Football System: Touchline God
Chapter 45: The Test I

Chapter 45: The Test I

The alarm clock’s shrill cry cut through the rooms’ silence like a blade. Maddox’s eyes snapped open, his heart already racing before his mind caught up.

His slight nap after breakfast almost made him miss his appointment. Thankfully he had set up a timer just in case he slept through.

He rolled over in the narrow bed, squinting at the lighting of his new rented apartment.

Since the argument with Alina, Maddox didn’t return home but instead rented an apartment close to the SFC regional office in Westfield District.

Thankfully, in addition to the ⊽150,000 he was given upon termination of his contract, he also had some prior savings which added to a total sum capable of keeping him afloat until he found another coaching job.

During this period, Alina neither called or texted him to apologize or even ask for his whereabouts. He’d also decide against reaching out to her, perhaps this was the best outcome for both of them.

The floorboards creaked slightly under his feet as he padded to the kitchenette. The coffee maker gurgled to life, filling the silence with its familiar rhythm. Outside his window, the sun was already out in full blast.

Maddox pulled on a sports joggers and a clean shirt, checking his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The faint dark circles under his eyes told the story of sleepless nights spent writing and rewriting his tactical dossier. Fifteen pages of everything he knew about the basic level of coaching in football distilled into words.

He pocketed his phone and grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. The tactical dossier sat on his desk, printed on paper and bound with metal clips. He shoved it into a leather portfolio and exited the apartment.

The walk to the SFC office took twenty minutes. Maddox had timed it three times, wanting to arrive exactly on the 2 PM schedule. Not early enough to seem desperate, not late enough to seem careless. He’d learned that timing mattered in this business. Sometimes it was the only thing that mattered.

The SFC office looked different in the mid-day light. Less imposing, maybe. Or maybe he was just getting used to disappointment. The same faded sign hung above the entrance, the same cracked concrete steps led to the glass doors.

Inside, the fluorescent lights hummed their familiar tune. The same gray-haired woman sat behind the plexiglass partition, her thick glasses reflecting the glow of her computer screen. She looked up as he approached, her expression as welcoming as a tax audit.

"Eric Maddox," he said, sliding his dossier through the slot beneath the window. "Here for the Live Match Simulation Test."

She glanced at the papers without interest, then back at her screen. Her fingers clicked across the keyboard with mechanical precision.

"Payment?"

Maddox pulled out five twenty terra notes, crisp and clean from the bank. "Ninety-five terras."

The woman counted the bills twice before sliding them into a cash drawer and returned his change. She stamped a form and pushed it back through the slot.

"Training ground three. Follow the signs. Test starts in twenty minutes."

Maddox took the form, his hands steadier than he’d expected. He nodded, almost to eager to leave before he committed domestic violence. Her attitude irked him in a way he hadn’t felt before and he was barely restraining himself.

The woman, oblivious to the change in his expression was already looking back at her screen, dismissing him with practiced indifference.

The training ground was a ten-minute walk through a maze of corridors that smelled like industrial cleaner and old sweat. Motivational posters lined the walls, showing perfect athletes in perfect moments, all of them smiling like they’d never known failure.

Maddox’s footsteps echoed in the empty hallway. His reflection followed him in the polished floor like a ghost.

Training ground three was smaller than he’d expected. Artificial turf stretched between white lines, bordered by metal bleachers that had seen better decades. Portable goals stood at each end, their nets slightly torn but still functional.

It looked like every other practice pitches across the suburbs. The kind of place where dreams went to die, or occasionally, to be reborn.

Three men in navy blazers stood near the center circle with clipboards in hand and stopwatches around their necks. They were the Licensed observers. The judges who would decide if Eric Maddox deserved to move up in the world or stay trapped in the base of football coaching.

The oldest of the three stepped forward. His hair was silver, his face lined with the kind of wrinkles that came from squinting at tactical formations under stadium lights.

"Mr. Maddox? I’m David Peterson, head observer for today’s assessment." His handshake was firm, professional. "These are my colleagues, James Wright and Sarah Chen. We’ll be evaluating your performance during a simulated match scenario."

Maddox nodded, fighting the urge to wipe his palms on his jeans. "Pleased to meet you."

"You’ll be coaching a team of academy players through a thirty-minute practice match. We’ll be looking at your tactical awareness, communication skills, decision-making under pressure, and ability to adapt to changing circumstances."

Peterson gestured toward the sideline where twenty young players were stretching and passing balls back and forth. They looked like they were seventeen, maybe eighteen. Old enough to take the game seriously, young enough to still believe they might make it to the top.

"You’ll have five minutes to address your team before the match begins. Any questions?"

Maddox shook his head. His throat felt dry, but his mind was clear. This was what he’d been preparing for. This was his moment.

"Good luck," Peterson said, though his tone suggested he didn’t expect much.

Maddox walked toward the group of players, his footsteps steady on the artificial turf. Behind him, the three observers took their positions along the sideline, pens ready to document every mistake he was about to make.

Or every decision that might save his career.

The players looked up as he approached, their young faces curious and slightly skeptical. They’d probably seen dozens of coaches come and go. Failed dreams in cheap suits, all of them promising to unlock potential that might not exist.

"Right then," Maddox said, his voice carrying across the small group. "Who’s ready to play some football?"

A few of them smiled. It was a start.

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