The whistle blew.
Cardiff kicked off, but it was Leicester who immediately seized control. Their press was aggressive, suffocating, and precise. Every time a Cardiff player touched the ball, a Leicester shirt was already closing in. The crowd roared with every tackle won, every interception, fueling their team like a surging tide.
Firdaus stood at the edge of his technical area, a pillar of composure in a storm of movement. His arms were crossed at first, but he gradually lowered one, his thumb tapping rhythmically against his jawline—a quiet signal of the intensity building within.
Within the first five minutes, Cardiff couldn't string more than three passes together. The midfield trio—Wintle, Ralls, and Colwill—were swarmed every time they received the ball. The back line, under pressure, began opting for longer clearances that gave away possession. Firdaus watched it all with surgical intensity.
"Hold the line!" Firdaus shouted, voice slicing through the noise.
But the pressure didn't stop.
In the 9th minute, Leicester pounced. A poor clearance from Kipré, under duress, landed straight at Dewsbury-Hall's feet. He took one touch and threaded a through ball behind Ng. Jamie Vardy, ever-persistent, darted in and poked it past Alnwick before the keeper could react.
Goal. Leicester 1 – 0 Cardiff.
The stadium erupted. Home fans jumped to their feet. The chant of "Jamie Vardy's having a party!" rippled through the stands.
Firdaus didn't flinch. He turned back toward the bench and motioned for the tablet. The system interface loaded instantly in his field of view.
[Match Intensity: 88%]
[Cardiff Pass Completion: 62%]
[Opposition Press Efficiency: 91%]
[Suggestion: Substitution – A. Ramsey OFF, E. Siopis ON | Timing: Early intervention]
Firdaus stared at the notification. Ramsey had been off the pace. His movements lagged by half a beat. His positioning slightly delayed, his press reactive rather than proactive. But substituting him before the 30-minute mark? It was bold—bordering on controversial.
He looked across the pitch. Ramsey had just missed a second ball challenge. His head dropped for a half-second.
Firdaus clenched his jaw. He wasn't sentimental. Not now.
He tapped Riza on the shoulder. For a brief moment, he hesitated, weighing the implications. Then his voice firmed. "Get Siopis ready. Now."
Riza blinked. "Now?"
"Now."
Back on the pitch, the atmosphere shifted—Cardiff tried to reset, the crowd's early optimism now layered with anxious murmurs. A flick from Colwill nearly found Grant, but Faes intercepted with ease and calmly recycled possession. Leicester surged again. Firdaus tracked the entire field like a chessboard—evaluating distances, energy, and patterns.
He turned to the bench. "Stay on your toes," he muttered. "This isn't over."
Firdaus paced back and forth, scanning every movement. Press lines. Player fatigue. Body language. The weight of the moment bore down on his shoulders, but his focus didn't waver. He opened the system again.
[Next suggestion: Formation Shift – 4-1-4-1 to 4-3-3 | High Press Trigger Left Flank]
He nodded once and waved over his assistant.
Riza came back. "Siopis ready."
Firdaus gave the signal to the fourth official. The electronic board was raised.
The number 10 lit up in red.
The stadium gasped.
Aaron Ramsey, barely 23 minutes into the game, was being subbed off.
Players turned. Fans stood. A camera panned to Ramsey's face.
He looked toward the sideline. Surprise. Disbelief. A flicker of frustration—then composure.
Firdaus didn't avert his gaze.
Ramsey jogged off, silent. As he passed Firdaus, their eyes met—a flicker of history, respect, and quiet disappointment passed between them. He gave a quick nod—nothing more. No anger. Just understanding.
Siopis ran on, eyes blazing. He clapped his hands and immediately shouted orders as he took his position.
The change shifted the rhythm.
Siopis brought energy, bite. He snapped into tackles, closed gaps, and barked directions like a field general. In the 28th minute, he won his first duel against Maddison and turned quickly into space, releasing Ralls down the left.
A sharp one-two with Colwill earned Cardiff a corner.
The Cardiff bench stirred.
Firdaus checked the system again.
[Momentum Shift: Cardiff +12%]
"Good," he muttered under his breath.
He crouched by the sideline, watching the corner. Grant stepped up to take it. The delivery was strong, near post—headed away by Evans.
But the mood had changed. The crowd wasn't singing as loudly. Leicester weren't pressing quite as high.
Still, danger remained.
Firdaus signaled another minor tweak, pointing to Colwill to drop deeper on Leicester's right build-up.
Then he turned to the bench and quietly issued a secondary instruction. "If we equalize, get Ojo warmed up. I want pace ready."
Riza stepped closer. "You're not gonna like this."
Firdaus followed his gaze.
In the opposite stands, near the directors' box, a figure had appeared.
Not Andrew Marks.
Someone else.
Sharp navy suit. Black notebook. A Premier League crest pin on the lapel.
Riza leaned in. "That's Richard Doyle. Manchester United's head scout."
Firdaus didn't speak.
He simply stared across the pitch.
A gust of wind tugged at the edges of his jacket.
Behind him, the Cardiff fans started chanting again, trying to push their team forward.
Eyes were watching. Firdaus felt the weight of reputation and ambition settle on his shoulders, heavier than ever.
And the game was just heating up.
To be continued...
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