Few years later...
The email arrived at 2:13 a.m.
Malik almost ignored it.
He was sitting behind the counter of Mr. Babu's store, hood over his head, laptop open beside a pile of tactical notes and half-finished scouting reports from leagues nobody around him cared about.
The fluorescent light above buzzed softly.
Outside, rain crawled down the glass.
His phone vibrated once.
Unknown Sender.
For a second, he thought it was spam again another fake academy invitation or some random football page asking for an interview after the East-Bridge run.
Then he saw the subject line.
> CD Miraflores : Managerial Interview Invitation
Malik stared.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
His heartbeat quietly changed rhythm.
A professional club.
Not academy football. Not youth football.
Professional football.
He clicked the email open immediately.
>Dear Mr. Malik Amari,
Following internal discussions regarding our current managerial vacancy, Club Deportivo Miraflores would like to formally invite you for an interview regarding the position of First Team Manager.
We are aware of your recent achievements and coaching qualifications and believe your profile aligns with the direction the club wishes to explore moving forward.
Details regarding travel and accommodation have been attached below.
Regards,
Elena Ruiz Sporting Director Club Deportivo Miraflores
Manager.
Not assistant.
Manager.
Malik leaned back slowly.
The word felt dangerous.
Professional football wasn't East-Bridge.
Here:people got fired weekly,newspapers destroyed careers overnight,fans demanded blood after three bad matches,and boards lied as naturally as breathing.
And yet…
He smiled.
Small. Sharp.
This was exactly what he wanted.
Three days later.
Northern Spain.
Rain hammered softly against the taxi windows as Malik watched the city pass by.
Small buildings. Narrow roads. Old football murals fading on cracked walls.
Miraflores wasn't glamorous.
That usually meant one thing: the club was broke.
The taxi eventually slowed near a modest stadium tucked between gray apartment blocks and old warehouses.
Estadio Municipal de Miraflores.
Capacity: 8,200.
Half the exterior paint was peeling.
The club badge above the entrance looked faded by time itself.
But Malik still stared at it longer than necessary.
Because this… was his first professional club.
The driver glanced at him through the mirror.
"You football?"
Malik nodded slightly.
The man laughed.
"You picked difficult club."
Not exactly comforting.
Inside the stadium offices, everything smelled faintly of old paper and coffee.
A receptionist led him upstairs through narrow corridors lined with historic team photos.
Promotion-winning squads. Cup runs. Legends of a different era.
Football clubs always carried ghosts.
And smaller clubs carried the heaviest ones.
Eventually, the receptionist stopped outside large wooden doors.
"Boardroom."
Malik adjusted his coat slightly.
Then entered.
The room fell quiet immediately.
Five people sat around a long table.
Some looked curious.
Others already looked disappointed.
At the center sat a woman in a navy blazer, sharp-eyed and composed.
"Elena Ruiz," she said. "Sporting Director."
Beside her:
club president Mateo Villalba,
finance director Sergio Molina,
head of recruitment Luis Ortega,
and operations director Clara Mendes.
Malik shook hands carefully.
He could feel them analyzing him already.
Too young. Too calm. Too unknown.
Mateo Villalba finally spoke.
"You are younger than my son."
Straight to it.
Malik almost smiled. "I've heard worse openings."
A few chuckles.
Not from everyone.
Sergio Molina remained unimpressed.
" Your Spanish is impressive too"
Malik bowed. "I learn a lot"
"You have never managed professional football."
"No."
"You have never handled senior dressing rooms."
"No."
"You have never dealt with transfer negotiations, agent politics, media pressure, relegation battles, wage disputes or board expectations."
"No."
Silence.
Then Malik leaned slightly forward.
"But I've solved every football problem people told me I couldn't solve."
That shifted the room slightly.
Not arrogance.
Belief.
There was a difference.
Elena opened a file.
"Let's stop pretending this is a normal appointment," she said calmly.
"Miraflores are seventeenth in the league. Two points above relegation. Financially unstable. Attendance falling. We've changed managers three times in eighteen months."
She slid papers across the table.
"Our wage budget is among the lowest in the division."
Another file.
"Our training facilities rank near the bottom of the league."
Another.
"Several senior players are out of contract soon."
Then finally:
"And the dressing room has become difficult."
Malik scanned everything quietly.
Wage structure. Squad ages. Injury history. League table. Expected goals statistics. Defensive record.
Thirty-seven goals conceded already.
Terrible.
But something caught his eye immediately.
The squad's sprint numbers.
Low pressing frequency. Minimal high turnovers. Poor conditioning data.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Mateo folded his arms.
"Well?"
Malik looked up.
"You want honesty?"
"We wouldn't invite you otherwise."
He nodded slowly.
"Your squad isn't as bad as your results."
Luis Ortega raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
"You're trying to play reactive football with players physically built for proactive football."
Now the room paid attention.
Malik stood and walked toward the magnetic tactics board near the wall.
He arranged magnets quickly.
"Your center-backs are aggressive, but your midfield sits too deep. That disconnect creates transitional space."
Move.
Move.
Move.
"And your current pressing structure is broken. Your forwards trigger pressure without midfield support."
Another movement.
"If your physical data is accurate, this squad should be playing with more intensity, not less."
Sergio frowned.
"You gathered all that from reports?"
Malik didn't answer immediately.
Instead:
"You're asking the wrong question."
The room quieted again.
Mateo leaned forward slightly.
"And what's the right question?"
Malik met his eyes.
"Why is a club built for front-foot football playing scared?"
Silence.
Real silence this time.
Not skeptical silence.
Thinking silence.
Elena watched him carefully now.
Different from before.
Mateo slowly leaned back in his chair.
"Suppose we give you this job."
There it was.
The real conversation.
"You will not receive major transfer backing."
Malik nodded.
"The facilities are limited."
Another nod.
"The media will attack this appointment."
Expected.
"And if results collapse…" Sergio added coldly, "…you will not receive endless patience simply because you're young."
Malik looked around the room.
This was the moment.
The safe answer would've been hesitation. Caution. Diplomacy.
Instead:
"How long is the contract?"
The board exchanged looks.
Elena almost smiled for the first time.
"Two years," she replied.
Malik nodded once.
Then sat back calmly.
"I'll take the job."
The room froze slightly.
No negotiation? No dramatic speech? No fear?
Just certainty.
Mateo studied him carefully.
"You understand what happens if this fails?"
Malik's eyes drifted briefly toward the club crest stitched onto the documents.
A struggling club. A collapsing squad. A divided institution.
Professional football.
Finally.
Then he looked back at the board.
"If I was afraid of failure," he said quietly, "I would've stayed home."