The Coaching System-Chapter 258: UECL Round of 16, 1st Leg: Bradford City vs Partizan Belgrade 3

60 minutes. The rhythm was back in Bradford's hands—possession skipping between boots like it trusted them more than the ground beneath it.

Roney picked up a loose pass on the left and drifted toward the edge of the final third, slow at first. Then a flick—quick, cheeky, a nutmeg that sent his marker one way and the crowd the other.

Gasps turned to applause.

Until the second defender crashed in late.

Boot to ankle.

Roney spun once midair, landed hard, and curled inward with a grunt. The linesman's flag didn't twitch—it didn't need to. The referee's whistle was already rising.

Free kick. Just a yard outside the box. Left-hand channel. Wide enough to cross. Close enough to shoot.

Silva jogged over casually, rolling his shoulders as if he wasn't interested in anything more than a breather. He picked the ball up, set it down like an afterthought, then turned toward the touchline and raised a single finger.

The crowd murmured. Confused.

Short?

It didn't look rehearsed.

But Ethan Wilson had already drifted five yards back into space. Eyes not on Silva—on the arc just outside the D.

Silva rolled it lightly backward, not sideways.

Ethan pretended to open his hips for a wide touch—but instead chopped it back inside, just enough to pull Partizan's press forward.

And Chapman—who had come on moments earlier—stepped into the pocket between all of it. Like he'd waited for that square of grass to be his since warm-up.

First touch: perfect weight.

Second touch: laced.

The ball didn't rise.

It skidded with purpose, violent and certain, low through traffic and inside the far post.

Keeper full stretch.

Didn't matter.

The net buckled like it had taken a punch to the ribs.

Bradford City 2–0 Partizan Belgrade.

Valley Parade detonated. Seats rattled. Scarves flew. Half the squad sprinted toward the corner flag before Chapman could even register what he'd done.

Daniel Mann's voice climbed above the thunder:

"Chapman off the bench—and into the story!"

Michael Johnson wasn't far behind:

"That's a finish with violence. Cold-blooded violence."

On the sideline, Jake didn't flinch.

He turned to Paul Robert, eyebrows raised just slightly.

"Timing," he said quietly.

"Perfect timing."

64 minutes. Valley Parade still humming. Not noise—expectation. Like a crowd leaning forward in its seat before a symphony's next movement.

Jake didn't glance at the clock. He didn't need to.

Paul Robert was already standing, board in hand, names ready. Walsh. Holloway. Richter. The three waited behind him, like actors in the wings—boots tapping softly, gloves adjusted out of habit.

Jake turned to Costa first.

No big gesture. No dramatic call.

Just a quiet tilt of the head, a hand resting on each shoulder as Costa stepped close.

Jake didn't raise his voice. Didn't say anything new. Just enough.

"Not pressure," he murmured. "Just poetry."

Costa looked him in the eye, jaw set, breathing light. Then he turned slightly toward the pitch and exhaled. Not from fatigue—but release. His glance at the scoreboard wasn't a check—it was a challenge. Like a painter nodding at a half-finished canvas.

Then he jogged back toward the halfway line, the final touches still in him.

Three minutes later.

Fourth official raised the board.

67'.

Walsh on for Roney.

Holloway on for Taylor—who'd been walking a tightrope since the first yellow.

Richter on for Costa.

The changes unfolded without fanfare. But everything in them was intentional.

Roney, sweat streaking his fringe, jogged toward Walsh with a grin. No words—just handed off his gloves, tapped twice over his heart, and pointed to Silva. A gesture that said: feed him.

Taylor slapped Holloway's hand with a laugh—muted, but grateful. One less burden carried.

Then came Costa.

Applause from every side of Valley Parade. Not wild. Not raucous.

Respectful.

Four corners of respect.

He didn't milk it. No arms raised high. No badge kissed.

Just a raised palm and a quiet bow of the head.

He walked off like a man who'd done what he came to do.

Jake didn't smile. frёewebηovel.cѳm

Didn't move.

Just folded his arms again as the wind tugged faintly at his coat.

The pieces had shifted. The tempo had changed.

But the control?

Still theirs.

72 minutes. Partizan went for it. Triple switch. Three shirts off the bench in a blur—two wide men with fresh legs and a No. 10 who didn't look interested in passing. The intent was loud: isolate, flood a side, and pull Bradford's shape apart by sheer volume.

Jake tracked it with his eyes but didn't flinch. Paul Robert muttered something beside him. Jake didn't answer—just adjusted the line of his coat and watched the formation shift under pressure.

And it did shift. Fast.

First target: Holloway's side.

The ball came quick. A one-two out wide. Holloway bit too early—caught slightly square.

The Partizan winger took half a yard and burst past.

For a second, Valley Parade held its breath.

Then Holloway recovered. Closed the angle. Slid low—not rash, not late. Studs down, hip first, clean ball.

He sent it out for a throw. No glory, just function.

Barnes didn't let it slide.

He turned as the team reset, voice sharp but not cruel: "Next one, we step together!"

It wasn't anger. It was standard.

The very next attack came from the same side—Partizan pushing it again, banking on disruption.

But this time, Fletcher stepped early. Read the diagonal before it left the boot.

He didn't wait for it to bounce. Closed the space, leaned his weight forward, and met the run before it could grow teeth.

Clatter.

Ball loose.

Rojas was already moving—on his toes before the ricochet even landed. He swept up the second ball clean and turned away from trouble like it was muscle memory.

Jake didn't say a word.

Didn't need to.

That sequence had said enough.

75 minutes and the match no longer burned—it simmered.

Vélez took the temperature first. He didn't sprint, didn't dart. Just drifted into the center pocket, letting the ball roll across his body before tapping it sideways to Chapman. Then back again. Then once more.

Each pass was intentional. Lateral, sure—but never flat. Each one stole seconds. Drew out Partizan's midfield like a fisherman drawing slack from a net. They chased, stepped, pulled tight—and Bradford let them.

Chapman dropped deeper now, pivoting beside Lowe. A two-man anchor, wide enough to catch stray second balls, compact enough to block counters. Chapman didn't look like a No. 10 anymore. More like a regista with a hammer tucked under his boot. Each touch bought time. Each backward motion reset the pulse.

Walsh stayed just ahead, always showing. One step into the channel, back out again, hand raised but never demanding. He made space look casual, leaning into pockets and giving the pass back clean—then jogging away like a pickpocket already halfway down the street.

Holloway joined sparingly. Not reckless like in October. Now he ran to ask a question, not answer one. He overlapped once, pulled a defender with him, and left Walsh free to float again. Then he jogged back, glancing over his shoulder—not chasing, just checking.

On the other side, Rojas played chess.

Partizan tried two long diagonals to their substitute winger—both angled high and wide.

Neither made it past Rojas.

The first he tracked early, letting it bounce once before easing it back to Munteanu. No panic. No rush.

The second, he cut off mid-air—reading the flight like it was printed in braille. Chest down, one bounce, passed clean into Lowe's stride.

Bradford weren't defending. They were dictating.

Michael Johnson's voice cracked through the broadcast:

"This is what maturity looks like. Play fast, slow it down, choke the tempo. Bradford aren't just athletic—they're smart."

Jake stayed still near the technical area. Arms crossed, face unreadable. But behind his silence, he saw it clearly.

The match wasn't theirs yet.

But the rhythm was.