The week of rest came and went.
For most of Dinamo Tbilisi’s players, it had been a welcome break.
Family gatherings.
Holiday dinners.
A few days without football.
For Giorgi Loria…
It had simply been seven uninterrupted days of training.
By the time the squad reported back to the training ground, he felt sharper than ever.
His touch was crisp.
His fitness had improved.
His confidence had never been higher.
Not because of the goals he had scored.
Because he knew he had earned them.
He had also seen the headlines about the club’s new manager.
At first, teammates had shown them to him with awkward smiles.
Some expected him to be furious.
Others expected him to lose confidence.
Instead, Giorgi had shrugged.
“If he doesn’t think I’m a genius…”
He smiled.
“Then I’ll just have to prove him wrong.”
That was all he said.
He never mentioned it again.
The first day under Klaus Zimmer arrived.
The atmosphere around the training ground felt completely different.
Under Ferdinand Feldhofer, training had always been intense, but there had been room for laughter.
Room for conversation.
Room to breathe.
Zimmer changed that within five minutes.
The squad lined up in silence.
The German coach walked slowly in front of them with a clipboard tucked under one arm.
No smile.
No welcoming speech.
No jokes.
He simply looked at every player one by one before speaking.
“My name is Klaus Zimmer.”
His voice was calm, but carried effortlessly across the pitch.
“I don’t care what you achieved last season.”
“I don’t care how many goals you scored.”
“I don’t care about reputations.”
A brief pause.
“You will earn your place every single day.”
No one said a word.
Zimmer nodded.
“Good.”
“Let’s begin.”
The session started with conditioning.
Not ordinary running.
Explosive sprints.
Agility drills.
Repeated shuttle runs.
Even several senior players struggled to keep pace.
Within thirty minutes, shirts were soaked with sweat.
Zimmer remained unimpressed.
“Again.”
The players groaned inwardly.
Nobody complained aloud.
After fitness came technical drills.
Dribbling through narrow gates.
One-touch passing under pressure.
Positional exercises.
Defensive shape.
Pressing triggers.
Everything had a purpose.
Everything had rules.
Whenever someone stepped out of position, Zimmer blew his whistle immediately.
“No.”
“Again.”
The players reset.
Again.
And again.
Perfection was expected.
Nothing less.
Finally, Zimmer gathered everyone around the tactical board placed beside the pitch.
“This,” he said, tapping the formation.
“…is how we will play.”
His finger pointed toward the goalkeeper.
“Goalkeepers.”
“You stay in your area.”
“I don’t want unnecessary adventures outside the box.”
He moved to the back four.
“Defenders defend.”
“You hold your line.”
“You create offside traps.”
“You do not chase the ball like children.”
His finger shifted to midfield.
“Midfielders control the tempo.”
“When we have possession…”
“You dictate the game.”
“When we lose it…”
“You win it back.”
Finally…
He looked toward the attackers.
“Strikers.”
His tone became even firmer.
“You score.”
“You assist.”
“You stay high.”
“I don’t want you dropping into midfield.”
“I don’t want you defending in our own box.”
“Your job is simple.”
“When you receive the ball…”
“Create goals.”
Several players nodded.
The instructions were straightforward.
Clear.
Rigid.
The final exercise of the day was an eleven-versus-eleven practice match.
“This,” Zimmer announced,
The whistle sounded.
The game began.
Giorgi started as the centre-forward for the blue team.
From the opening minutes, he played exactly as instructed.
He stayed high.
Made runs behind the defence.
Held up the ball.
Linked play with simple passes.
When chances appeared…
He attacked them.
Zimmer watched silently.
No praise.
No criticism.
Yet.
Halfway through the drill…
Dinamo lost possession in midfield.
Without thinking…
Giorgi sprinted back to help press the opposition.
It was instinct.
He had always done it.
He loved winning the ball back.
The whistle shrieked across the training ground.
“Stop!”
Every player froze.
Zimmer marched directly toward Giorgi.
“What are you doing?”
Giorgi blinked.
“Helping recover the ball.”
“No.”
Zimmer’s voice was cold.
“You are the striker.”
“If you run back there…”
“Who’s stretching the defence?”
Giorgi remained silent.
Zimmer pointed toward the halfway line.
“Stay.”
“High.”
“That is your position.”
“Understand?”
“…Yes, Coach.”
The drill restarted.
A few minutes later…
Nika Ninua drifted inside instead of holding the width Zimmer had demanded.
Again…
The whistle.
Again…
The lecture.
“Nika!”
“If I tell you to stay wide…”
“You stay wide.”
“I don’t care what you think you saw.”
“You follow instructions.”
The winger nodded quietly.
“Understood.”
Training continued.
Zimmer’s attention, however…
Kept returning to one player.
Number 55.
Whenever Giorgi made the correct run…
Zimmer pointed out that it could have been earlier.
When he received the ball cleanly…
“The first touch should be softer.”
When he scored after beating the offside trap…
“You celebrated before the ball crossed the line.”
Even during a water break…
“You drink too quickly.”
Some players exchanged puzzled glances.
Was he…
Looking for mistakes?
Or simply demanding more?
No one knew.
Then came a misplaced pass.
A simple one.
Giorgi tried threading the ball between two defenders instead of playing it wide.
It was intercepted.
Zimmer’s whistle sounded instantly.
“Loria!”
Everyone looked over.
“What was that?”
“I saw a run.”
“You saw wrong.”
Silence.
“If the pass isn’t there…”
“Don’t force it.”
“Football is not YouTube highlights.”
A few players awkwardly looked away.
Giorgi simply nodded.
“Yes, Coach.”
Ten minutes later…
He scored.
A beautiful first-time finish into the bottom corner.
Most coaches would have applauded.
Zimmer folded his arms.
“You should’ve finished with your weaker foot.”
Several teammates couldn’t help raising their eyebrows.
Even Vakhtang Salia looked confused.
The finish had been perfect.
Still…
Giorgi swallowed every response.
Every single one.
He answered only with,
“Understood.”
Inside…
He could feel frustration building.
The practice match finally ended.
“Recovery tomorrow.”
“Be here at eight.”
One by one, the players disappeared toward the changing rooms.
Some headed straight home.
Others lingered to chat.
Within minutes…
Only one player remained on the pitch.
Giorgi.
He placed a line of cones onto the grass.
Picked up a ball.
And began dribbling.
Just as he always had.
One cone.
Two.
Three.
Turn.
Sprint.
Shoot.
Collect the ball.
Repeat.
Fifteen minutes passed.
The winter sun slowly dipped lower.
Then…
A familiar voice echoed across the empty training ground.
“What exactly are you doing?”
Giorgi turned.
Zimmer had returned.
The coach walked toward him with an unreadable expression.
“I’m training.”
“I can see that.”
Zimmer stopped a few metres away.
“I told everyone to recover.”
“I always do extra training.”
Zimmer’s eyes narrowed.
“And now you won’t.”
Giorgi frowned.
“…Why?”
“Because tired players get injured.”
“I know my body.”
“No.”
Zimmer replied sharply.
“You don’t.”
“You are sixteen.”
“You think more training always means more improvement.”
“It doesn’t.”
“You’ll burn yourself out.”
Giorgi rested a foot on top of the ball.
“This routine got me here.”
Zimmer folded his arms.
“This routine ends today.”
“No.”
The answer came before Giorgi even realised he had spoken.
Zimmer stared at him.
“What did you say?”
“I said no.”
The coach took another step forward.
“When I give an instruction…”
“You follow it.”
“And when I believe something helps me improve…”
“I do it.”
The words escaped louder than Giorgi intended.
“I’m not skipping extra work.”
Zimmer’s voice rose for the first time all day.
“You don’t decide that!”
“I am your manager!”
“And I’m the one putting in the work!”
Giorgi shot back.
“I’ve trained like this for years!”
“It’s why I’m here!”
Zimmer pointed toward the exit.
“It’s why you’ll get injured!”
“You think because you’ve scored a few goals you know everything?”
“I never said that!”
“You certainly act like it!”
“I just want to improve!”
“So do I!”
The two stood only a few feet apart now.
Neither willing to back down.
Their voices echoed across the deserted training ground.
Neither insulted the other.
Neither crossed the line into disrespect.
But both were too stubborn to give way.
Finally…
Giorgi let out a long breath.
He picked up his bag.
Slung it over his shoulder.
“I’m going home.”
Without another word, he walked past Zimmer.
The German coach watched him leave.
Neither man looked back.
From the parking area, a few members of the coaching staff had witnessed the argument from a distance.
One assistant quietly shook his head.
“They’re too similar.”
Another looked confused.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re both obsessed with improving.”
“The problem is…”
“They each think their way is the only right way.”
As Giorgi climbed into his mother’s Volvo a few minutes later, he stared silently out of the window.
Charlotte noticed immediately.
“Tough first day?”
He sighed.
“You could say that.”
Back on the now-empty training pitch, Klaus Zimmer remained standing alone.
His expression hadn’t changed.
But one thought lingered in his mind.
That boy has unbelievable talent.
Now let’s see if he has the discipline to match it.
Neither of them realized it yet.
But their clash wasn’t personal.
It was a collision between two relentless competitors.
One desperate to become the best player in Georgia, and the other determined to build the best team.
Something would eventually have to give.