Leon's heart hammered against his ribs. The win against Scarborough felt like a distant memory.

All that existed was the buzz in his hand and the unknown Swiss number on the screen.

He was in his tiny office, the smell of mud and sweat and cheap coffee hanging in the air. He let it ring twice more, his mind racing.

Is this the court? Did we do something wrong? Can they give us more minus points?

He finally answered, his voice barely a croak.

"Hello?"

"LEO! YOU MADMAN! YOU ACTUALLY WON A GAME!"

The voice was not Swiss. It was Italian-American, fast as a freight train, and utterly, wonderfully familiar.

"Marco?" Leon gasped, sinking into his chair in a wave of pure, unadulterated relief. "Why are you calling from a Swiss number? I thought I was being sued by a mountain."

"I'm in Geneva! At a stupid conference for 'agents of the future'," Marco roared down the line. "It's all about 'data' and 'analytics'. I told them my best client just won a match with a 2-1 'chaos-bomb' and a baker. They did not appreciate my 'vibes-based-scouting' model."

Leon laughed, the tension draining out of him so fast he felt light-headed. "Marco, you almost gave me a heart attack. What's up?"

"Ah, right, the 'why-I-am-actually-calling' part," Marco said, his voice suddenly shifting from 'friend' to 'agent'. "Look, Leo, you didn't hear this from me. And if anyone asks, this call never happened."

"Marco, what did you do?"

"Nothing! It's what they're doing," he said. "The FA. They are... how do I put this... 'apoplectic-with-rage'. Flavio Briatore and the President of UEFA made them look like a bunch of bumbling fools. They lost. They had to promote you. They are furious."

"So? What does that mean?" Leon asked, a cold knot of dread tightening in his stomach.

"It means they are going to war, Leo. Not with 'flaming-lawyer-swords' like Flavio. They're going to war with... paperwork. They're going to bury you in regulations. And they are starting with Biyon."

The knot in Leon's stomach turned to ice. "What about Biyon?"

"I just got a 'friendly heads-up' from a 'source' at the FA. They are officially opening an investigation into the 'player-coach loan registration' of one Biyon G. They say his dual-role as a 'rehabilitation-coach' and 'tactical-consultant' is a 'breach of non-league registration protocols 4.7b, subsection A'. They are claiming he is an 'improperly registered player' acting as a 'bench-official', which is... well, they're just making it up, Leo. But they are the FA. They can do that."

Leon's blood ran cold. "What... what does that mean? Are they taking him away?"

"No, no. Not yet. It's a 'cease and desist' for now," Marco said. "He is 'banned from the technical area'. He can't be on the bench, he can't be in the locker room during the match, he can't act as a club official. If he does, they will fine you. And if you keep doing it... they will start deducting points. More points, Leo."

Leon just stared at the wall, his beautiful, impossible -12-point dream suddenly feeling a whole lot further away. The FA wasn't just angry; they were being petty. They were taking away his best friend, his Champions League-winning assistant, his "emergency megaphone" hype man.

"Leo? You there? Don't worry!" Marco said, trying to sound optimistic. "We fight this! I'll call Flavio! I'll call..."

"No," Leon said, his voice quiet but suddenly firm. "No, Marco. Don't call anyone. They want a war of paperwork? Fine. But we have a war on the pitch. They want to take him off the bench? Fine." A slow, dangerous, and very 'Apex FC' idea began to form in his mind. "We'll adapt. Thanks, Marco. Talk soon."

He hung up before Marco could reply.

Twenty minutes later, Leon, Biyon, and Walter Samuel were gathered in the office. The mood was grim.

"They... they banned me?" Biyon said, looking utterly bewildered. His high-tech leg brace was propped up on a stack of old programs. "They banned me? I'm injured! I'm just a water boy with good ideas! I am... I am a tactical ghost! How can you ban a ghost?"

"They are not banning the ghost," Walter Samuel rumbled from the corner. He hadn't moved. "They are banning the 'person' from the 'bench'. It is a simple problem."

Biyon looked outraged. "Simple? They are trying to cut out our eyes! They are trying to..."

"So," Walter interrupted, his voice a flat, logical dead-weight. "He cannot be on the bench. So he will be in the stands. He cannot be in the locker room. So he will be in the tunnel. The problem is the same. The distance is just... bigger. Find the solution."

Leon looked from Biyon's furious, expressive face to Walter's stoic, unmoving one. And he grinned. "Walter's right, Biyon. They're not banning you. They're just banning you from that specific chair."

Biyon's eyes slowly lit up with a familiar, mischievous energy. "A... 'geographic-challenge'," he whispered.

"Exactly," Leon said. "So. Here's what we're going to do. Biyon, you're going to be our 'eye in the sky'. You're going to sit in the highest, best seat in the stadium. You're going to see the 'Pep-sized holes' before they even happen. You're going to be our tactical overwatch."

"I... I like this," Biyon said, his excitement growing. "An 'Eagle's Nest of Tactical Brilliance'!"

"But," Leon continued, "how do you get your 'tactical brilliance' from the 'Eagle's Nest' to me... on the 'bench of... mud'?"

Biyon's grin widened. "Compadre. We are going to need two walkie-talkies. And maybe," he said, his eyes shining, "a small, very discreet earpiece for our friend Walter."

Walter Samuel just sighed, a long, slow, suffering sound. "No."

The next Saturday, they were away at Southport. Scarborough had been "post-apocalyptic-football." Southport was the opposite. They were rich, they were smug, and they played a slow, boring, "we-are-too-good-for-this-league" possession game.

And Biyon G. was nowhere to be seen.

He was, in fact, in the main director's box, looking comically out of place in his Apex FC tracksuit and massive brace, a pair of binoculars around his neck and a walkie-talkie in his hand. He looked less like a football coach and more like a man planning a very, very friendly military coup.

Down on the bench, Leon paced. Walter Samuel stood beside him, arms crossed, his face a mask of stone. The only thing different about him was the tiny, flesh-colored 'Secret Service' earpiece in his right ear.

The first twenty minutes were awful. Southport passed the ball. And passed it. And passed it. Apex's players, led by the 'Badger', chased shadows, their "Confusing Butterfly" formation looking more like a "Confused Moth".

In the 24th minute, Southport's striker waltzed through the defense and slotted the ball into the corner. 1-0. It was exactly the "Pep-sized hole" Biyon had warned them about.

Leon's heart sank. He looked at Walter. Walter's face didn't change, but he suddenly winced, as if a very loud mosquito had flown into his ear.

"Biyon... is... expressive," Walter rumbled, his voice flat.

"What did he say, Walter?" Leon pleaded.

"He said... 'THE HOLE, LEO! THE GIANT, GAPING, PEP-HOLE OF DOOM! IT'S THE ETIHAD ALL OVER AGAIN! TELL THE BADGER TO STOP CHASING THE SHINY BALL!'" Walter relayed, in a perfect, gravelly monotone. "He also... used a word... I will not repeat."

Leon, despite the score, almost laughed. "He's right." He turned to his captain. "Liam! Liam! Stop pressing! Hold your shape! Tuck in! We're giving them the middle!"

The change was instant. The "Badger" stopped his "joyous aggression" and became a "disciplined wall." The hole was plugged. The game stabilized.

At halftime, Leon ran to the tunnel to meet Biyon, who hobbled down, his face red with excitement. "It's working! They can't break us down! But we're not... we're not creating anything, Leo! It's all 'defend, defend, defend'!"

"I know," Leon said, toweling sweat from his face. "But we earn the point first. Then we go for the win. What have you got?"

"Set pieces," Biyon said instantly. "Their keeper... he flaps. He's a 'flapper', Leo. He hates crosses. And their number 5... he loses 'The Mountain' every single time. We need to get Samuel Adebayo on that man."

The second half was a grueling, tense, ugly stalemate. Apex defended. Southport passed, and got increasingly frustrated.

In the 81st minute, Jamie Scott, the 'Racehorse', made a brilliant, thirty-yard sprint and won them a corner.

Leon looked at Walter. Walter, stone-faced, was listening to his ear. "Biyon... suggests... 'Operation Mountain'," Walter rumbled.

Leon nodded. He cupped his hands. "Samuel! SAMUEL! RUN IT! 'OPERATION MOUNTAIN'!"

'The Mountain', Samuel Adebayo, grinned. He knew exactly what that meant. He lined up against Southport's number 5, then, just as the kick was taken, he spun, using his "colossal shoulder" to shove his marker off balance, and thundered towards the near post.

The cross was perfect. 'The Mountain' rose, a giant, beautiful, unstoppable force, and met the ball with his head.

THWACK.

The net bulged.

1-1.

The tiny Apex away-end erupted. Biyon, in the director's box, was on his crutches, screaming into his walkie-talkie, getting strange looks from the Southport directors. Leon was punching the air. Walter Samuel... almost smiled.

The final whistle blew. A 1-1 draw. A single point, clawed back from a losing position, at one of the toughest grounds in the league. It was a victory.

They were now on -11.

Leon, exhausted, muddy, but happier than he had been in his entire life, was the last to leave the stadium. He got on the bus, his phone buzzing. It was Julián.

[Julián Álvarez]: A 'SPY-COACH'! A 'RADIO-CONTROLLED-WALL'! YOU ARE NOT A MANAGER, LEO! YOU ARE A TACTICAL JAMES BOND! I AM SO PROUD! I AM BUYING AN EARPIECE!

Leon laughed, pocketing his phone. He was about to close his eyes when he remembered he promised to call Sofia. He got off the bus, walking a few paces for privacy.

He called. She answered on the first ring.

"We drew!" he said, the joy bubbling in his voice. "We got a point! We did it, Sofia! We... "

"Leo," she interrupted. Her voice was strange. Quiet.

"Sof? What's wrong? Is it the baby? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Leo. The baby's fine... kicking, actually," she said, and he heard a small, watery laugh.

"It's just... I got a letter today. Well, an email. From my... from my father."

Leon's blood ran cold. Her father. The academic. The tactical purist. His old mentor.

"What... what did he say?"

"He said... he said he's been 'following your little project with academic interest'. He said the FA's 'punitive-yet-inept' handling of your case was 'fascinating'. And... he said he's coming to your next home match. He wants to 'observe your methods' in person."

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