It has felt like forever since Callum Vance has felt exhaustion.
True exhaustion that makes every action feel like he is going to collapse just at the thought of completing them.
But 2 days before his first championship match, here he is sprawled out on the physio’s table like a starfish.
And that exhaustion is hitting hard.
The deep, pulsing, vibrating sensation from the massage gun is almost melting away the fatigue in his muscles.
Keyword almost.
Over the past 2 days, Callum has been exposed to more tactics than ever before in his 14 years of playing football.
Even now, on his back, as the physio applies a layer of essential oils, he has a tablet in his hands, watching a compilation video of Brentford’s last 3 matches.
Remembering the Gaffer’s instruction from the days prior, Callum inwardly groans, having to do stretches and light exercises, which was good for him, is not his cup of tea.
Not to mention tactical analysis, he thinks of himself as more of a think-as-he-goes type of person, thriving best under pressure.
An innovator, if you will.
He much prefers the hands-on, intense, and driven workouts, not the slow, methodical exercises, and certainly not stretching while watching tapes.
Personally, the Scouser believes that he should be out there, kicking the ball, practicing his shooting more than recovering.
Hell, Rösler even banned him from the weights room, and even times him while he is on the training pitch.
It’s like the German has a vendetta against his method of training.
As if to be given another, metaphoric middle finger from the universe, Rösler himself walks into the room.
“Callum, we are all meeting in 5 at the AV room, to go over some tactics and for me to pick the team.” The German manager said, his eyes glancing at the tablet in Callum’s hands before giving a slight, approving nod.
“Bring that with you. And leave the phone in the locker. I want focus, not distractions.”
With that, Rösler turned on his heel and strode out, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.
Callum let out a long, theatrical sigh, resting the tablet against his chest.
“Five minutes,” he muttered to the ceiling.
“You heard the boss, lad. Chop chop,” the physio chuckled, giving Callum’s calf one last, firm pat before wiping the excess oil from his hands with a towel.
“And stop complaining about the stretching. If you don’t keep those hamstrings loose, Rösler won’t need to ban you from the weights room—I’ll ban you from the pitch entirely.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Callum grumbled, rolling off the padded table.
His legs still felt a bit like lead, but the heavy pounding of the massage gun had at least restored some life to his joints.
He pulled his fresh training top back over his head, grabbed the club tablet, and slid his feet back into his slides.
Two days until Brentford.
Two days until Elland Road.
The excitement was there, buried deep beneath the layer of pure physical and mental fatigue, but right now, the thought of sitting in a dark audio-visual room listening to a tactical breakdown felt like another mountain to climb.
He walked out of the physio room and into the corridor, joining a few of the other lads who were making the same sluggish trek toward the meeting room.
This was the moment.
The squad was about to find out who was starting, who was on the bench, and who was watching from the stands on Saturday.
Callum gripped the edges of the tablet, his competitive edge kicking back in.
He didn’t just want to be in the squad; he wanted that number nine shirt.
The door to the Audio-Visual room was wide open, and most of the tiered leather seats were already taken.
The room was dim, illuminated mostly by the massive projector screen at the front displaying a frozen frame of Brentford’s defensive transition against Ipswich.
Callum intentionally slunk toward the back row.
He wanted to sit high up, out of the immediate line of sight, where he could just focus on the footage without feeling Rösler’s sharp eyes burning a hole through him every time a tactical point was made.
He slid into a seat next to Lewis Cook, who was slouched low in his chair, already looking mentally prepared for a long lecture.
“Thought you were going to be late,” Cook whispered, not turning his head as Callum set his tablet down on the small armrest desk.
“Physio keeping you hostage?”
“Worse. Gaffer escorted me out,” Callum muttered back, adjusting his tracksuit trousers.
“How’s the mood down there?” He nodded toward the front rows where the senior players were clustered.
“Tense,” Cook murmured.
“Everyone knows he’s naming the squad today. Bellusci’s been pacing, and Wood looks like he’s ready to chew through a brick.”
At the front of the room, Uwe Rösler stood by the podium, his silhouette cutting a sharp figure against the glowing projector screen.
Rob Kelly was standing near the light switches, waiting for the final few players to filter in.
Rösler looked down at his watch, then up at the back row, his eyes pausing briefly on Callum before scanning the rest of the room.
He didn’t say a word, but the sheer gravity of the moment settled over the squad.
The whispering ceased entirely.
“Right, doors shut,” Rösler commanded, and the heavy AV room door clicked into place, sealing the squad inside.
“Two days until Brentford. We have looked at their strengths. Today, we look at how we break them, and who will be on the pitch to do it.”
“As I have said before,” Rösler turns, using a laser pointer to point at the projection, continuing his sentence, the video itself continues.
“Brentford use width during build-up play through the utilisation of a midfield pivot; if we can stifle that pivot, we effectively defeat their attacking edge.”
The laser pointer danced across the screen, highlighting the space between Brentford’s center-backs and their deep-lying playmaker.
On the video, the pivot dropped in, picked up the ball, and effortlessly sprayed a diagonal pass out to the overlapping wing-back.
“They want to stretch us,” Rösler continued, his voice sharp and methodical in the darkened room.
“They want our central midfield to hunt the ball so they can exploit the gaps behind. We do not hunt. We contain, we suffocate, and then we strike.”
The footage paused, rewinding three seconds, then played in slow motion.
“When the ball travels to the pivot, this is our trigger,” Rösler said, turning his body toward the squad, his eyes burning into the players.
“Our front three must split. One cuts the passing lane back to the center-back; one must lock onto the pivot instantly. The other provides support by staying wide for the counterattack. No turning. No time to look up.”
He paused, letting the tactical instruction sink into the quiet room.
Callum watched the screen intensely, his mind automatically mapping his own movements onto the digital pitch.
It was exactly what Rösler had been drilling into him during those frustrating, timed sessions—one-touch transition, high-intensity pressing, and absolute discipline.
Rösler lowered the pointer and stepped away from the screen, his expression hardening.
“To execute this, I need discipline. I need legs. And I need players who follow the plan to the letter,” the gaffer said, reaching for a sheet of paper on the podium.
The entire room seemed to hold its breath.
“The starting eleven for Saturday.”
“For the defense: Marco in goal, Berardi at Right Back, Liam and Sol at center back, Taylor left back.”
A collective nod went through the room.
It was a solid, experienced backline.
Marco Silvestri, Gaetano Berardi, Liam Cooper, Sol Bamba, and Charlie Taylor.
They had the grit and the physicality to handle whatever Brentford threw at them, and Sol’s leadership back there was crucial.
Callum sat up a little straighter in his leather seat, his chest tightening slightly as Rösler moved his eyes down the sheet of paper.
The defensive foundation was set.
Now came the midfield and the attack, the places where the real battle for shirts had been happening all week at Thorp Arch.
These were the spots most available, as the sheer number of persons able to play in these positions is staggering.
“In the midfield,” Rösler continued, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the projector fan.
“We play the flat three to combat their narrow build-up. Adeyemi holding. Cook and Mowatt are slightly ahead of him to press the half-spaces.”
Lewis Cook gave a subtle, tight nod next to Callum, his jaw clenched in focus.
He was in.
Rösler paused, letting the midfield structure settle in everyone’s minds before his sharp eyes lifted, scanning the rows until they locked directly onto the back corner of the room.
He didn’t say a word for three agonizing seconds, letting the tension stretch out until the silence in the AV room was deafening.
“Up front,” the gaffer said, his thick German accent dropping an octave.
“We need the pace to exploit the transition, and the discipline to lock down that pivot.”
“Doukara at Left Wing, Callum at Right Wing, and Antenucci at Striker.”
The words hung in the dim light of the AV room for a second, catching Callum completely off guard.
Right wing.
His heart did a violent, sudden thud against his ribs.
He was expecting the number nine shirt, or at the very least, a place on the bench to sub in for Antenucci.
But Rösler was throwing him straight into the starting eleven out wide.
Next to him, Lewis Cook nudged his elbow into Callum’s ribs, a quick, sharp sign of congratulations, but Callum’s eyes remained locked on the gaffer.
“Callum,” Rösler said, pointing the laser at the right-wing channel on the projector screen.
“You are not there to hug the touchline and cross the ball. When Brentford’s left-back pushes high to support their midfield pivot, you tuck inside. You become the second striker. But when we lose the ball…”
Rösler tapped the remote, and the screen flashed red around the opposition’s deep midfield zone.
“…you track back and lock down that space. If you switch off, their pivot gets out, and we are exposed. Do you understand your role?”
“Not really, Boss,” Callum says, not hiding his confusion and downright concern at the mere thought of being played out of position.
It’s not that he had never played there, but he was always too busy thinking about moving forward that being a striker came more naturally to him than having to track back as a winger.
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the AV room.
Next to him, Lewis Cook froze, his pen completely still.
Down in the front rows, senior players like Sol Bamba and Liam Cooper slowly turned their heads around to look at the seventeen-year-old in the back row.
Now all eyes in the room were on him.
Rösler didn’t shout.
Instead, his jaw tightened, his rigid German posture becoming even stiffer as he lowered the laser pointer.
He stared up at Callum, his sharp eyes narrowing in the newly lit room.
“You do not understand, Vance?” Rösler asked, his voice low, dangerously calm, and vibrating with authority.
“Or you do not like it?”
Callum swallowed, the adrenaline spiking.
He didn’t hide his concern.
“With all do Respect. I’m a striker, Boss. I’ve played down the middle my whole life. If you put me out wide, tracking back into midfield… I’m away from the box. My instincts are to get on the shoulder of the center-back, not shadow a central midfielder.”
A few of the senior lads exchanged looks.
It was a valid point, but making it right now was incredibly bold.
In their eyes, starting on the wing is better than not starting at all.
Rösler walked slowly toward the back row, stopping at the edge of the tiered seating.
“Exactly,” Rösler said, his voice cutting through the tension.
“Your instinct is to stand up there, wait for the ball, and score. Beautiful. But against Brentford, if you do that, we play with ten men. Their left-back pushes high. If you stay on the center-back, their left-back is free, their pivot is free, and they control the match. You will be isolated, and you will get zero touches.”
He stepped closer, locking eyes with Callum.
“I am not playing you as a traditional winger, Callum. This is why you viewed not only their tapes but ours as well. When we transition, Antenucci drops to drag their center-back out. The space is here,” he said, highlighting the diagonal channel from the right wing into the box.
“You attack that space from deep, facing the goal with your pace. You are a striker, but you start from wide to exploit their weakness. And defensively, you pay your taxes. You track back.”
Rösler paused, letting the tactical breakdown hang in the air.
“I put you in the starting eleven because you have the physical attributes to do both. If you only want to do one, tell me now, and I will put someone on the pitch who wants to run for this team. Regardless of where up front you play, your goal remains the same: run and cause as much chaos as possible. And Score. Drift inside, abuse your pace, effectively in transition, you are a second striker. So, I ask you again, Vance. Do you understand your role?”
The weight of Rösler’s words pressed down on Callum, but the direct challenge at the end stripped away any lingering hesitation.
The manager wasn’t trying to clip his wings or turn him into a defensive workhorse; he was giving him a license to destroy Brentford on the counter, wrapped inside a tactical demand.
‘Drift inside.
Abuse your pace.
Cause chaos.
Score.’
That was language Callum understood.
He looked Rösler dead in the eye, the stubbornness in his chest melting into raw, competitive focus.
The entire room was still watching him, the silence thick enough to cut with a knife.
“Yeah,” Callum said, his voice steady.
“I understand, Boss.”
Rösler held his gaze for one more lingering second, testing the lad’s resolve, before his face relaxed into a single, sharp nod.
“Good,” the gaffer said, turning back toward the front of the room.
“Because if you don’t score, and you don’t track back, you will have a very long view of the pitch from the bench next week.”
A ripple of low chuckles broke the tension in the room, the senior players turning back around as the atmosphere finally eased.
Next to him, Lewis Cook let out a breath he’d clearly been holding, leaning over to murmur out of the side of his mouth.
“Blimey, Cal,” Cook whispered, shaking his head with a grin.
“Thought you were about to get sent to train with the Under-18s for a minute there. But you’re starting. Right wing or not, you’re in.”
“If anybody’s going to train with them, it’ll be you, mate.” Callum retorts, the realization setting in that he will be starting his first professional game in Leeds Colors at Elland Road.
Cook snorted, quickly covering his mouth as Rösler began sorting through his tactical clipboards at the front of the room.
“Shut up, you,” Cook whispered back, though his grin was a mile wide.
“Just don’t forget us little people in the midfield when you’re busy running around like a freight train.”
But Callum’s playful banter was just a shield.
Underneath the tracksuit, his skin was tingling, and his pulse was suddenly hammering in his ears.
He’s Starting.
He wasn’t just on the bench, waiting to get a token five minutes at the end if the game was already dead.
He was going to walk out of that dark, narrow tunnel at Elland Road.
He was going to stand on the pitch, look up at the massive, towering structure of the Don Revie Stand, and hear forty thousand Leeds fans roaring Marching On Together at the top of their lungs.
He glanced down at the club tablet in his hands, the frozen footage of Brentford’s backline suddenly looking less like a classroom assignment and more like a target list.
Two days.
Forty-eight hours until he had to back up his mouth, pay his defensive taxes, and prove to Uwe Rösler that he belonged in the first team.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Rösler’s voice boomed, cutting through the low murmur of the room as he packed his notes.
“Go to the canteen, finish your hydration, and get home. I want total rest tonight. Tomorrow, we fine-tune the shape.”
As the players began pushing back their chairs and standing up, the reality settled heavily over Callum’s shoulders.
The physical exhaustion from the physio table was completely gone, burned away by pure, unadulterated anticipation.
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A/N: I know the name of the book is POACHER, like a goal poacher.
Who is a striker…
Let me cook.
That’s all imma say.
Thanks for the support on the recent chapters.
It means the world to me.
And I won’t be introducing the love interests until he gets a few games under his belt; I have something planned for that.
So if you think Dinah would not be a good fit, feel free to tell me a better candidate, and I will look at it, and who knows, I may change it.
I may even have his love life not be as straightforward as in most fics, no harem tho.