The trek from the touchline to the tunnel stretched out before Eric Maddox like an endless corridor of dread, each step echoing with a weight that had little to do with physical fatigue.
The chill of the evening air bit at his skin, the damp grass clinging to his boots, but it was the looming confrontation at the journey's end that slowed his pace.
Not the weary players trudging ahead, nor the dimly lit dressing room with its familiar scent of sweat and liniment—no, it was the press that awaited him, a pack of wolves circling for their next meal.
The Silvergate Youth Sailors comeback, a jaw-dropping rally from 6-0 to 6-5, had already ignited a wildfire across local feeds, headline summaries flashing across stadium screens like electric sparks in a storm.
Maddox could already feel the crosshairs aligning as he approached the conference room.
The moment he stepped through the doorway, the room erupted into a blinding flurry of flashes—camera lenses glinting like rifle sights, locking onto him with predatory precision.
The atmosphere was thick, a heady mix of cheap cologne wafting from the reporters, the searing heat of overhead lights, and the unmistakable scent of eager, bloodthirsty attention.
The moderator delivered the usual disclaimer—a perfunctory speech of legalities—before he took his seat at the long table, flanked only by his coaching staff, including the ever-present shadow of his assistant, Nigel Crowther.
His players were in the dressing room for cooldown, their bodies and spirits still reeling from the match, leaving Maddox to face the inquisition alone.
The first question sliced through the tension like a blade, its edge honed with intent.
"Coach Maddox," a wiry reporter with a notepad in hand began, his voice steady and probing, "first of all, remarkable second-half performance—but we have to ask: why was Noah Perring, the game changer and man of the match today, benched all season long?"
The question landed with the force of a sledgehammer, straight to the point with no garnish to soften the blow. Maddox felt the weight of his predecessor's decisions pressing down on him, a legacy of misjudgments he'd inherited upon waking in this body.
He exhaled slowly, calming the storm brewing within, and met the reporter's gaze head-on, his eyes unblinking with resolve.
"I won't hide behind excuses," he said, his voice low but carrying the steel of conviction. "Noah was benched for two reasons: his physique wasn't quite where we needed it to be to handle the physicality of this level. He's slight, and at the start of the season, that left him vulnerable."
He paused, letting the words settle, then sharpened his tone slightly. "More importantly, we as a coaching team wanted to give him the time and space to train, to build the endurance and confidence he'd need when the opportunity arose. Every decision was made after thorough discussions with the staff—discussions I stand by."
A low murmur rippled through the room, a wave of skepticism and curiosity. Some reporters nodded, their pens scratching notes, while others raised skeptical eyebrows, their disbelief thinly veiled.
They weren't fully buying the narrative, but neither were they ready to dismiss it outright. Maddox pressed on, his voice steady as he reclaimed the narrative.
"He's a technical wonder—a player with vision and skill that could light up any pitch. But at the season's start, he wasn't ready. Today, he proved he is. And I take full responsibility for that timeline, and also for ensuring he was prepared when it mattered most."
The room hung on his words, the tension thickening, but before the next question could pierce the silence, an uninvited voice shattered the moment.
Nigel Crowther, standing behind near the back wall, stepped forward, brushing past a stunned PR assistant with the audacity of a man on a mission.
The room tensed, the air growing heavier as the assistant coach positioned himself in front of the media scrum, his gaunt face illuminated by the harsh lights.
"I'm sorry, but I have to correct that," Crowther began, his voice cool and measured in that infuriating monotone that grated on Maddox's nerves like sandpaper.
He smiled thinly, resembling a predator baring its teeth. "With all due respect to Mr. Maddox, he's… misrepresenting the situation. The decision to bench Noah Perring wasn't a team consensus. In fact—" his smile widened slightly "—he made that call alone. He always does. Maddox has run this coaching staff like a tyrant since day one. He doesn't ask for staff opinions. He orders. And Noah? He was deemed 'unfit' for our standards. Those were his words. Not mine."
A stunned silence descended, broken only by the rapid—click, click, click—of camera shutters as every lens in the room swiveled toward Crowther.
The reporters' eyes gleamed with the thrill of a scandal, their minds already spinning headlines that would dominate the Youth League's social ranks. This was the story they'd been waiting for—blood in the water, and Crowther was happy to spill it in a way that would fit his agenda.
Undeterred, he pressed his advantage, now fully committed to the ambush. "It's important that the public understands this isn't some brilliant moment of foresight," he continued, his tone dripping with mock sincerity.
"Maddox didn't see Noah's potential. He ignored it. And now, after a game where the lad saved his tactical skin, he's spinning a redemption narrative." He shrugged with exaggerated helplessness, his nostrils flaring slightly. "Crowther believes in accountability."
Maddox didn't show any reaction outwardly, his face a mask of calm, but inside, a tempest of anger roiled. His fist clenched beneath the table, nails digging into his palm as the words struck home—not because they were true, but because they danced dangerously close to a distorted truth.
Crowther had mastered this game of subtle sabotage—backhanded remarks in team meetings, feigned innocence when tactics faltered, and now this public betrayal, rewriting everything that transpired with a brushstroke of deceit.
He wasn't just challenging Maddox's authority; he was attempting to dismantle it, piece by piece, in front of the world.
And the worst part of it that gnawed at Maddox's gut: the coaching staff, most of whom had forged bonds with Crowther over years of shared tenure, would likely side with him. Their loyalty, forged from past successes, could easily sway toward the familiar voice over the newcomer.
Maddox's glance flicked to the system interface in his vision, a digital mirror reflecting the fallout.
[System Alert]
[Reputation Modifier – Local Media | -3.
Coaching Staff Morale (Split).
Public Sentiment Poll: 51% Blame Maddox | 39% Neutral | 10% Support Maddox.
Penalty Forecast: Media Pressure Event – Active]
This world took football seriously—there were no back pages for basketball, cricket, or any other sports to dilute the headlines, no other scandals to bury today's drama in the Youth League's social hierarchy. This was the narrative that would dominate, a storm of scrutiny that Maddox couldn't escape.
He sighed helplessly, the weight of the moment pressing down, and rose slowly from his seat, his movements deliberate as he faced the reporters head-on.
"I won't waste time defending every decision I've made," he said, his voice cutting through the charged silence with a quiet strength. "But I'll tell you what matters."
The room fell quiet again, the reporters leaning forward, their pens poised like weapons.
"Noah Perring is a special player—a talent that shone brighter than anyone expected today. And I made the call to bring him on. Not Crowther. Not anyone else. Me." His voice grew firmer, a steel edge sharpening each word. "Whatever past mistakes were made, we've started fixing them. And I'm proud of how my boys fought tonight, how they turned a 6-0 deficit into a 6-5 battle that stunned this stadium."
He gave the reporters a brief, resolute nod, then turned to the moderator. "That's all for today," he added, his tone final, leaving no room for rebuttal.
Without sparing Crowther another glance, he stepped away from the podium, his boots echoing against the floor as he exited the room. Behind him, Crowther unleashed a triumphant smirk, welcoming the barrage of questions with open arms, his voice rising above the clamor as the reporters pounced.
Maddox's mind raced as he moved down the corridor, the system alerts still glowing in his vision. The media pressure event was active, a storm he'd have to weather.
And with this issue blowing up, he'd be expecting a call from the higher-ups soon enough.