The Coaching System-Chapter 180: The System’s Prediction & Tactical Preparation

It wasn't unexpected. But it was confirmation. Fenerbahçe were no pushovers—not with that squad. Not with that man on the bench.

He flicked two fingers toward the right corner of the projection. The display widened instantly, folding open like a digital map, unlocking layers of tactical analysis, visual data flows, and dynamic heat maps.

Opponent Profile: Fenerbahçe.

Manager: José Mourinho

Defensive Vulnerability: Elevated xGA in open play. Full-backs caught high. Struggles with pace and rapid transitions.

Midfield Shape: Double pivot—Amrabat and Fred. Positional discipline. Spatial control.

Key Creator: Sebastian Szymański—dynamic passer, late runner, vertical tempo setter.

Jake exhaled slowly, his eyes pausing on the last line.

Then his gaze drifted left, where the name José Mourinho sat etched in bold above the rest. That familiar itch of admiration and irritation flickered inside his chest.

"Of course it's him," he muttered under his breath, barely audible over the low ambient hum of the projection interface.

The lights of the interface cast shifting shadows across his face. He didn't blink as he waved once, slowly, palm turned inward. The display folded in on itself and receded into the desk, leaving behind only the lamp's amber glow.

Jake sat still.

No comment. No smile. No complaint. Just calculation.

Upstairs, a floorboard creaked—light footsteps from the nursery. Ariel, probably stirring again. He didn't move. Emma would check on her. She always did.

He leaned back in the chair, fingers steepled in thought, the tension from the match week still clinging to his neck and shoulders.

Tomorrow, the work would begin.

But tonight, there was just this moment. The quiet before another war.

Tuesday Morning,

The sun hadn't fully risen yet, but the lights were already on at the training complex.

Jake unlocked his office at 6:45 AM sharp, the door clicking shut behind him as he set his coffee down and opened the blinds with a flick of the wrist. A soft gray light spilled in, mixing with the warm tone of the desk lamp already humming in the corner. His whiteboard was still covered in scribbled positional diagrams from last week—he erased them quickly, making room.

He didn't sit.

He paced. Glanced at the clock. Then down at the empty hallway outside his window. And then—

A knock. The door opened a second later.

Paul Roberts stepped in, still in his windbreaker, hair damp from the morning drizzle, a bundle of printed dossiers and a steaming takeaway cup balanced in one hand.

"Morning," Paul said, closing the door with his shoulder. "Got their last three matches, heat maps, and individual matchups."

Jake didn't bother with pleasantries.

"Tell me who he's starting."

Paul raised a brow, then handed over the top sheet from his stack. "Most likely eleven. Mourinho's been consistent. They've rotated in the league but this one—this'll be his strongest hand."

Jake dropped into his chair, pulled out a red pen, and scanned the names.

GK: Dominik Livaković

DEF: Milan Škriniar, Alexander Djiku, Bright Osayi-Samuel, Mert Müldür

MID: Fred, Sofyan Amrabat, Sebastian Szymański

ATT: Dušan Tadić, Allan Saint-Maximin

ST: Edin Džeko

He underlined Škriniar, then Djiku, and drew a quick arrow toward Osayi-Samuel.

"We hit them between the lines," Jake said, tapping twice under Szymański's name. "Osayi pushes too high. Leaves space behind. Djiku's a yellow card waiting to happen—press him, make him move his feet."

Paul dropped into the seat across from him. "What about Amrabat and Fred? We won't outmuscle that midfield."

"We won't try." Jake leaned forward. "We bypass it. One-touch play down the channels, catch 'em when they overcommit. Let Vélez float into the gaps—make them chase shadows."

He flipped to the next page in the dossier, a freeze-frame showing Fenerbahçe's last match against Trabzonspor.

"Watch here," Jake said, pointing. "See where Amrabat steps forward? He loses Szymański behind him. That moment of separation—that's where we get in."

Paul nodded slowly. "If Costa pulls Škriniar wide…"

"...then Richter can dart into the seam," Jake finished. "Exactly."

A brief pause hung between them as both men looked down at the still frame—like surgeons over a pre-op scan.

Then Jake leaned back and sighed. Not out of fatigue—but focus. The kind of breath someone takes when the picture in their head starts to click into place.

"Mourinho's gonna wait," he murmured. "He's gonna bait us. Sit deep early, let us have the ball. Then hit Džeko with Tadić underneath and Saint-Maximin on the break."

Paul smirked. "Classic."

"Yeah. But we're not playing into it. No rushed build-up. No high line. We force them to carry it. Make Džeko run."

Paul raised his coffee. "To leggy strikers in their thirties."

Jake smiled faintly. Then turned serious again. "I want the lads drilled hard. We need sharp transitions—real sharp. Pressing lanes, pressing lines, and quick balls into space."

Paul stood. "You want individual drills?"

Jake nodded. "Group midfield press. Wide overload patterns. Finishing with speed. If they give us the flanks, we flood 'em."

He stood up too now, pushing back his chair. "Let's get it drawn up. I want the lads ready before they touch the pitch."

Paul held up the rest of the scouting bundle. "I'll get the training staff on it."

Jake was already moving to the tactics board, uncapping a red marker.

"Good," he said without looking up. "Because if we don't get this right…"

He drew a long arrow slicing through Djiku's side of the defense.

"…they'll punish us in five minutes."

Tactical Breakdown

The small meeting room at the heart of the training complex smelled faintly of coffee and whiteboard cleaner. Jake stood at the front, marker in hand, diagrams already sprawling across three connected boards. Paul leaned over the laptop, syncing clips from Fenerbahçe's last two matches, frame by frame.

Jake tapped the image of Džeko holding off a defender in the box, circling him with a hard red stroke. "Barnes is glued to him," he said. "No space, no spin. He turns, we've failed."

Paul nodded, eyes still on the footage. "Fletcher sits just behind. He sweeps—doesn't dive in."

Jake moved to the next slide—Tadić drifting inside off the left, pulling a right-back with him and opening space for Saint-Maximin to ghost through the half-space. Another circle.

"We don't bite," Jake said. "Rojas holds position. No chasing shadows. Let Tadić have the ball—just not the freedom."

Paul scratched his chin. "You want us narrower?"

"In defense, yes. When we have it, we open the wings and stretch them."

Jake erased a section and started sketching new arrows. "Vélez plays deeper than usual. He shadows Szymański—never loses him. Ibáñez steps up on Fred. As soon as they build slow... we press in layers. Tight net."

Paul smirked. "And when we win it?"

Jake capped the marker. "Win it. Hit it. Finish it."

He turned to the squad sheet pinned beside the whiteboard, dragging a magnet into the second striker slot beside Costa.

"We'll start 4-4-2," he said. "Costa and Richter. Split them. Force Djiku and Škriniar to make choices—bad ones."

Paul raised an eyebrow. "You're going double up top against Mourinho?"

Jake gave a faint grin. "I'm not matching him. I'm baiting him."

Training Ground, Tuesday Noon

The locker room emptied in waves—fresh boots squeaking on the tunnel floors, light chatter muffled by anticipation. The squad had returned from their mandated rest, but the air was different today. Focused. Heavy with meaning.

Inside the tactical room, the UEFA media crew hovered around the edges, capturing shots for the highlight reel. Cables trailed along the corners, ignored by every player in the room.

Jake stood at the front with his arms folded, no projector, no whiteboard—just voice.

"They've got names," he said, tone flat. "You've got hunger. We match their organization. Then we outrun them."

Silva nodded quietly in the front row. Vélez leaned forward, arms on knees. Roney cracked his knuckles without looking up.

"Saint-Maximin's quick," Jake continued. "You're quicker when you think faster. They'll want to slow it down—walk the game. Don't let them. You dictate the rhythm."

No one spoke. Even the cameras stopped clicking.

Then he pointed toward the doors.

"Let's go."

Training Drills – Pitch 2 and 3

The first hour was pure tempo:

Midfield Pressing Drills—cones shaped into a Fenerbahçe midfield line. Ibáñez closed Fred in three-second windows. Vélez followed ghost markers as Szymański decoys ducked into gaps.

"Reset!" Paul barked. "Ball moves left—Ibáñez closes! Vélez, track the underlap!"

On Pitch 3, 6v4 transition waves broke like a tide: Silva, Richter, and Costa pushing into space against backpedaling mannequins, with assistants simulating full-speed counter traps.

"Hit the lane!" Jake shouted. "One touch, then run!"

Final hour, Crossing & Finishing. Silva and Roney served balls off tightly timed triggers—Richter front post, Costa peeling off the shoulder.

Silva floated one in, and Richter volleyed past the dummy keeper with a shout.

From the sideline, Jake didn't speak. He paced, slow and quiet, noting feet positioning, fatigue patterns, communication.

Paul leaned over as another drill reset. "They're locked in."

Jake just watched. "They'll need to be."

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Wednesday Wrap-Up

The final session was quiet—by design. Fewer whistles. More space. The weight of the match now rested on execution, not endurance.

Emeka moved freely again, hands taped, jaw tight with focus. Paul gave a thumbs up from the physio's report.

"Fully cleared," he whispered. "He's ready."

Jake nodded. "Then he starts."

Inside the media suite, the team gathered for one last breakdown. Jake stood beside the screen—not leading a seminar, just showing a truth.

Clip one: Djiku backpedaling too far, beaten by a journeyman winger from a Polish side.

Clip two: Škriniar frozen, caught on his heels.

Clip three: the goal—open net, embarrassed keeper.

He paused the frame on Djiku, twisted inside out, arms flailing.

Then he turned to the players.

"If he can—" he pointed at the winger "—so can you."

Silence.

Then Richter broke it with a short laugh under his breath.

Jake didn't smile. But he walked away knowing the message had landed.