The Coaching System-Chapter 183: Bradford City vs Fenerbahçe (UECL League Stage, Matchday 1) Part 3

He glances toward Silva, who's still catching his breath, brow furrowed.

"Trust the runs."

He turns to face them fully now—slow, measured—eyes sweeping from Ibáñez to Barnes, to Vélez, then to Emeka near the door. For a moment, it's quiet again, like time is holding its breath.

"This match is still ours."

The board clicks off. The projection vanishes in a blink.

A pause. Then boots thump back to the ground. Shoulders square. No cheers. No speeches. Just focus—sharp and cold as steel.

Paul steps forward with a clipboard and murmurs the final subs and shifts. Jake doesn't add a word.

The players rise—slowly, purposefully.

They're ready.

Second Half

46'--

The tunnel light flickers as both teams emerge again. Flares have dimmed now, but the hum of anticipation hasn't. Valley Parade is buzzing—on edge, waiting.

The referee checks his watch. The whistle shrills. The second half is on.

Commentator (Ian Darke):

"Well, if the first half was a prizefight, the second promises to be a war. Bradford down 2–1, but not down for long, I suspect…"

Bradford's shape is more aggressive right away. Rojas pushes higher. Silva floats into half-spaces. Ibáñez barks orders, arms constantly pointing.

Jake, silent on the touchline, shifts his weight forward. Arms folded. Watching everything.

Costa presses Djiku with sudden energy. Fletcher launches a quick throw-in.

You can feel it: Bradford have a foot on the gas now.

49' –

Ibáñez steps into a 50-50 with Fred—and wins it cleanly. A chest-high header knocks the ball down into space for Vélez, who takes it in stride like he knew it was coming.

One touch to control. One to spot the runner.

Bardghji is already motoring down the right channel, level with Silva. Vélez threads a gorgeous pass between full-back and centre-back—inch-perfect, skipping over the grass with menace.

Commentator:

"Look at this from Vélez—precision in boots, that boy!"

Bardghji takes it in stride, a single touch to kill the ball, then cuts inside sharply—leaving Kadioglu grasping at shadows. Inside the box now, on his stronger left.

He shoots. Low. Hard. Through legs.

Darke:

"Just wide! Bardghji nearly had his reward—Livaković was rooted!"

The crowd rises thinking it's in. Costa throws his arms up. Bardghji puts hands to head, grinning through gritted teeth.

Livaković barely moved. He just turns to retrieve the ball, grateful.

Co-commentator (Michael Owen):

R𝑒ad latest chapt𝒆rs at freewebnovёl.ƈom Only.

"That's the danger of this kid, Roney Bardghji. He's electric. You give him a sliver, and he nearly makes it gospel."

Jake doesn't celebrate—but he turns briefly to Paul on the bench and mutters something under his breath. Paul just nods.

Bradford aren't backing down. They're waking up.

52' –

It starts with a moment of boldness.

Vélez receives a flat pass from Ibáñez just inside the centre circle—Fred steps up, poised to pressure—but Vélez feints left, then drags the ball through with the outside of his right foot, spinning away into open grass. The Bradford fans feel the shift, a rise in tempo—like a note held a beat too long before the drop.

Commentator (Ian Darke):

"Oh, that's gorgeous from Vélez—sent Fred for a programme!"

He surges forward. Yellow shirts scramble to recover. Amrabat backpedals. Djiku angles across. But Vélez doesn't look up—he already knows where Bardghji is.

He pings it wide.

Roney Bardghji, already sprinting along the touchline, cushions it with his instep like it's Velcro. But he doesn't stop. His next touch isn't to control—it's to release.

A first-time flick around the corner. Into space.

Costa.

Timing immaculate. Speed electric. Djiku turns—too late. He stumbles as he tries to catch up, trailing like a lost carriage on a runaway train.

Costa takes one touch to set himself, brushing the ball out of his stride—then without breaking motion, smashes it from an absurd angle, just outside the corner of the six-yard box. No angle. No hesitation.

A bullet.

Darke:

"Ohh what a finish! That is ridiculous from Costa!"

Co-Commentator (Michael Owen):

"That's a striker's goal, Ian. That's confidence, that's conviction. He didn't even think about squaring it!"

The net ripples violently—Livaković's hand swipes through air. The ball slams the underside of the bar and bounces in.

Valley Parade erupts. It's primal. Scarves go flying. Beers spill. The noise folds over itself.

Roney charges to the corner flag. Costa slides on both knees in front of the Kop, arms out wide. Silva jumps on his back. Fletcher sprints the length of the pitch to join.

Darke:

"Well, well! We said Bradford weren't out of this—and now, they're all square! 2–2, and Valley Parade is bouncing like a nightclub on payday!"

On the sideline, Jake remains still. But the rigid tension in his shoulders drops slightly. His jaw unclenches. He gives Paul a subtle nod.

Then he points toward the halfway line.

Jake (to no one in particular):

"Next one's ours too."

58' –

A lull in midfield is broken when Amrabat skips a line and feeds Saint-Maximin with a zipped ball to feet. Rojas closes, but Saint-Maximin is on skates—one touch to roll it, another to burst past.

Darke:

"Here he goes again—Saint-Maximin like mercury!"

Ibáñez slides across to help, but the winger simply shifts the ball and spins through both defenders, now accelerating toward the byline like he's flying downhill. Bradford fans groan and rise to their feet in unison.

He slows—calculating—then with the outside of his right foot, lifts a teasing ball to the far post. It floats, curling toward the danger zone, past Emeka's outstretched hand.

Tadić appears out of nowhere at the back stick, ghosting past Taylor. He lunges—just a toe on it.

The touch redirects the cross toward the six-yard box. Džeko is there, winding up for a free header—

Darke:

"This is real danger now… Džeko waiting like a guillotine—"

Emeka springs up like a coil. Late—but not too late. He doesn't catch. He claws. Both fists slam through the ball, punching it into orbit before Džeko can make contact.

Bradford clear. The home crowd lets out a collective breath, the kind that sounds like they've just been dunked underwater.

Owen:

"Emeka! Big moment, that. That's what you want from your keeper when the box is chaos. Command it."

On the sideline, Jake offers a single nod. But his hand grips the collar of his coat tighter.