Abdullah's Choice — First Half Ends
Why did a chance like this have to fall to me right now?
"Finish!" Nazari shouted, urging the shot.
Dennis, who had no idea what instructions Abdullah had received from the manager, closed the distance hard.
"Hey!!!"
Chris signaled that he would take care of it himself.
Right. I'm a midfielder.
In that split second, after a heavy moment of hesitation, Abdullah made his decision...
A pass!
That should do it.
But the weight of his choice was betrayed by how effortlessly Ballard stripped the ball away.
"Fuck!!! You should've finished it yourself!!!"
The teammates who knew Abdullah had been told not to shoot had all shifted their weight toward the goal. That left Ballard, a defender with excellent feet, free to loft the ball straight to an unmarked Bellingham.
"Thanks! Let's go!"
Bellingham immediately drove the ball into the vast empty space ahead. Fail to convert a chance and the opposition gets one right back. Counterattack.
Team Maxwell were never going to waste a golden opportunity like this. They launched a lightning break.
Team Han Shin had six players committed forward, leaving only four in their own half: striker Luís Semedo up top, wingers Jack Clarke and Patrick Roberts, and Bellingham himself. Four against four.
"Hey!!! Here!!!"
Nobody's been marking Patrick this whole time?
Bellingham checked left and right, then sent a long ball straight to Patrick. Romaine refused to close him down, instead dropping off as Patrick dribbled.
"What? You're not stopping me?!"
The experienced winger Patrick surged all the way to the byline. He checked the defenders around him—every single one was glued to Semedo—and his pride took a hit.
"What the hell, Romaine! You messing with me?!"
"Nope! Not messing around!"
"Is this the manager's orders? What are you even trying to do?!"
Patrick cut freely from the right into the center. Team Han Shin sprinted desperately to recover, but a man can never outrun the ball. They couldn't stop him.
You're not marking me?! What the fuck!
Patrick set himself as if taking a free-kick and whipped a curling shot toward the far post.
Clang—!
"Damn it!"
It cannoned off the woodwork and bounced free.
"Mine! Mine!"
The two defenders who had been marking Semedo leapt with him.
"Clear it out!!!"
Han Shin's roar went unheeded. The ball struck Jacob's head and dropped back into the danger zone. Players swarmed for the loose ball, but Jobe got there first, the ball falling right to his waist.
Jobe's second chance.
Bellingham had taken a full run-up, loading every ounce of power into his ankle. He smashed the underside of the bouncing ball with the laces of his boot.
The stadium held its breath as the ball rocketed upward. Bellingham's volley—no spin, pure power—sliced through the air in a dead-straight line.
Whoosh—
The sudden volley was so vicious that second-choice keeper Nathan never even moved.
A bouncing ball?!
But had Jobe overhit it? The trajectory was clearly heading over the bar—another Mount Baekdu explosion of a miss—until, at the last instant, the spinless ball dipped with impossible, almost magical unpredictability.
Swish—!
It nestled into the net. Bellingham had equalized—no, taken the lead.
"Yeeeeeeeah!!!"
"Waaaaaah!"
Joy and despair flipped between the two sides. Abdullah, the man who had gifted the counter, sank to his knees. Adil and Pierre patted his back. Han Shin clicked his tongue.
"That crazy bastard... doesn't even control the loose ball, just hits a no-spin volley first time."
Bellingham, soaking up the cheers, held up two fingers.
"One more goal to go!!!"
"Good! Yeah, yeah—conceding sucks, but our lot are following the instructions perfectly!!"
Following them perfectly? Are you out of your mind?
The clock had already ticked past forty minutes. With no added time agreed, only about five minutes remained until the half.
The score still read 2–1. Maxwell, cocky as hell, shoved his hands into his pockets and swaggered over to Han Shin.
"Welcome to EFL~~~!"
"Hahaha, what are you, Mr. Maxwell—Michael Jordan?"
"Aigoo~~~ Manager~ how on earth did this happen?? I'm so terribly sorry—look at that, 2–1! Hahahaha!"
I knew it. Kid, that surprise tactic of yours was pure luck. Doesn't work at this level.
Perfect. Exactly the scoreline I wanted. The ideal scenario is taking shape.
"Whoa~ Assistant Coach, it's only the first half—aren't you getting a little too happy? Maybe take your hands out of your pockets?"
"Sure, sure~ but the second half will be the same, won't it?"
Maxwell sheepishly pulled his hands free, the corners of his mouth still curled in a smug grin, convinced he had thoroughly flattened Han Shin's nose.
He's so transparent he's almost easy to handle. Or did he just want to school the rookie Asian manager?
Han Shin had found his answer.
He wanted to ask, Are you scratched? but trailing 2–1 left him without a comeback.
Maxwell, for all his slippery image, had actually adapted his shape surprisingly well.
His tactical response was quick, he's got top-flight playing experience, and he's been at the club a while. Until I find a proper replacement, maybe keeping him around isn't the worst idea...
"Shwip! Shwip!"
Maxwell threw jabs like a boxer—jab-jab, one-two.
His competitive fire had been blazing, and winning this little pride battle had him over the moon.
"Hook! Left jab-jab! One-two!"
Maybe I should reconsider.
Maxwell wiped the sweat from his brow.
"So, Manager—same fifteen-minute break at half-time?"
"No subs, so maybe a bit longer? Around twenty-five?"
"Fine by me. The lads still aren't fully match-fit after the holidays..."
Even Han Shin could see they lacked the stamina to run at the same intensity for a full ninety. Their work rate had dropped noticeably. He had already filled pages noting every player whose belly was bouncing or who kept walking.
The data team had explained that the players wore GPS units and other sensors inside special bras under their kits. The equipment logged every kilometer run or walked, every pass completed. The drone hovering overhead fed heat maps that painted red zones wherever a player lingered longest.
World Football Manager really is a realistic game, isn't it? Then again, even free match-analysis sites give you this stuff these days.
Han Shin stretched.
"Nnngh—but if we rest too long, you know what happens. Muscles cool down."
"I know. Too long and it's hard to get going again. Let's make it just ten extra minutes. You all right, Manager?"
"About what? Ah—being behind? I'm fine. Don't worry."
"No, your leg. I saw the surgical scars earlier. If it's bothering you, sit down."
Maxwell meant it. He was a former pro himself. He had watched countless teammates and juniors retire before their prime because of horrific injuries. Almost every professional carried the scars of one operation or another. They earned big money young, then spent the rest of their lives managing the damage. Maxwell himself had once suffered a long-term injury after long travel left his knee full of fluid and bone fragments. He understood Han Shin's pain.
And he was right—Han Shin's damaged ankle and leg had been bothering him the entire match. He kept lightly stamping, stretching, tapping the ground to stay loose.
"Appreciate the concern, Assistant Coach. But it's my first time. I need to breathe with the players for the full ninety. More than anything, I need to get used to it. I'll sit when the time comes."
Han Shin dipped his head slightly, recognizing the sincerity in Maxwell's eyes.
Truth is I was having too much fun to sit down, but saying that wouldn't sound cool.
"By the way, Manager—you said you wanted this to feel like a real match, so you'll go into the dressing room and talk separately, right?"
"Yes, that's the plan."
"Then we'll take the away dressing room."
"No—you take home. The shabby away room will give our lads a stronger kick up the backside, more motivation to climb."
"If you insist, I won't stop you. Just remember your health comes first. You'll be spending hours on buses and maybe planes soon enough."
"Thank you. Honestly, it's a relief having someone like you as assistant—someone who loves the club and has real playing experience."
"Ah, stop—you're making me blush. It's nothing."
Moments like this he can be endlessly kind. One second he's a win-at-all-costs maniac, the next he's got this soft side that reels people in.
Iron fist in a velvet glove.
"See you for the second half."
"Where are you going? There's still a few minutes left."
"I'm heading in early—got some prep to do. Pass the word to the players for me, yeah?"
"Got it!"
He knows better than anyone that walking off the touchline early can kill the players' spirit... so what is he up to?
Han Shin left the touchline.
In the VIP box the three of them were discussing the first half—or rather, listening to Emily's one-sided chatter. That description fit better.
"What do we do, what do we do! The Chairman's eye and my gut must both be wrong!"
Emily didn't care who won or lost.
"First team really is first team, isn't it? Manager Han is so reckless~ And Bellingham—he's got that star quality, right? Cheeky but hardworking, don't you think?"
She never stopped talking.
"What if Maxwell actually wins? Hohoho, the Sporting Director really is something else. How did he call it so perfectly? Speakman's the most football-savvy of all of us, no question."
Without her pretty face and the ability to back it up, Emily would have been an extinct species long ago.
Emily, that mouth of yours...
Speakman shot her a sideways look. Kirill, thoroughly embarrassed, silently stabbed a fork into a reeking piece of blue cheese.
Peeeeep—peep!!!
The volunteer referee's whistle blew and the half ended without added time. The players, having trained under a rare stretch of bright sunshine, were soaked through with sweat.
Then they realized Han Shin was nowhere to be seen on the pitch.
Did he get so angry about the score that he went in early?
Maxwell raised his voice.
"Twenty-five minutes' rest starting now~"
"Yes!"
"Manager Han Shin has already headed to the away dressing room~~ You lot rehydrate and follow him in! Understood?!"
"Understood!"
The backups tossed out bottles of sports drink and water; the players dumped them over their faces or gulped them down.
"The manager went to the dressing room first?"
Bellingham answered someone's question.
"Means there's nothing left to see, I guess."
"More importantly—it's half-time."
The magical window for changing the game had arrived.
Half-time.