The Coaching System-Chapter 159: The Team Meeting

The Room Falls Silent

The squad filtered into the meeting room in small groups, some chatting in hushed tones, others with their heads down, locked in their own thoughts. The new season was just days away, and every single person in that room knew what was at stake.

Jake Wilson stood at the front, his arms folded, eyes sweeping across the players. Some leaned forward, resting elbows on their knees, others sat back, but one thing was clear—every single one of them was locked in.

This was the meeting that set the tone for everything.

Paul Roberts, his assistant, stood at the side, arms crossed, a knowing expression on his face. Michael Stone, the sporting director, was present too, though he didn't speak. This was Jake's moment. His voice, his message.

He let the room settle, the quiet stretching long enough for everyone to feel it.

Then he spoke.

"This Is the Season."

"I won't keep you here long," Jake started, his voice calm, measured. "Because you already know what this is about."

He paced slightly, hands on his hips, then stopped.

"This is the biggest season of our careers."

No one moved. No one blinked. The weight of the words sat heavy.

He turned, letting his eyes linger on each player.

"We're not just here to play football," he continued. "We're here to make history."

Jake's voice was firm but steady, carrying across the room like a challenge. He wasn't going to yell, wasn't going to hammer his fists on the table. He didn't need to.

They already felt it.

The Three Objectives

Jake Wilson stood firm at the front of the room, his posture unshakable, his expression as serious as the occasion demanded. He could feel the anticipation in the air, the unspoken hunger rippling through the squad like an unchained force. They weren't here for another hopeful campaign. They were here to impose their will.

With deliberate movement, Jake raised a single finger.

"One—Win the Championship."

He let those words hang in the air, allowing them to settle, allowing them to burn into every mind in that room.

"We don't settle for playoffs," he said, voice low but sharp. "We don't fight for scraps. We take what's ours."

There were no doubtful looks, no lingering disappointments from a past failure—because there had been none. The previous season had been nothing short of dominant. They hadn't scraped their way to the Championship; they had bulldozed their way through League One, finishing as champions with an unassailable 117 points. No other team had come close. They had broken records, silenced doubters, and made a statement to the footballing world.

They had been relentless. Thirty-eight wins. Three draws. Five losses. A total of 117 points—the highest in EFL history.

No last-minute slip-ups. No heartbreak. No 'nearly but not quite.'

They had dominated.

And yet, Jake wasn't interested in celebrating that now. It was done. In the past.

"The job isn't finished," he continued, scanning the room. "We ran through League One like it was nothing. Now we prove that was just the beginning."

Some nodded. Others clenched their jaws. They had felt the power of what they had built last season. They knew exactly what they were capable of.

"That's not happening again," Jake said, voice sharper now. "Because we are not here to fight for a playoff spot. We are here to win the damn thing."

His eyes flicked toward Noah Fletcher, the captain, who responded with the subtlest of nods. They were on the same page. Everyone was.

"We will win the Championship. Automatic promotion. No discussions. No doubts."

The energy in the room shifted. The fire in their eyes was unmistakable.

Jake lifted a second finger.

"Two—Europe."

A few glances were exchanged, but this time, there was no hesitation.

"We earned our place in the UEFA Conference League," Jake said, his tone unwavering. "It wasn't given to us. It wasn't a fluke. We fought for it."

And they had. Their performances in the domestic cups the previous season had been nothing short of sensational, knocking out bigger sides on their way to European qualification. It had been a momentous achievement—one that would forever be etched in the club's history.

But now?

Now, it meant nothing unless they proved they belonged.

"The world doesn't expect anything from us," Jake continued, eyes scanning the players. "They think we'll be out in the group stage. That we'll just be happy to be there."

He exhaled, shaking his head.

"They think we're tourists."

A pause.

"They're wrong."

A few smirks spread across the room. A few players straightened in their seats.

"They don't know what we're about." His voice had an edge to it now. "But they will."

And they would.

There was no fear of Europe in this room. No nervous excitement. Only determination.

"This isn't just a reward for last season. It's a challenge. And we do not back down from challenges."

Jake allowed that to sit for a moment, then lifted a third finger.

"Three—The Cups."

A murmur spread across the room. They already knew what was coming.

"The FA Cup and the EFL Cup?" Jake's eyes moved deliberately across the room, ensuring they all understood. "We take them seriously."

There was no dismissive tone. No mention of 'rotating the squad' or 'prioritizing the league.' Other clubs might do that, but they weren't other clubs.

"We don't throw games away."

A few nods.

"We fight on every front."

Another nod.

"You want to play at Wembley? You want to lift a trophy?" Jake let that question hang, his eyes burning with intensity. "Then act like it."

And they would.

They weren't going to be one of those teams that treated cup competitions like an inconvenience. They weren't here to 'focus on the league' while bowing out early.

They were here to win. Everything.

Jake took a step forward, lowering his voice slightly.

"No More Excuses."

"I don't want to hear about fixture congestion," he said, scanning the room. "I don't want to hear about referees, unlucky bounces, or tough opponents."

His voice was steel.

"Because we don't back down from any challenge."

The room was silent.

Every single player in that room understood.

Every single one of them was ready.

Jake's eyes swept across them one last time.

"If you want this season to be different, prove it."

A beat passed.

Then—

"Yes, gaffer."

A single voice.

Then another.

And another.

A growing chorus of agreement.

The murmurs grew louder. Some clapped, some nodded, but the energy in the room had changed.

This squad was ready.

The Players Speak

A beat passed.

Then, Nathan Barnes—the captain—leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed, unflinching.

"We've come too far to stop now."

His voice carried a quiet intensity, the kind that didn't need to be loud to command attention.

Across the room, Richter, the towering center-back, nodded. His jaw was set, eyes dark with a fire that had been burning since last season. "Last season still stings."

There was no heartbreak, no final-day collapse, but that wasn't the point. They had crushed League One—117 points, champions, automatic promotion—but they weren't interested in just being another team making up the numbers in the Championship.

They wanted more.

Sitting next to Richter, Vélez cracked his knuckles. The Argentine midfielder had been a revelation last season, dictating play with a mix of elegance and aggression. He met Barnes' gaze, then glanced around at the others.

"I don't want to just play in Europe," Vélez said, his accent sharp, his tone sharper. "I want to win in Europe."

A murmur rippled through the room.

Then a chuckle.

Obi, one of the younger players, grinned as he leaned back in his chair. His confidence was infectious, and everyone knew it. "Forget just winning in Europe. I want Wembley."

There was no arrogance in his voice. Just belief.

Paul Roberts, standing at the side with arms crossed, smirked slightly. The assistant manager had seen plenty of squads over the years, plenty of big talk before seasons began—but this was different. This wasn't empty bravado.

"You lot are talking like a team that believes they can do it," Roberts said, amusement laced in his tone.

Jake, still standing at the front, nodded.

"That's because they are."

He didn't need to say anything else.

He saw it in their eyes.

esitation, no uncertainty. This wasn't a plea for commitment—it was a demand.

Nathan Barnes sat up straighter, his fingers interlocked as he took in his manager's words. He didn't need to speak this time. His presence alone was enough.

Jake let the silence stretch, let them sit in the moment.

Then—

"If you want this season to be different, prove it."

The words cut through the air like a knife.

A pause.

Then—

"Yes, gaffer."

A single voice.

Then another.

Then another.

The murmurs grew louder. Some clapped, some nodded.

Nathan Barnes stood, glancing at his teammates, his expression set in stone. Then he looked at Jake, offering a single nod.

This squad wasn't just ready.

They were hungry.

The System's Prediction

Jake clicked open the Championship table.

Leicester. Southampton. Norwich.

Big clubs. Premier League experience. Budgets bigger than their entire squad combined.

Didn't matter.

He exhaled, cracked his knuckles, and pulled up the system window. Fingers hovered over the keyboard. One simple question.

"What are our chances of promotion?"

The screen flickered. A pause. Then—

"70%."

Jake smirked. Good enough. They weren't favorites, but they were in the fight.

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He shut the laptop, rolled his shoulders, and stood. Tomorrow, the war started.

A Quiet Night

The house was dark when he got home. Just the soft hum of the TV.

Emma was curled up on the couch, blanket pulled to her chin. Half-asleep.

Jake dropped his keys on the counter, kicked off his shoes, and sat beside her. "Hey."

She stirred, blinking up at him. "Mm. What time is it?"

"Late."

Her eyes flicked to his face, reading him like a book. "You're thinking about tomorrow."

Jake let out a breath. "Hard not to."

Emma shifted closer, resting her head against his chest. "You ready?"

A beat. Then, Jake nodded. "Yeah."

The season was here. No more talk. Just war.