The Coaching System-Chapter 255: System Predictions And Training

The office lights stayed dim. Outside, the wind needled the window panes. Inside, only the soft pulse of the System filled the silence—its glow casting shifting lines across Jake's jaw as he leaned closer to the screen.

Projected win probability: 48%.

Draw: 30%.

Loss: 22%.

He didn't blink at the numbers. They weren't gospel. Just a reflection of what the algorithm saw—statistical patterns, weighted averages, and thousands of simulated outcomes stitched into a single guess.

Jake wasn't guessing.

On screen, player models slid across a virtual pitch. Partizan's shape held for three passes. Then came the moment—lateral ball to the right, their left center-back rotated late, hips caught square. The next frame showed the space split wide open.

Jake paused the clip.

Then tapped twice, isolating the run and expanding the view. Recovery angle: wrong. Tracking footwork: two steps behind. The domino effect spread from there—the fullback had overcommitted. The midfield failed to screen.

He didn't need more footage.

Not when the weakness showed itself in half a heartbeat.

"Silva and Costa…" Jake muttered, the corners of his mouth twitching, "eat those gaps alive."

No excitement in his voice. Just recognition.

The kind that came from knowing exactly where the knife should go.

TUESDAY AND WEDNESDAY TRAINING

The frost didn't melt till late morning.

Boots snapped against the surface like brittle glass. Breath came out in ghost-trails. The training pitch at Valley Parade looked like it had been frozen mid-war—mud patched white, cones barely visible, nets sagging with dew that refused to thaw.

Jake stood still at the halfway line, coat zipped to his jaw, hood up. Not for warmth. Just insulation. No chatter. No ambient noise. Just the drills and the cold and the sound of it all being forged again.

Silva moved first—always the one to start the tempo. His diagonal runs weren't fast, but they were shaped like something practiced in sleep. Left to right, cutting across the line, his hips dropped low as he curled inside the cones and found the invisible channel toward goal. Paul Robert fired the service. One bounce. Touch. Drag. Shot. Reset.

Then again.

Jake didn't speak. Just watched the way Silva's ankle held through contact. The way his eyes scanned for a defender who wasn't there. And on the third rep, that half-second pause before the strike—just enough hesitation to leave a foot in the door if Partizan got their timing right.

Jake took a breath, slow.

"Again," he said, flat.

No anger. No edge. Just a stone tossed into the stillness.

Roney shadowed the drill on the opposite flank. His gait was different—looser, almost too explosive. Where Silva sliced, Roney cracked. Every turn looked like it hurt someone. He nearly lost his balance on a pivot and swore under his breath.

"Reset the hips," Jake called, not looking.

Roney did. No complaint. Ball back to the cone. Next run.

On the far pitch, Ethan gritted his way through passing channels. Shirt clung damp against his back. Breath heavy. Vélez moved beside him—slower, more composed, but burning the same fuel. This was the pairing Jake had circled three weeks ago. Distribution with weight and whip. Not just ball movement—ball prediction.

Ethan turned too early once. The pass from Vélez clipped his shin and rolled out wide.

Jake checked the stopwatch. 3.4 seconds between trap and trigger.

Too slow.

He stepped closer, voice carrying low across the pitch.

"Ethan," he called, tone clean. "Feel the trigger before the ball gets there."

The boy gave a tight nod, bit the inside of his cheek, reset. This time he checked over his shoulder before the pass came. Opened his body. Angle sharp. Ball slipped clean through the cones to the next point.

Jake didn't say good. Didn't clap. He just stepped back.

The improvement was obvious. That was enough.

Toward the south end, Munteanu worked alone under siege.

Paul sent crosses into the six-yard box like he was trying to break bones. The rebound rig flung shots low and fast from every angle. The Romanian didn't flinch. No screams. No barked orders. Just short steps, soft landings, fast hands. When one shot rebounded hard off the turf and skidded toward the far post, Munteanu shifted late and tipped it with his thigh.

Jake raised an eyebrow. Quiet save. Ugly save. But it would've mattered on Thursday night.

Good.

They shifted drills.

1v1s now.

No more cones. No patterns. Just defenders and attackers locked in a box ten meters wide, told to find the edge or stop it. The tempo jumped instantly. Silva went past Richards on the first attempt with a burst Jake hadn't seen in weeks. Roney had to be pulled back after two late challenges. Kang Min-jae barked once in Korean when Rasmussen tried a nutmeg. Sweat replaced the frost. Mouths opened wider. No one jogged.

No one coasted.

They finished the bulk of the session with set-pieces. Vélez bent near-post deliveries again and again while Barnes and Kang ran routes through the training dummies like they were punching through glass. Chapman joined midway through, marking opposition movement patterns from memory, whispering to Lowe between reps.

Jake stood near the line, hands deep in his coat, watching not the delivery but the timing. The staggered footwork. The moment when belief had to outrun the man marking you.

No one asked when the whistle would blow.

They ran until the light started falling off the edges of the pitch.

When Jake finally raised his hand, boots crunched to a halt. Players hunched, stretched, held hips and ankles. No one joked. No one laughed. Just deep, even breaths and a dull throb across every leg.

Jake's voice cut clean through it all.

"They'll press like it's personal," he said, eyes locked on the far goal. "Make them regret it."

No need for applause. No reply. The silence was its own answer.

They walked off as one. Slowly. No limp, no swagger—just the weight of a team being sharpened to the edge.

The valley wouldn't sleep easy until Thursday.

And Jake liked it that way.

Pre-Match Conference – Matchday Afternoon

Location: Valley Parade, Media Room

Date: Thursday, 19 February 2026 – 1:30 PM

The room had the usual buzz of artificial lighting and camera clicks—half anticipation, half caffeine. Microphones lined the front desk in messy formation. Bradford's crest sat behind Jake Wilson like a quiet flag of war. Next to him, Guilherme Costa leaned back slightly, fingers steepled beneath the table. His eyes scanned the crowd the way a striker scans a box—calm, selective, unbothered.

Reporters filled the first three rows. UEFA's crew took the front left. BT Sport sat beside them. A local Bradford outlet hovered near the back, notepad already half-full.

The moderator tapped the mic. "We'll begin now. Please state your name and outlet before each question."

A woman in a navy jumper spoke first, her press badge catching the light.

"Emily Vaughan, UEFA. Jake—what defines this Bradford team now, especially heading into a European knockout?"

Jake didn't shift. Didn't smile. Just leaned forward enough to close the distance between thought and answer.

"Self-awareness," he said. "We know our weapons, and we know when to use them. That's it."

No dramatics. No flex. Just clarity.

Next, a hand shot up from BT Sport. A man with greying temples and a notepad dog-eared at the corners.

"Mark Templeton, BT. What do you make of Partizan's pressing game? They've caused problems for teams with more European pedigree."

Jake gave a small nod.

"They press hard. They press high. But they don't press forever. Pressure's only dangerous when you forget who you are. If we stick to rhythm, space opens."

A few scribbled faster. Cameras zoomed in.

Someone from Serbian Sports Weekly stood up next.

"Coach, your team is young—very young. How do you handle experience at this level?"

Jake leaned back.

"By remembering experience doesn't always win matches. Execution does."

That one drew a pause. Even Costa glanced sideways, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The moderator pointed again, this time to a BBC journalist toward the right aisle.

"Question for Guilherme—Costa, you've scored in every European round so far. Do you feel the pressure to deliver again?"

Costa didn't answer immediately. Just raised one brow, then leaned into the mic with that effortless looseness he carried everywhere. freёwebnoѵel.com

"No," he said, grin widening. "Pressure's for defenders."

A few laughed.

He waited—then added, "I just finish the stories Silva starts."

Laughter bloomed louder now. Even Jake cracked a smile.

Then came a question from a younger reporter near the back—local accent, fresh nerves.

"Jake, is tonight about survival? Or setting a statement?"

The room quieted.

Jake let the silence hold for a breath before replying.

"Survival is for clubs waiting on miracles," he said. "We came to play our game. Let's see if they can handle it."

No follow-ups. No interruptions.

Just the quiet rustle of pens catching up.

The moderator checked the time.

"One last question."

A soft-spoken voice from a Balkan outlet asked in accented English, "What would a win tonight mean?"

Jake's reply came without hesitation.

"Another ninety minutes earned. Nothing more. But everything starts with that."

The session ended with a ripple of chairs, flashes of photos, a few nods exchanged.

Outside, the wind was picking up over Valley Parade.

Inside, the tone had already been set.

Bradford weren't chasing legacy.

They were building it. Brick by brick. Answer by answer. Step by cold step.