Football System: Touchline God-Chapter 44: SFC Regional Office

The city blurred past in streaks of color and light. Morning commuters packed the platforms at each stop, their faces buried in their phones or staring into space. All of them trapped in their own small cages, pretending they had choices.

Eric’s reflection stared back at him from the window—a man who had once believed he could have it all. Love and respect. Success and integrity. A wife who would stand by him when the world tried to tear him down.

Now he wasn’t sure he had any of those things.

The taxi began to slow as it approached the city center. Eric closed his eyes and tried to imagine a future where this morning had gone differently. Where he’d told Alina the truth. Where she’d forgiven him. Where they’d found a way to fight together instead of tearing each other apart.

But every scenario he imagined ended the same way—with him on his knees, begging forgiveness from people who would never respect him anyway.

The taxi driver’s eyes met Maddox’s in the rearview mirror. His thick mustache twitched as he waited for an answer.

"Where to, mate?"

"SFC regional office," he said, finally snapping out of his thoughts. His voice sounded hollow even to his own ears. "Westfield district."

The driver nodded and pulled into traffic. The windshield wipers squeaked against the glass in a rhythm that matched Maddox’s heartbeat. Fast. Nervous. Desperate.

"You a coach then?" the driver asked, glancing back through the mirror.

"You can say that."

"My boy plays for Riverside Youth. Not bad, but they need someone who knows what they’re doing. Their current coach couldn’t organize a kickabout in a playground."

Maddox almost smiled. "It’s harder than people think."

"Everything is." The driver turned down a narrow street lined with office buildings. "Here we are, mate. That’ll be twelve Terras."

Maddox counted out the exact change and handed it to him.

"Good luck," the man said as Maddox climbed out.

The SFC regional office sat between a betting shop and a sandwich bar that had seen better days. The building was all gray concrete and small windows, built during an era when architects believed beauty was a waste of money. A faded sign hung above the entrance, the paint chipped and peeling.

Maddox stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, rain soaking through his jacket. His reflection stared back at him from the glass doors—a man who looked like he’d been through a war and lost.

His current coaching badge was Grade D+ Unlicensed Novice Coach. The words might as well have been branded on his forehead. In the football world, it was barely above worthless.

But he had experience now. Half a season with Silvergate Youth Sailors. Four wins, four losses in eight games. Not spectacular, but not terrible either. Balanced. Respectable.

It had to count for something.

The glass doors squeaked as he pushed them open. The lobby smelled like industrial cleaning products. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. A few plastic chairs sat arranged around a low table covered with outdated football magazines.

Behind a scratched plexiglass partition sat a woman with graying hair and thick glasses. She looked up from her computer screen with the expression of someone who’d been interrupted from something more important.

"How can I help you?"

"I need to upgrade my coaching badge." Maddox approached the window, pulling out his ID. "From D+ to C level."

She looked him up and down like she was evaluating livestock. "Name?"

"Eric Maddox."

Her fingers clicked across the keyboard with mechanical precision. The screen reflected in her glasses, showing rows of data that probably contained his entire professional stats in neat columns and numbers.

"Says here you were recently terminated from the Silvergate Academy Youth program."

The words hit like a slap. Maddox’s jaw tightened. "I completed half a season with four wins and four losses. That should qualify me for the next level." freewēbnoveℓ.com

"Hmm." She clicked through more screens. "You’ll need to submit a tactical dossier. Minimum fifteen pages. Analysis of your coaching methods, game strategies, player development techniques."

Maddox nodded. He’d expected this part.

"You’ll also need to pass the Live Match Simulation Test. That’s where licensed observers watch you coach a practice match and evaluate your decision-making, communication skills, and tactical awareness."

"When can I schedule it?"

"Next available slot is..." More clicking. "Two days from now, Tuesday. Two o’clock. Fee is Ninety-five Terras, payable in advance."

"Ninety-five Terras." Maddox counted the money in his wallet. After paying for the taxi, he had maybe forty terras left and he wasn’t with his credit card at the moment.

"Can I pay on the day of the test?"

The woman’s expression didn’t change, but somehow managed to become more disapproving. "Payment required at time of booking. No exceptions."

"Right." Maddox frowned at the lady’s attitude. "I’ll need to come back then."

"Suit yourself." She was already looking back at her computer screen, dismissing him with the kind of practiced indifference that came from dealing with desperate people all day.

Maddox turned away from the window, his footsteps echoing in the empty lobby. Through the glass doors, he could see people walking past on the sidewalk.

He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found Elira’s contact. His finger hovered over the call button for a long moment.

Then he sighed, switched off the phone, and walked out of the building. "I should probably get something to eat."

Outside, the rain continued to fall on the gray concrete city.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Maddox sat in the sandwich bar next door, eating a sandwich and nursing a cup of coffee. The taste was a little bitter, but it was warm, and he could make it last an hour if he was careful.

The tactical dossier wouldn’t take him long to write up. Ten pages of everything he’d learned from coaching at the youth level.

Everything he knew about the basic coaching techniques from his past life was enough to prove he was worthy of a Grade C coaching badge.

Maddox opened his notebook and began to write. The first line of his tactical dossier appeared in his careful handwriting:

[Football is a game of moments. The difference between winning and losing often comes down to a single decision, made in the space between one heartbeat and the next.]

He paused, pen hovering over the paper. Through the window, he could see people hurrying past in the rain, all of them chasing their own moments.

Maybe this was his. Maybe this was where everything started to change.

Or maybe it was just another step in a long fall that had no bottom.

Only one way to find out.

Maddox bent his head over the notebook and continued writing.

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