old.

  Training finally wound down. Kids were grabbing cones, tossing balls into the storeroom, stretching on the sidelines. I let Mitch call the last drill while I walked over to Maxim, who was gathering his gear, calm as ever.

  “Max,” I said, keeping it casual. “Mind if I grab a word?”

  He looked up, a little surprised, but smiled anyway. “Sure, coach.”

  I nodded at his kit. “Good session. You read the game ahead of everyone else today. Keeping your calm under pressure is exactly what this line needs.”

  His shoulders dropped a little, like he hadn’t expected praise. “Thanks… I just try to do what I’m told,” he said, voice quiet but steady.

  “No, that’s exactly why it stood out,” I said. “Most players hear instructions but don’t really apply them. You did.”

  Maxim glanced down at his boots for a moment, then back up, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I appreciate that, coach. Means a lot.”

  He didn’t brag, didn’t puff up. This kind of humility would go a long way.

  I added, curious, “Do you play anything else? Other sports?”

  He shook his head. “No… just football. Always football.”

  That made me smile. “Good. That focus’s rare. Keeps you sharp.”

  He looked down again, quietly pleased, then back up. “I want to get as far as I can. I don’t want to waste time.”

  It was obvious. Maxim Redding was this team’s future. If he didn’t get first-team minutes soon, he’d plateau, or another club would snag him. A few appearances now could shape his career. I couldn’t leave it to chance. Maxim was ready, but only real game time would prove it.

  I waited until Mitch wrapped up the last drill, then caught him as he headed toward the shed.

  “Got a minute?” I asked.

  He eyed me suspiciously. “What is it now? You about to bench Boras for the fun of it?”

  “Not quite,” I said. “I told him next week. But Maxim Redding… he’s been great in training.”

  “I saw.”

  “If we give him a run and he performs, you might not even need Boras. And if he messes up, I’ll push Boras to actually put in the work next match.”

  Mitch stopped, arms crossed. “Next game’s against the team just above us. We can’t afford to look like shite, and Bossman’s already fuming about the leaky defence. You want to make that call now?”

  “Does the Bossman decide who plays?” I asked.

  Mitch smirked. “He will if the kid balls it up. You wanna put that kind of pressure on him?”

  Fair point.

  “But at least put him on the bench,” I said. “Let him see the game properly. Maybe sub him in, minute seventy-five or so.”

  Mitch considered it, then nodded. “Fine. That’s manageable.”

  I exhaled. “Alright. Solution agreed.”

  He grinned, raising an eyebrow. “Okay… now, what’s the good news you’ve been dying to tell me? Surely Maxim isn’t it.”

  I told Mitch about a kid I’d been tracking at Reading—Elliot Harper.

  “You even do scouting now?” he said, eyebrows raised. “Does the Bossman pay you for that?”

  “No,” I said. “But I’ve got a friend who helps out.”

  Mitch whistled low. “This team does need a proper scout, as long as the Boss isn’t too tight about it. How good is he?”

  “It’s a she,” I corrected. “And she’s got access to some university-side databases.”

  He squinted. “She? You sure she can handle it?”

  He’d be right to be skeptical, I thought. Not that I’m gunning for a point about women, but the number of female scouts in England is staggeringly low—probably under five percent. Maisie wasn’t even properly one, as far as I understood. She just happened to have access to player data; I didn’t think scouting was her task. But that wouldn’t fly.

  “She’s on a part-time contract with Slough,” I said. “She probably has more experience than you or me.” I fudged the experience part, but Maisie definitely had a sharp eye and learned fast.

  Mitch tapped his chin. “You’ll need to check if her contract allows her to share data or scout for another club. Or is she freelance, got her own sources?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. That’s on my list.”

  I ran Mitch through Elliot Harper—style of play, position, how he moved under pressure, low confidence but technically sound.

  Mitch listened, arms crossed at first, then uncrossed, tapping his fingers on his thigh. “Alright… I’m warming to the idea,” he said slowly. “But,” he added, “you can’t just hand me stats. If you can get him to training for a proper trial, I can make a case with the Boss, but you know how stingy he is. The kid has to show his real work before anyone spends minutes or money.”

  I nodded.

  I found myself walking out the gate and spotting Maisie waiting outside the café she’d picked. She waved at me as she saw me.

  I wanted to ask her about scouting for Hungerford, about how she might help in a more official capacity. But that could wait.

  I’d already made her wait through training. That was bad enough.

  This wasn’t a date. But… it was pretty damn close. And I didn’t need to start off any worse.