Chapter 816: High Intensity
Bzzzz. Bzzzz.
The vibration of the phone against the bedside table was the only sound in the room. With a heavy sigh, I reached out blindly, my hand finding the cold glass of the screen, and dragged it into the bed.
The light from the display illuminated the tangle of sheets and the woman sleeping beside me. Emma shifted at the sudden brightness, the movement pulling the duvet down to reveal the slope of her bare shoulder.
Her red hair was a chaotic, beautiful mess spilled across the white pillows, framing a face that still stopped my heart every single morning. She let out a soft groan, burying her face into my chest, her warm breath ghosting against my collarbone.
I let my free hand rest on the curve of her hip, feeling the soft, heavy weight of her against me. She was spectacular. Every inch of her, from her vibrant green eyes currently hidden behind heavy lids, to the wide, feminine flare of her hips that the sheets did nothing to hide.
"Ugh, too early," she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.
"Shh, go back to sleep," I whispered, kissing the top of her head.
She did not need telling twice. Within seconds, her breathing evened out again. I turned my attention back to the screen.
Ding.
The email was from Dougie Freedman. It had arrived at seven in the morning on the dot, because Dougie operated on a schedule that bordered on the obsessive.
Two goalkeepers.
We needed a third choice. We needed experience, a locker room presence, and someone who would not cause a riot if he spent thirty-four league games sitting on a padded seat in the dugout.
The first file was Tim Krul. He was thirty years old, currently trapped in the limbo of Brighton and Championship interest, boasting over a hundred and fifty Premier League appearances. The wage demands were reasonable. He was looking for stability.
The second file was a twenty-four-year-old playing for a League One side. He was six foot five, raw, and had just spent a season picking the ball out of his own net sixty-eight times.
I opened my system interface in my mind, the familiar blue hue washing over my vision.
[TIM KRUL. AGE: 30. CURRENT ABILITY: 128. POTENTIAL ABILITY: 135.]
[MENTAL ATTRIBUTES: LEADERSHIP 15. COMPOSURE 14. DETERMINATION 16.]
I looked at the twenty-four-year-old’s file for about thirty seconds. Then I replied to Dougie. Tap, tap, tap.
Get Krul. Direct bid, offer him a two-year deal. Do not mess about with the League One kid. We need a man who knows what a Premier League dressing room looks like.
I slipped quietly out of bed, making sure not to wake Emma. I showered, threw on my Palace training gear, and walked out to the driveway.
The morning air was crisp. My Mercedes AMG sat on the gravel, a heavy, growling machine that ate the South London roads with effortless power. I slid into the driver’s seat, the leather cold against my back, and fired the engine. Rumble.
The drive to Beckenham took twenty-five minutes. I spent the entire time thinking about the shape of my midfield.
It was the twenty-first of July.
We were not at the start of pre-season anymore.
We were deep in the trenches, and today was the first day the World Cup returnees were rejoining the squad. Half the team had been sweating on these pitches for weeks, and the other half were riding the exhaustion of a Russian summer.
There were thirty cars in the Beckenham car park when I pulled the Mercedes into my designated spot.
Michael Olise’s car was the worst of them. He had landed at Gatwick at six in the morning, driven straight to Beckenham with a suitcase still in the boot, and had been in the gym since half past seven.
I walked through the double doors and went straight to the coaches’ room.
The room was already buzzing. Marcus Reid had three laptops open on the central table, cables snaking everywhere.
Sarah, my assistant manager, was drawing tactical shapes on the whiteboard with a black marker.
Squeak, squeak.
Rebecca, the head of medical, was standing by the window with a tablet clutched to her chest, looking furious. Michael Steele, the goalkeeper coach, sat in the corner with a cup of black coffee, staring at a blank wall.
"Ah, morning," I said, dropping my keys on the desk with a sharp clack.
"He will not go home," Rebecca said immediately, not even looking up from her tablet.
"Who?"
"Olise. I have told him three times. He says he has done the programme and he wants the data checked." Rebecca folded her arms. "Danny, he did the programme. All of it. In Ibiza."
Marcus spun one of his laptops around. "He went to Ibiza, Danny. He did eighteen sessions in twenty-one days and sent me the GPS file every night at half past eleven. There is something fundamentally wrong with his brain."
"Look, there is nothing wrong with him," I said, looking at the spreadsheet. "He is twenty years old, he made three substitute appearances last season, and he has worked out that we play sixty-plus matches this year. He wants a starting shirt."
[MICHAEL OLISE. CONDITION: 98%. DETERMINATION: 18. WORK RATE: 16.]
"He is the fittest man in the building," Marcus added, tapping the screen. "His high-speed running metrics are eleven percent above his own pre-season numbers from last year. His recovery between sprints is better than Zaha’s. I have the data, Danny. It is real."
"Fine. Let him train." I turned to the whiteboard. "Sarah, what do we have today?"
Sarah capped her marker. Snap.
"First proper session with the World Cup boys. Some of them are three weeks behind the rest of the group. Especially those who played in the world cup. If we push them today, they will break."
"They get recovery protocols today," I instructed. "I want them on the bikes, then in the pool. No contact."
"Agreed," Sarah said. "For the rest of the squad, we have forty-five minutes of tactical transition work, then an eight versus eight on a shortened pitch. High intensity. I want to see if the pressing triggers we drilled last week hold up when Zaha and Grealish are on the ball."
"Kovačić?" I asked, looking at Rebecca.
Rebecca sighed. "Grade two strain in the knee. Six weeks minimum. I scanned him at half past eight this morning. He has played fifty-one matches and a World Cup on a knee that was rebuilt two years ago. He is watching training today. If you let him near a football before September, I will resign."
"Understood," I said. "Michael. Goalkeepers."
Michael Steele did not move his head. He just shifted his eyes toward me. "Dougie sent the email. I saw your reply. Krul."
"You agree?"
"Yes. The kid from League One has terrible footwork. Krul organizes his defense. I want three days alone with him when he signs."
"You will have them," I promised. "Right. Ten o’clock. Pitch two. Let us go to work."
The smell of cut grass hit me the moment I walked out of the tunnel. The sun was burning off the morning dew. Twenty-three players were out on Pitch Two, stretching, joking, kicking balls into empty nets. Thump, thump.
Half of them had not stood on a training pitch together since May. There was a version of this morning where the session turned into a polite, gentle kickabout. A version where the players eased themselves back into the rhythm.
I did not want polite.
I walked into the center circle. Wheeeet! Sarah blew her whistle, a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the laughter. The squad jogged in, forming a tight circle around us.
"Welcome back," I said, keeping my voice level but loud enough to carry.
"For those of you who were in Russia, congratulations. For those of you who have been here, you know the standard. Today is the twenty-first of July. We play Manchester City in fifteen days. We do not have time to be gentle."
I looked around the circle, making eye contact with the key men. Zaha looked relaxed. Grealish looked focused. Højbjerg looked like he was ready to go to war.
"Sarah takes the transition drills. Then we go straight into an eight versus eight. Two touches. High press. If you lose the ball, you have exactly four seconds to win it back before the shape resets. Understood?"
"Yes, Boss," came the collective reply.
I stepped back and let Sarah take over. She was brilliant at this. She set up the grids in minutes, barking orders, correcting body shapes, demanding faster ball speed. I stood on the touchline with my hands in my pockets, watching the system come to life.
After forty minutes of grueling transition work, we moved to the small-sided game.
"Bibs on the near post," Sarah shouted. "Eight versus eight. Blue team defends the north goal. Yellow team defends the south. Play."
You find out more about a squad in twenty minutes of a tight eight versus eight than you do in three weeks of passing drills. The space is restricted. The decision-making time is cut in half. There is nowhere to hide.
I watched Wilfried Zaha.
He was not completely sharp yet. He had taken two weeks off and put on three kilos of muscle.
But he was still the best player on that grass by a distance that was frankly ridiculous. He received a pass from Ward, dropped his shoulder, shifted his weight, and left James Tomkins tackling thin air. He did it twice in four minutes.
[WILFRIED ZAHA. CONDITION 71%. FLAIR 18. DRIBBLING 17.]
He would be at ninety percent match fitness in ten days. He knew it, and I knew it.
On the other side, Pierre-Emile Højbjerg was carrying the entire yellow team. Nobody had warned me about his talking.
He had been at the club for four weeks, and he was currently organizing men who had been wearing Palace colors for six years. He pointed, shouted, dragged players into position, and dictated the tempo of the press.
And then there was Jack Grealish.
***
Thank you to Sir nameyelus and Kostas_Gounakis for the support.