Chapter 1 - Where exactly is Iceland?

There were many things Callum Fraser thought he'd be doing at thirty years old, and managing a football club wasn't one of them.

In fairness, neither was standing outside East End Park trying to explain to his best mate that Iceland was, in fact, a real country and not just somewhere frozen food came from.

Stevie wasn't making it easy ‘so let me get this right’ he said, leaning against the railings outside the stadium ‘you've got a job interview’

‘Aye’

‘For a football club’

‘Aye’

‘In Iceland’

‘Aye’

Stevie nodded slowly ‘as in the country?’

‘Aye’

Stevie frowned ‘so... where's the shop then?’

Callum stared at him ‘what shop?’

‘Iceland’

‘The supermarket?’

‘Aye’

‘It's got nothing to do with the country’

Stevie paused for a second ‘well that's just poor branding’

The pair had known each other since primary school. They'd suffered through years of supporting Dunfermline Athletic together, convincing themselves every August that this would finally be the season.

Usually by October they'd accepted reality.

Still, they kept turning up. ‘It's what we do’ Stevie would always say.

Nobody ever argued

‘So…..’ Stevie said, taking a sip of his pint.

‘What?’

‘How'd you even end up with an interview?’

Callum shrugged ‘I applied’

‘Aye I know that bit’

‘I sent them my CV’

‘I know that bit as well’. Stevie leaned forward ‘what I don't understand is…..why they replied’

Callum smiled ‘neither do I, mate, neither do I’

The reality was almost embarrassing. He'd spent the last few weeks applying for football jobs all over Europe.

Scotland. Ireland. Wales. Norway. Sweden, even Luxembourg, anywhere that didn't immediately ask for ten years experience and three coaching badges he didn't have. Most clubs ignored him, some politely declined, one accidentally emailed him back in Czech.

He was still convinced it might have been an offer. Then, three days ago:

We would like to invite you to interview.

He'd read the email four times before checking it wasn't from one of Stevie's mates winding him up.

It wasn't.

Some club in Iceland actually wanted to meet him.

‘So…..’ Stevie asked 'what exactly did your CV say?’

Callum looked out across East End Park and smiled ‘I was, optimistic’

Stevie narrowed his eyes ‘...optimistic?’

‘I highlighted my strengths’

‘You've never managed a proper team’

‘I know’

‘You've never coached professionally’

‘I know’

‘You've got one coaching badge’

‘I know’

‘So……’

Callum took a deep breath ‘I might have made my Sunday League experience sound a bit…..’ he searched for the word ‘.....transferable’

Stevie burst out laughing ‘transferable?’

‘I never lied’

‘You definitely bent the truth a wee bit’

‘I reshaped it’

‘Like a politician?’

‘Exactly’

Stevie shook his head ‘I've got to ask’

‘Aye?’

‘If they offer you the job…..’

‘What?’

‘...are you actually going?"

Callum didn't answer straight away. Instead, he looked back towards the stadium.

Saturday afternoons. Pies that were always too hot. Rain that always seemed to arrive five minutes before kick off. Watching Dunfermline with his dad before it was just him and Stevie. It had always felt like enough.

Until it didn't.

Finally, he spoke ‘it's the only football club that's wanted to interview me’

Stevie's smile disappeared. There wasn't really anything to joke about after that. 'so…..’

‘Aye?’

‘I suppose you've got to go’

‘Aye’

The pub door swung open as another regular wandered in, neither of them noticed.

Stevie was studying his phone as Callum asked ‘what are you looking at?’

‘I've just Googled Iceland’

‘Oh aye?’

‘It says they've got active volcanoes’

‘So?’

‘So…..what happens if one goes off?’

‘Well I don't know’

‘Does training get cancelled?’

‘I've genuinely no idea pal’

Stevie nodded thoughtfully ‘hope they tell you before you get there’

== == == == ==

Callum's phone buzzed.

Flight EI29899 - Edinburgh to Keflavík. Check in opens: 06:15.

He frowned ‘how d'ya’ pronounce that?’

Stevie looked over ‘'Kef... la... vick?'

‘Naw I don't think that's right’

‘Neither do I’

Silence. ‘...ya’ should probably find out before you land’

== == == == ==

Later that evening, Callum sat alone in his tiny flat, an old Dunfermline scarf hung over the back of a chair. His suitcase lay open on the floor.

Inside it are three shirts, a suit that hadn't been worn in nearly two years, football boots, a notebook and far too many packets of Tunnock's Caramel Wafers.

He looked around the flat, it wasn't much but it was home. Tomorrow he'd be flying to a country he'd never visited, to interview for a football club he'd only heard of seventytwo hours earlier. He still wasn't entirely convinced it wasn't some elaborate mistake.

His phone buzzed one more time, a text from Stevie:

If they ask if you've managed in snow before, just say aye. They'll never know.

Callum laughed, he typed back:

I've never managed in rain either.

Three dots appeared almost instantly:

You've watched Dunfermline for twenty odd years. Close enough.

Callum shook his head, smiling to himself as he put the phone on charge.

He looked at the half packed suitcase, then out of the window and then back at the email confirming tomorrow's interview.

For the first time all day the reality hit him.

He wasn't going on holiday, he wasn't going to watch football, he was going to ask complete strangers to trust him with their football club.

He just hoped he could convince them.

Even if he still wasn't entirely convinced himself.

== == == == ==
 

Chapter 2 - A suitcase full of caramel wafers

Callum hadn't slept, not properly. He'd spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, wondering whether he'd accidentally talked himself into the biggest mistake of his life. By half past four he gave up, the kettle went on, a slice of toast disappeared in three bites, his suitcase sat by the front door exactly as he'd left it.

Three shirts, one suit, ragged old football boots, a notebook and far too many Tunnock's Caramel Wafers.

It would have to do.

== == == == ==

Edinburgh Airport was already busy. Business travellers marched through the terminal as though they owned it, families argued over passports and snacks, someone was already asleep across three seats.

Callum found his gate and sat quietly, watching aircraft come and go. His phone buzzed. Stevie.

‘Awright pal?’

‘Aye’

‘Nervous?’

‘A wee bit.’

‘I looked up your route’

‘Oh?’

‘You've got two flights’

‘I know.’

‘One to Iceland’

‘Aye’

‘And then another one’

With a sigh Callum said ‘...aye’

Stevie was silent for a moment. ‘So... Iceland's got airports as well?’

Callum smiled ‘apparently’

‘Huh’. Another pause ‘bigger place than I thought’

== == == == ==

By early afternoon, Callum was looking out of the window as the aircraft descended towards Keflavík. The landscape didn't look real, dark lava fields stretched towards the sea. 

Beyond them stood mountains with patches of snow still clinging to their sides despite it being June.

He'd never seen anything like it.

As the wheels touched the runway, one thought entered his head ‘I've definitely left Fife’

== == == == ==

The domestic flight was smaller. Much smaller. There were barely enough passengers to fill half the seats. The woman at the check in desk smiled as she handed over his boarding pass.

‘Egilsstaðir?’

‘That's the plan, I think’

‘First visit?’

‘Is it that obvious?’

She laughed ‘only a little.’

== == == == ==

The flight across Iceland lasted less than an hour, Callum barely took his eyes off the window. Waterfalls. Mountains. Lakes that seemed to stretch forever. Roads with almost no traffic.

Every few minutes he spotted another tiny cluster of houses and wondered how people managed to build lives in places so isolated.

It wasn't sad, it was peaceful, different.

== == == == ==

Egilsstaðir Airport was unlike any airport Callum had ever imagined, he was fairly certain he'd seen bigger supermarket car parks.

Inside the arrivals hall stood one man in a black polo shirt holding a handwritten sign.

CALLUM FRASER

Callum walked over ‘I'm hoping that's me’

The man smiled and shook his hand. ‘It is. Welcome to Iceland’

‘I'm Callum’

‘I'm Einar’

They stepped outside, the air was crisp but surprisingly mild.

Callum looked around. The mountains seemed impossibly close ‘this is beautiful’

Einar nodded ‘it grows on you’

== == == == ==

The drive into town took only a few minutes, Callum had expected a city. Instead he found quiet streets, colourful houses and people who waved as they drove past.

‘Everyone knows everyone here?’ he asked.

Einar smiled ‘mostly’

‘And if I get the job?’

‘They'll know you as well’

Callum laughed nervously ‘that's... slightly terrifying’

== == == == ==

As they crossed the river, Einar pointed towards a modest football ground tucked neatly beside the town ‘there’

Callum followed his finger. Simple stands, black and white seats, a pitch surrounded by mountains. No giant floodlights. No corporate hospitality. No flashing advertising boards. Just a football club.

Einar glanced across ‘what do you think?’

Callum didn't answer straight away. He couldn't. He'd spent years dreaming about managing somewhere. Anywhere. The place in front of him wasn't glamorous, it certainly wasn't famous.

Everyone back home had never heard of it. Yet somehow….. it felt real. More real than any dream he'd ever had.

Einar slowed the car as they approached the entrance.

A small sign came into view.

ÍF Höttur

Callum smiled to himself ‘so……’

Einar asked ‘so what?’

‘I hope they like me’

Einar laughed ‘I think you'll find they're hoping exactly the same thing’

== == == == ==

Chapter 3 - Just be yourself

The receptionist smiled as Callum walked through the front door ‘you must be Callum’

He looked over his shoulder. There didn't appear to be another Callum standing behind him ‘I am’

She nodded towards a door ‘they're just finishing another meeting’

‘No rush’

She pointed towards a small seating area overlooking the pitch ‘if you'd like to wait’

Callum thanked her and sat down. Outside a handful of players were finishing a light training session. One by one they wandered off towards the changing rooms, laughing about something he couldn't hear. He watched them for a few minutes, in a strange way, it settled his nerves.

Football was still football. Whether it was Dunfermline, Dundee or the east coast of Iceland, players would always find something to laugh about after training. 

His phone buzzed. Stevie. 

Callum answered quietly ‘awright?’

‘You in?’

‘Aye’

‘How's it look?’

Callum glanced out of the window ‘different’

‘Different good?’

‘I think so’

Stevie hesitated. ‘So... have you met Björk yet?’

‘...she's a singer, Stevie’

‘So she's no' on the board then?’ 

‘Naw’

‘Pity that’

Callum laughed ‘I'll let you know if she turns up’

‘Cheers’

As he ended the call, the receptionist looked over with a smile ‘your friend?’

‘Aye’

He sounds funny’

‘He never means to be’

== == == == ==

A tall man in his fifties appeared from a corridor and offered his hand ‘Callum?’

‘That's me’

‘I'm Guðmundur, the chairman. Thank you for making the journey’

‘My pleasure’

‘Come through’

The boardroom wasn't anything like Callum had imagined. There was no polished mahogany table, no club crest dominating the wall, just a modest room with a kettle in the corner and a window looking directly onto the pitch.

Two other people stood as he entered. The sporting director, Einar and the club secretary. 

Coffee was poured, a couple of biscuits were offered. 

The chairman smiled ‘before we begin…..’. A pause, then …’how was your journey?’

Callum let out a small laugh ‘long’ 

‘I imagine’

‘I think I spent more time in airports than in the air’

The room chuckled, the ice was broken.

== == == == ==

After a few minutes of conversation, the chairman leaned forward.

‘So…..’ he began, then ‘why do you want to become a football manager?’

Callum took a second ‘I've wanted to since I was a teenager’

‘What changed?’

‘I realised talking about football in the boozer doesn't actually qualify you to manage it'

That earned another laugh 'so I started coaching’

‘Youth teams and amateur football’

‘Whoever would let me’. He shrugged ‘I loved it’

The chairman nodded ‘you've never managed professionally’

‘No. Not yet’ 

‘Does that concern you?’

‘It would concern me if it didn't’. That answer made the sporting director glance up from his notes. ‘I've got plenty to learn’. He waited a moment before saying ‘I'm not pretending otherwise’ 

== == == == == 

The questions became more football focused. 'what style do you prefer? 

Callum smiled ‘I don't know yet’ 

The sporting director raised an eyebrow ‘you don't know?’

‘I don't know your players’. A pause, then ‘I've watched videos and I've read reports, but that's not the same as working with them’. He leaned forward slightly ‘I'd rather adapt to the players than force the players to adapt to me’

The chairman nodded thoughtfully ‘that's an interesting answer’

‘It's an honest one’

== == == == ==

The sporting director finally asked the question Callum had been expecting ‘you're thirty years old’

‘Aye’

‘You've never managed professionally’

‘No’

‘Why should we trust you with our football team?’ 

Callum looked around the room, he could have talked about tactics, he could have mentioned coaching badges. Instead, he answered the question with 'you shouldn't’

The room fell silent.

‘Not today’.  Another pause ‘you've only just met me’

The chairman folded his arms, intrigued.

‘But if you give me the chance……....I'll spend every day earning that trust’

No one spoke.

Callum continued ‘I don't expect anyone to trust me because of what's written on my CV. I'd rather earn it’

The sporting director slowly closed his notebook.

 == == == == ==

An hour later, the conversation was winding down. The chairman stood, extended a hand and said ‘thank you for coming’

‘Thank you for having me’.

As they walked towards the door, Callum stopped ‘can I ask one question?’

‘Of course’.

‘What does success look like?’

The chairman smiled ‘you've done your homework’

‘I've tried’. 

He looked out towards the pitch and said ‘we're bottom of the league, no wins so far and the supporters are frustrated’. He turned back towards Callum ‘I'm not asking for miracles. I'd just like people to enjoy coming here again’

Callum nodded ‘I understand’.

The chairman extended his hand once more ‘safe journey back’

Callum shook it ‘thank you’.

He walked out of the building convinced he'd been beaten to the job by somebody with twice his experience.

Inside the boardroom, the three men sat back down. The chairman was the first to speak ‘he'll make mistakes’

The sporting director nodded ‘without doubt’

‘And if we appoint him, there'll be questions’.

‘There will’

Silence settled over the room for a few seconds. Finally, the chairman smiled ‘I know’ .He looked through the window towards the empty pitch ‘but I think he'll care’ 

No one disagreed.

== == == == ==

Chapter 4 - The call

Callum had never known breakfast to last so long. He wasn't hungry, he'd finished his coffee ten minutes ago and his suitcase sat beside his chair, zipped up and ready to go. Every few minutes he glanced towards the reception desk.

Nothing.

He checked his phone.

Still nothing.

He told himself to stop checking his phone.

Then checked it again.

The waitress walked over ‘another coffee?’

Callum looked at the empty cup ‘aye, why not?’

Outside, Egilsstaðir was beginning to wake up. A delivery van pulled into the shop across the road, a cyclist waved at someone walking a dog, the mountains that had seemed so intimidating yesterday somehow felt a little friendlier this morning.

His phone buzzed. Unknown number. 

Callum took a breath before answering. ‘Hello?’

‘Good morning, Callum’

It was the chairman.

‘Morning’

‘I hope I’m not disturbing your breakfast’

‘No, not at all’

‘We've had our meeting’

Callum sat up a little straighter.

‘We'd like to offer you the position of first team manager of ÍF Höttur’

For a moment.…. nothing. The words had reached his ears, his brain simply hadn't caught up.

‘....me?’

The chairman laughed ‘yes, you’

Callum rubbed a hand across his forehead ‘....are you sure?’

There was another laugh ‘not completely’

That made Callum smile.

‘But we believe you're the right person at this time’

Silence settled between them for a second.

Then the chairman spoke again ‘you don't have to answer immediately, I understand it's a big decision’

Callum looked out of the hotel window. The mountains.  The river. The small football ground in the distance. It all suddenly felt very real.

‘Could I have an hour?’

‘Of course’

‘We'll speak shortly’

The call ended. Callum put his phone on the table and simply stared at it.

Football manager. Actually a football manager, of a football team. The words still didn't seem to belong to him.

He pressed a name on the phone.

Stevie.

The phone barely rang once.

‘Awright?’

‘They've offered me the job’

A second of silence. Then…..’that's brilliant!’

‘...Aye’

‘So when do you start?’

‘I haven't accepted it yet’

This time the silence lasted longer. ‘You what?’

‘I asked for an hour’

‘.....why?’

Callum looked out of the window again ‘I don't actually know’. He waited before continuing ‘I think I just needed to hear somebody else's voice’

Stevie sighed ‘you've wanted something in football like this since we were kids

‘I know’

‘You've bored me senseless talking about football for years’

‘I know’

‘You've spent your weekends coaching kids for free’

‘Aye’

‘You've spent every penny you had on coaching badges’

‘Aye’

‘So what exactly are you thinking about?’

Callum smiled to himself ‘I'd be moving to Iceland’

‘Aye’

‘I don't know anyone’

‘No’

‘I've never lived abroad’

‘No’

‘I don't even know if I'm any good’

Stevie didn't answer straight away. When he finally spoke, his voice was calmer than usual ‘can I ask you something?’

‘Go on’

‘If you get on that plane today, and come home, what are you going to do tomorrow?’

Callum already knew the answer ‘apply for another job’

‘And the day after?’

‘The same’

‘And the week after?’

‘Aye’

Stevie laughed softly ‘so eventually you're going to end up moving somewhere anyway’

Callum laughed ‘when you put it like that…..’

‘I'm not clever enough to put it any other way’

They both smiled. Stevie broke the silence ‘go and enjoy yourself, but I will miss you’

‘Aye’

‘But think of all the stories you're going to come back with’

Callum looked around the quiet hotel lobby ‘aye, I suppose’

‘And if it all goes wrong….....you'll still owe me a pint’

== == == == ==

Half an hour later, Callum stood outside the hotel. A cool breeze drifted through the town, he'd made his mind up before he'd even finished speaking to Stevie.

He just hadn't realised it.

He found the chairman's number and pressed call.

‘Callum’

‘Mr Chairman’

‘Have you reached a decision?’

‘I have.’ A smile spread across his face as he said ‘I'd love to be your manager’

There was genuine warmth in the chairman's reply. ‘Wonderful, and welcome to ÍF Höttur’

As the call ended, Callum slipped the phone back into his pocket. Nothing around him had changed. The mountains were still there, the road was still quiet, the hotel looked exactly the same.

Yet somehow...

Everything was different.

For the first time in his life…..Callum Fraser had a football club.

As he began walking towards the ground, he couldn't help but laugh to himself.

‘What have I let myself in for?’

== == == == ==

Chapter 5 - New Faces

The road into Egilsstaðir seemed quieter than Callum remembered, but maybe it actually wasn't. Maybe he was just noticing different things this time.

Yesterday he'd arrived hoping to impress three men in a boardroom, today he was arriving knowing twenty odd footballers were waiting to find out if he'd made the right first impression.

They'd never seen him coach, never heard one of his team talks, and all of them had probably never heard of him.

He wasn't sure which was worse.

The stadium appeared around the corner. Modest. Unassuming. Perfectly ordinary.

Callum smiled to himself ‘so am I’

== == == == ==

The chairman was already waiting outside the main entrance ‘good morning Callum’

‘Morning’

They shook hands again ‘no turning back now’ the chairman said with a laugh

‘I suppose not’

The chairman smiled and said ‘I'll show you around’

It didn't take long at all. The tour consisted of a small office, a treatment room which doubled up as canteen, a laundry area, a changing room and a clubhouse that looked as though it had seen better days.

Callum loved it.

‘You'll soon learn where everything is’ the chairman said.

‘I hope so’

‘The kettle is over there’ the chairman said while pointing

Callum nodded ‘that's the important bit’

The chairman grinned ‘I thought a Scotsman might appreciate that’

They reached a small office overlooking the pitch 'this one's yours’

Callum stepped inside. A desk, a whiteboard. two chairs, a filing cabinet and a phone with the window looking directly onto the grass. That was it. No photographs, no medals, no reminders of former glories. Just an empty office waiting for somebody to make it their own.

He placed his notebook on the desk. The first page was still blank.

Voices then drifted down the corridor.

Players.

The chairman glanced at his watch ‘they'll be getting changed’

Callum suddenly became aware of how quickly his heart was beating.

‘You alright?’

‘Aye’

‘You don't sound convinced’

‘I've spoken to chairmen before’

The chairman smiled ‘players are different’

Callum laughed ‘they certainly are’

== == == == ==

The changing room door stood open. Music played quietly from somewhere in the corner, conversations stopped for just a second as Callum walked in. Not awkwardly. Just naturally. A new face always gets noticed.

The chairman cleared his throat ‘gents’. A pause as they all paid attention ‘this is your new manager’

A handful of players nodded. One or two offered a quiet hello. Then a tall player crossed the room and held out his hand 'welcome, boss’. His English was excellent.

Callum shook his hand firmly ‘thanks’

"I'm Brynjar Árnason, the vice captain’

‘It's good to meet you’

‘You too’.

There was something reassuring about Árnason, no big speech, no trying to dominate the room.

Just calm. Confident. As if to say… ‘we'll help you if you help us’

== == == == ==

The chairman left the room and the door closed. For the first time Callum Fraser was alone with his football team. Twenty pairs of eyes looked back at him. He'd spent half the flight trying to think of the perfect opening speech.

Now he'd forgotten every word.

He took a breath ‘right then’.

A few players smiled.

‘The name's Callum’. A pause, no reply from any players. He continued ‘I think you already know that bit though’

A ripple of laughter eased the tension.

‘I've not come here pretending I've got all the answers. I've watched matches, well some of them, same with reports, I've read reports. But I don't know this football club’. He looked around the room ‘and I certainly don't know all of you’ Another pause. ‘So for the next few weeks….. I'll be asking a lot of questions. I'll make mistakes, and I'll probably pronounce most of your names wrong’

A few more smiles.

‘But one thing I can promise you is that every decision I make will be for the good of this football club’

Silence. Not uncomfortable silence. Listening silence.

‘I know where we are in the table’

Nobody needed reminding. Bottom of twelve teams after nine matches played, bringing a grand total of zero wins, four draws, five defeats and sitting on minus twelve goals.

‘I also know this’. He looked from one face to another ‘if I thought this group couldn't stay in the division, I wouldn't have taken the job’

The room stayed quiet.

‘But I do. So from today that's exactly what we're going to try and prove’

He nodded towards the door.

‘Right. Let's go and have a kick about’

== == == == ==

Training wasn't revolutionary. There were no complicated tactical diagrams on flip charts, no shouting, no stopping play every thirty seconds and redoing routines.

Callum watched, he made notes, he spoke to players individually, he asked names and positions, and more than once asked how they were feeling.

Every now and then, Árnason wandered over ‘he's been carrying a sore ankle’. Then ‘this kid can play on either wing. Later ‘he's low on confidence, but he can play’

Little bits of information. Nothing spectacular, but everything useful.

Callum listened more than he spoke. As the session drew to a close, players began drifting towards the changing rooms.

Árnason stayed behind ‘you've got a minute?’

‘Aye, course’

The vice captain looked out across the pitch before speaking ‘these lot were nervous’

‘Were they?’

He nodded ‘we've had a difficult few months’

‘I can imagine’

‘They expected someone to come in shouting’

Callum smiled ‘I'm not much of a shouter’

‘No.’ Árnason smiled back ‘I noticed’. A gust of wind swept across the pitch ‘they liked what you said’

‘What bit?’

'We'll figure it out together'

Callum looked surprised ‘I wasn't trying to be clever’

‘I know. That's why they liked it’. Árnason pulled his training top over his shoulder ‘we've all heard plenty of speeches, I’m sure you have too. They haven't had many managers who listened’

With that, he headed back towards the changing rooms.

Callum stayed where he was.

The league table hadn't changed, they were still bottom, still without a win, still staring relegation in the face.

But for the first time since arriving in Iceland…..he had the feeling that he wasn't facing it alone.

== == == == ==

Chapter 6 - Listening 

By the third morning, Callum had stopped feeling like a visitor. Not because he suddenly knew what he was doing, far from it. He'd simply accepted that every day he'd learn one or two new things, and that was enough.

The Icelandic summer had settled into its own rhythm. Coffee. Training. Notes. Questions. More questions, the answers rarely arrived all at once.

His notebook was beginning to fill. Not with tactics, but with people. One page simply read:

First in every morning.

Another:

Needs confidence more than coaching.

Another:

Never stops talking. Half of it I don't understand.

Callum smiled to himself. It wasn't the notebook he'd imagined filling when he'd dreamed of becoming a manager. Somehow it felt more important.

Brynjar appeared in the office doorway carrying two mugs ‘I guessed’

Callum looked up ‘you guessed right’

The vice captain handed one over before sitting opposite him. For a minute neither of them spoke, they simply watched the rain drift across the training pitch.

Callum broke the silence ‘can I ask you something?’

With a laugh Brynjar said ‘you've been asking questions since Monday’

‘I know’

Brynjar grinned ‘so ask another’

Callum leaned back ‘who's the best player?’

Brynjar didn't answer immediately. ‘Best technically?’

Callum nodded.

‘Different answer to best overall’

‘What about the most talented?’

‘Different again’

‘The most important?’

Brynjar smiled ‘different again’

Callum laughed ‘that wasn't very helpful’

'No, it wasn't’

The two of them sat in silence again. Eventually Brynjar spoke ‘you're asking the wrong question’

‘Oh?’

The best player doesn't matter’

Callum frowned.

‘What matters is getting the best out of the players we've got’

== == == == ==

Training started an hour later. Callum barely spoke, he watched. A misplaced pass here, a poor touch there, a good recovery tackle.

The little details.

He noticed something else too. Whenever Högni Helgason, the club captain spoke, the players listened.

Politely. Respectfully. Then carried on.

A few minutes later Brynjar said something. The same players reacted instantly, they shuffled into position, the tempo lifted. Nobody questioned it, nobody even seemed to notice.

Except Callum.

After training the squad drifted back inside, studs clicked against the concrete floor, someone laughed in the showers, the smell of coffee replaced the smell of freshly cut grass.

Callum closed the office door.

Brynjar knocked almost immediately ‘you've seen it’

It wasn't a question ‘I've seen……something’

Brynjar nodded slowly ‘you'll figure it out’

Callum folded his arms ‘help me’

The vice captain looked down at the floor before answering ‘Högni's a good captain, really’

‘But?’

‘But…..’. He searched for the right words ‘...sometimes people follow the badge’ A pause ‘and sometimes they follow the person’

Callum said nothing. He didn't need to. Brynjar wasn't asking him to take sides, he was asking him to understand.

‘The dressing room's been quiet for a long time’ Brynjar continued. ‘Too quiet. Nobody argues, nobody challenges each other, nobody really says anything'

Callum looked puzzled ‘that sounds peaceful’

Brynjar laughed ‘it sounds like people who've stopped believing’

The words lingered in the room. Callum thought back to the league table pinned on the wall

.

Played nine, won none, drawn four, bottom, five points adrift from safety. Maybe confidence wasn't the only thing missing.

That afternoon the chairman knocked gently on the office door.

‘Settling in?’

‘Aye, I think so’

‘And the players?’

Callum looked out towards the empty pitch ‘they're better than the table says I’m sure of it’

The chairman smiled ‘I was hoping you'd say something like that’

Callum turned back ‘they've forgotten how to trust themselves’. He paused ‘.....and maybe each other’

The chairman didn't answer, he didn't have to. Sometimes silence told you all you needed to know.

== == == == ==

As the sun dipped lower over Egilsstaðir, Callum sat alone once more. His notebook lay open, he read back over the pages.

Names. Observations. Questions.

Then, on a fresh page, he wrote just one sentence:

Don't build a team. Build a dressing room.

He underlined it once then closed the notebook. And for the first time since arriving in Iceland, he felt as though he knew where to begin.

== == == == ==

Chapter 7 - Matchday

People always said football changed on a Saturday. Callum discovered it changed much earlier than that.

He woke before his alarm, lay staring at the ceiling and checked his phone.

Half past five. He tried closing his eyes again. Impossible.

Today wasn't training. Today wasn't another meeting. Today there would be a referee. A handful of supporters.

A league table to improve on, points to be won.

For the first time in his life, the result would have his name attached to it.

== == == == ==

By the time he arrived at the ground, Brynjar was already there ‘so…’ the vice captain smiled ‘you nervous?’

Callum considered lying ‘....a bit’

‘Good’

‘Good?’

‘It means you care’

The dressing room was quieter than it had been all week. There was laughter, but less of it. Players sat wrapping tape around ankles, pulling on boots, some listening to music through one earphone. Everyone had their own routine.

Callum didn't interrupt it.

He simply walked around the room. A word here, a pat on the shoulder there.

Nothing forced, nothing dramatic.

== == == == ==

An hour before kick off he gathered everyone together. He looked around the room, some faces looked anxious, others simply looked tired.

Nine league matches without a win leaves its mark.

He took a breath ‘I've been here a week, so I'm not going to stand here pretending I've fixed everything’. A couple of players smiled '‘I haven't, and neither have you’

The room stayed quiet.

‘But today.....forget the table. Forget what people expect, forget the last nine matches’. He pointed towards the tunnel ‘when you cross that white line, none of that goes with you’

He paused.

‘I don't care who scores. I don't care who gets the headlines, I care that when one of you makes a mistake, ten others are there to help’

His eyes moved across the room before stopping on Högni, the captain, then Brynjar. Neither man looked away.

‘We win together, we lose together’ He waited a moment before saying ‘let's give people something worth talking about’

== == == == ==

As the players disappeared down the tunnel, the dressing room emptied in seconds. Callum remained where he was. Alone. The silence felt strange.

He looked around the room. Water bottles, tape, a tactics board and the smell of deep heat hanging in the air.

Someone knocked gently on the open door. The chairman. ‘You coming?’

Callum smiled nervously ‘I suppose I have to’

‘You do’

The walk from the dressing room to the dugout lasted no more than twenty seconds. It felt like twenty minutes.

Supporters clapped politely as the players emerged, nothing extravagant, a few scarves, a handful of children leaning over barriers, families and neighbours. People who simply wanted something to cheer.

Callum took his seat and looked out across the pitch. For years he'd watched football imagining what it might be like to sit there being a part of it.

The reality was completely different. It was louder. Faster. More chaotic. And he hadn't even kicked a ball.

== == == == ==

The referee checked both assistants, blew his whistle, and the season carried on.

For everyone else, it was match Ten. For Callum Fraser, it was match One.

He folded his arms, took a slow breath and then immediately forgot every plan he'd made during the week.

Football had started, and football, as it turned out...rarely followed the script.

== == == == ==

Chapter 8 - The First Test

GK - Anton Helgi Loftsson

RB - Jordan Farahani

LB - Kristófer Örn Kristjánsson

DC - Óttar Steinn Magnússon

DC - Ísleifur Guðmundsson

RM - Garðar Már Grétarsson

CM - Friðrik Ingi Þráinsson

CM - Brynjar Árnason

LM - Marteinn Gauti Kárason

CF - Högni Helgason  

CF - Alexander Már Þorláksson

Subs - Bjarni Viðar Hólmarsson (GK), Runólfur Sigmundsson , Kristófer Einarsson, Halldór Fannar Júlíusson, Steinar Aron Magnússon.

Callum had spent the week wondering what his first game would tell him. Would they respond? Would they ignore him? Would the problems he'd noticed during training follow them onto the pitch?

He got his answer after three minutes.

A long ball forward, the kind of pass coaches usually describe as ‘percentage football’, the kind of ball that doesn't look dangerous until someone believes it might be.

Högni Helgason did. He chased, he fought for space and he got there first.

The finish was calm. The goalkeeper had got a hand to it, just not enough and the ball crossed the line.

For the first time in nine games Höttur were ahead.

Callum looked towards the bench, then towards the pitch.

Högni was celebrating his goal, and the first player to reach him was Brynjar Árnason.

A small thing. Nobody in the stands would have noticed. But Callum did.

But football has a strange way of reminding you it doesn't care about your plans or the small things you and only you notice.

Ten minutes later, Grotta had a penalty, Callum wasn't convinced and neither was his vice captain Brynjar. From the dugout, it looked like he'd won the ball.

The referee disagreed.

One penalty. One goal. 1-1.

For a team without a win in nine matches, this was usually the moment where confidence disappeared. Callum watched carefully. Heads stayed up, players spoke to each other, nobody blamed anyone.

Interesting.

The next goal arrived just after the half hour mark, and again, it was Högni with a first time strike inside the area.

The shot hit the post, for a second everyone waited, then it bounced in. 2-1.

This time, when Högni celebrated, Callum noticed something different. The captain looked lighter, like someone had taken a weight off his shoulders.

Then, just before half time, another goal.

Þorláksson. 3-1.

The supporters were louder, the players were smiling, but Callum wasn't celebrating yet.

He knew football, he knew how quickly it could turn.

== == == == ==

The half time team talk was almost difficult, not because he didn't know what to say, because everything he had planned suddenly felt unnecessary. They weren't a team searching for confidence anymore. They had it.

‘Enjoy it’

The players looked at him.

‘But don't get too comfortable. One goal changes the game, so stay together’

A glance towards Högni. Then Brynjar.

‘Keep doing what you're doing’

== == == == ==

Two minutes after the restart, the captain completed his hat trick.

Högni Helgason. Three goals. All but sealing the first win for Callum, and with it, the first real moment where the team looked like they believed again.

The noise from the stands grew. Callum stood with his arms folded, trying not to smile.

Failing at it.

The fifth goal came late, a corner came flying in at the near post, a defensive mistake, resulting in an unfortunate own goal.

It didn't matter, the game was already won. The scoreboard read:

Höttur 5-1 Grotta.

A score line nobody inside the club had expected when Callum Fraser walked through the door.

The final whistle blew. Players hugged, the smattering of supporters applauded.

For the first time all season, Höttur had won a league match.

Callum shook the opposition manager's hand, then he turned back towards his players.

Högni was standing with Brynjar. Talking, laughing, but it wasn't fixed. Not completely. One match didn't repair months of frustration.

But it was something. A beginning.

== == == == ==

Later that evening, Callum sat in his small office at the stadium. The league table was still a mess, they were still in trouble, and there were still plenty of problems.

But underneath his notes from the game, he wrote one sentence:

Maybe they don't need changing. Maybe they just need reminding.

== == == == ==

Interesting. 

Always good to start in a league lesser known mate. Hopefully it leads to bigger and better jobs in time. Which I assume is the plan.

Thanks man, this save I'm just seeing where the game takes me.

Chapter 9 - They Still Haven't Noticed

Football has a funny habit of making fools of anyone who thinks they've worked it out. The Monday after beating Grotta Callum walked into the training ground convinced he'd spend the week fixing problems.

Instead he spent most of it trying to keep up.

The players smiled more, the changing room was louder, someone had hidden another player's boots, the music was turned up and the laughter echoed down the corridor.

Callum hadn't created any of it. He'd simply walked into a football club that had remembered what winning felt like.

== == == == ==

Training finished earlier than expected on Thursday. The chairman poked his head into Callum's office. ‘Ready?’

‘For what?’

‘Away game’

Callum looked at his watch ‘we're leaving now?’

The chairman nodded ‘it's a long drive’

Ten minutes later they were bouncing their way along an Icelandic road in what appeared to be a club minibus that had already enjoyed a long and distinguished career before Höttur had bought it.

Callum, sat at the front of the bus next to the chairman, looked out of the window. Nothing. More nothing. Then some more nothing. Then mountains. Even more mountains.

Eventually he broke the silence ‘so…..how many supporters usually travel?’

The chairman shrugged ‘depends’

‘On what?’

‘If fishing is good’

Callum waited. The explanation never came. He looked back out of the window ‘right’

Half an hour later another mountain appeared, bigger than the last.

The chairman pointed ‘the ground’s that way’

Callum frowned ‘the mountain?’

‘No’ the chairman replied shaking his head ‘behind the mountain’

Callum stared for another few seconds ‘I can't actually see behind the mountain’

‘You will’

Eventually they rounded a bend and there it was. A football ground, hidden exactly where the chairman had said it would be.

Callum laughed quietly to himself. He was beginning to suspect Iceland wasn't trying to be funny, it just is.

== == == == ==

KF Ægir weren't interested in Höttur's feel good story. From the first whistle they chased every tackle as though the previous week's 5-1 victory had never happened.

Callum actually liked that. Football had already moved on, maybe he should too.

Midway through the first half, Alexander Már Þorláksson made sure they did.

One chance, one finish, one nil to Höttur.

Callum allowed himself a small fist pump, then immediately folded his arms again. Managers, he decided, probably weren't supposed to celebrate all that much.

The second half had barely settled when Þorláksson struck again, grabbing two goals in the game.

Another away win suddenly looked possible, despite the home side equalising  shortly before half time, and the last forty minutes seemed to last about four hours.

When the final whistle finally sounded, Callum found himself shaking hands without really remembering how the match had ended. Another win. 1-2 Höttur.

On the journey home the chairman glanced across from behind the driver's seat ‘good'

That was it. One word. Callum smiled ‘I'll take that’

== == == == ==

By the following weekend Höttur had won again. This time a 2-0 win away at Magni Grenivik.

Three victories in succession. The league table, which had looked hopeless only a fortnight earlier, suddenly appeared……less hopeless. Still in eleventh place but now tied on points with tenth place and safety on ten.

Nobody spoke about miracles, nobody mentioned promotion. The only conversation was about survival.  And for the first time this season, survival felt possible.

Football, however, has an irritating habit of demanding payment. Monday morning the physio knocked on Callum's office door.

‘You've got a minute?’ he said in broken English.

Callum looked up from his notebook ‘go on’

‘Two injuries in training’

‘How bad?’

‘One a couple of days, that’s Helgasson, damaged his heel, nothing much really’

‘And the other?’

The physio grimaced ‘a bit longer’. 

That would Þorláksson, scorer of two goals in his last game, victim of a twisted ankle.

Callum leaned back in his chair. There it was, the little voice in the back of his head.

'Right.….this is definitely the week they realise I'm useless.'

He almost laughed at himself, three wins in his first three games as a manager. Seven days earlier he would've taken that without asking another question. Now he was worrying about injuries. Perhaps that was management, the problems never disappeared, they just changed shape.

Before heading home, Callum opened the club's Facebook page on his phone. Someone had uploaded a photo from the away victory at Magni Grenivik. Players celebrating, staff applauding and a couple of fans nearby too.

Callum stood in the background wearing a black tracksuit, arms folded, a stern look on his face.

The comments were mostly in Icelandic. He understood almost none of them.

Yet one caught his eye after he pressed the translate button:

‘Who's the tall Scottish looking guy in the background?’

A reply appeared a few minutes later.

‘That's Jock. Part of the new coaching staff'

Another supporter replied almost immediately.

‘Jock? He seems alright’. There was a laughing emoji next to that comment.

Callum frowned. He assumed it must've been another member of staff. He closed the page without giving it another thought.

Outside, the evening sun hung low over Egilsstaðir. Inside the dressing room, Högni and Brynjar were arguing over whose turn it was to collect the footballs and training cones. It wasn't a serious argument. In fact, by the end of it, they were both laughing and both were collecting the cones and balls.

Callum noticed.

He didn't say anything, he simply smiled to himself. Some things, he was beginning to learn, didn't need fixing.

They just needed a reason to start working again.

== == == == ==

Chapter 10 - The Same Bloke

Football has a remarkable ability to convince you everything has changed. Three wins in a row and you begin wondering how far this team can go.

Three defeats in the next four and you start wondering if the first three ever happened.

Callum tried very hard not to believe either.

The 1-0 defeat to ÍR annoyed him more than he expected. One goal, one lapse in concentration, one nil to the away side.

There wasn't much wrong with the performance, which somehow made it worse. He replayed the goal in his head all evening. By Tuesday morning the players had already forgotten it. They were laughing during the warm up, arguing over whose turn it was to carry the mannequins, seemingly forgetting about the game.

Footballers, Callum realised, recovered much quicker than managers.

The following weekend brought the league leaders to Egilsstaðir.

Vestri.

They looked exactly like a side sitting at the top of the table. Confident, organised and comfortable on the ball. When they went ahead after fifteen minutes, and then doubling the lead five minutes later, Callum feared the afternoon might get away from them.

Instead, Höttur responded.

Captain Helgason equalised on twenty six minutes, and for the rest of the game Callum could almost hear the supporters believing.

The belief lasted until Vestri reminded everyone why they were top, seeing out the game, managing time expertly well despite having a man sent off on eighty eight minutes.

Defeat. 2-1 at home to the league leaders, no shame in that really.

Afterwards Brynjar wandered into the office while Callum stared at the tactics board.

‘I should've changed it sooner’

Brynjar looked puzzled ‘what?’

‘The shape, the substitution, everything’

Brynjar folded his arms ‘you didn't miss the header from ten yards’

‘No’

‘You didn't give them the ball’

‘No’

‘You didn't stop tracking their runner’

Callum shook his head ‘no’

Brynjar nodded towards the dressing room ‘then stop apologising’

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Then Brynjar smiled ‘they're top for a reason. We’re second bottom for a reason’

Callum couldn't help smiling back ‘...aye’

It wasn't much. But it was enough.

== == == == ==

Sindri was different. Nothing clicked, passes drifted astray, second balls always seemed to fall to an opposition player.  The first goal felt inevitable. The second simply confirmed what everyone already knew.

2-0. The longest journey home of Callum's career so far passed mostly in silence.

== == == == ==

Back in his flat, his phone buzzed.

Stevie.

Callum answered immediately

'You alright?’ Stevie said.

‘Aye’

‘Liar’

Callum laughed for the first time that evening ‘we lost’

‘I guessed’

‘How?’

‘You answered after two rings’

‘What difference does that make?’

‘When you win you leave your phone somewhere and forget about it’

‘.....do I?’

‘Aye’

Callum sat back on the sofa ‘it was a poor one’

Silence. Then Stevie spoke again ‘so…..’

‘So?’

‘Leanne bought an air fryer’

Callum blinked ‘say what?’

‘An air fryer’

‘...right’

‘Apparently it does everything’

‘Does it?’

I asked her if it'd mow the lawn’

Callum burst out laughing ‘what did she say?’

‘She told me to stop being clever and read the instructions’

‘Were you being clever?’

‘Naw’. Another pause. ‘So... how bad was the game?’

Callum looked out of the window at the Icelandic evening. ‘We never really got going’

‘Happens’

‘Aye’

‘You still in the relegation places?’

‘Naw, just above on goal difference, level on points with the relegation spot though’

‘Well…’. Stevie cleared his throat ‘I've watched Dunfermline for thirty years’

‘And?’

‘I've got loads of experience supporting mediocre football’

Callum laughed again ‘I'll keep that in mind for when I need a new coach’

‘Good’. Another pause ‘you'll be right’

‘I know’

‘You don't sound convinced’

‘I'm not’

‘And that's probably why you will be’

Another brief silence followed before Stevie spoke again ‘anyway... they're calling you Jock now’

Callum frowned ‘...oh. Right’

‘You've seen it then?’

‘Aye’. A pause. ‘I didn't think much of it’

‘What did you think it meant?’

‘I just thought it was somebody at the club’

Stevie let the silence hang for a moment. ‘Cal…’

‘What?’

‘You're the only Scottish bloke there’

Another pause. ‘....oh, aye’

‘So they mean you’

‘I suppose they do’

‘You've been renamed’

‘My name isn't Jock’

‘I know’

‘So why are they calling me Jock?’

‘No idea’

Callum shook his head ‘strange lot’

‘Says the bloke living in Iceland’

Callum chuckled ‘it's not sticking’

Stevie laughed ‘aye, corse not’

‘It isn't’

‘We'll see’

Before Callum could argue, Stevie had already moved on ‘anyway... how's the weather?’

== == == == ==

Monday morning, the chairman appeared in the doorway ‘got a minute?’

Callum's stomach tightened. This is it. He stood up ‘aye, of course’

The chairman looked at the kettle ‘fancy coffee?’

Callum blinked ‘...coffee?’

‘Yes’

‘Oh’

The chairman smiled ‘you looked worried’

‘I thought…..’

‘What?’

Callum shook his head ‘nothing’

Five minutes later they were standing in silence, each holding a mug while looking out over the training pitch. No discussion about tactics, no criticism, no speeches. Just coffee.

== == == == ==

The next two matches finished level. Not spectacular, not disastrous. A point at home against Njarðvík FC, the game ending 2-2.

Another away from home, this one a 0-0 at Knattspyrnudeild Keflavíku, the sort of afternoons that rarely make anybody's season review but quietly keep one alive.

With four matches remaining, Höttur sat tenth on fifteen points, just outside the relegation places on goal difference alone.

Callum looked at the league table pinned to the wall.

Brynjar wandered past the open office door ‘looking at it again?’

‘Aye’

‘I've checked it six times today’

Callum smiled ‘it might've changed’

Brynjar shook his head ‘it won't change until Saturday afternoon’

== == == == ==

After everyone had gone home, Callum remained in the office. He straightened the magnets on the tactics board, lined up three pens beside his notebook and moved a coffee mug half an inch so it sat square with the edge of the desk.

He wasn't sure why he always did it. Maybe because it was something he could control.

He opened the notebook:

Played 6 (under me), 18 in total.

15 points. 9 scored. 7 let in.

4 games left. Hope?

He stared at the page for a long moment before adding one final line beneath it:

This is definitely the week they realise I'm useless.

He closed the notebook. Locked the office and walked out into the cool Icelandic evening exactly the same bloke who had arrived a few weeks earlier.

== == == == ==

Chapter 11 - Life Goes On

Defeat always arrived first, usually before Callum did. By the time he unlocked the office on Monday morning he'd already replayed Saturday's goal enough times to convince himself there must've been something he'd missed. There probably hadn't, football was rarely that generous.

He hung his jacket on the back of the chair, straightened the magnets on the tactics board and moved the coffee mug until it sat square with the edge of the desk.

Three pens. Blue, black and red. Always in that order.

The notebook lay where he'd left it, he opened it. There wasn't much to write, just the one sentence:

This is definitely the week they realise I'm useless.

He smiled despite himself, it was becoming a habit.

== == == == ==

Training started at ten, Þorláksson was already there, he usually was. Always one of the first through the gate, boots already on, quietly juggling a ball while everyone else wandered in carrying coffees and half finished conversations.

Brynjar arrived a few minutes later. Without a word he began laying out cones and bibs.

Nobody had asked him to, nobody ever needed to.

Callum noticed that. Leaders weren't always the loudest people. Sometimes they were simply the ones who made everyone else's morning easier.

Högni wandered over a few minutes later carrying a bag of footballs over one shoulder ‘morning’

‘Morning’

No grand speeches. No discussions about tactics. Just football.

== == == == ==

One of the younger players realised he'd forgotten his shin pads.

Again.

‘You'd forget your damn head if it wasn't attached’ Högni, the captain, called after him.

Laughter followed him all the way back towards the changing rooms. Callum found himself laughing too. Three weeks ago this dressing room had felt cautious.

Now it felt…..normal.

The defeats hadn't changed that.

The chairman appeared halfway through training carrying two paper cups. ‘Coffee?’

Callum accepted one ‘thanks’

For a few minutes they simply watched. Players passing, stopping, starting again.

The chairman broke the silence ‘how long you been coaching?’

Callum thought for a moment ‘feels longer than it has’

The chairman nodded ‘I've been chairman twelve years’

Callum looked across ‘you still enjoy it?’

The chairman took a sip of coffee ‘some days, yes’

Callum laughed ‘only some?’

The chairman shrugged ‘too long’ That was apparently the entire answer. A few seconds later he wandered off to speak with one of the volunteers trimming the grass around the far touchline.

Callum watched him go. He was beginning to understand Icelandic conversations. They tended to finish long before Scottish ones ever would.

== == == == ==

The football carried on. Volsungur came to Egilsstaðir and left with all three points. One chance. One goal. One more long drive back replaying moments that couldn't be changed.

The following week, Afturelding punished every mistake Höttur made. 3-1, and it wasn’t as close as the score line suggested. 

Callum spent most of the journey back staring out of the window. Mountains. Lakes. The occasional farmhouse. The landscape never seemed bothered whether football had gone well or not.

There was something oddly comforting about that.

== == == == ==

Tuesday arrived, just like it always did. Þorláksson was first through the gate, Brynjar already had the bibs laid out before Callum reached the pitch. Högni was arguing with one of the defenders about whose turn it was to collect the footballs after training.

Nothing had changed.

Life, Callum realised, had an annoying habit of carrying on regardless of Saturday afternoons.

Later that day Brynjar appeared in the office doorway ‘you've looked at that tactics board for ten minutes’

‘Have I?’

‘You moved one magnet’

Callum glanced back at it ‘I was thinking’

‘Dangerous game’

Callum smiled ‘ya’ reckon?’

Brynjar nodded towards the window ‘come outside’

They stood watching the players finish a passing drill. After a minute Brynjar spoke ‘you think too much’

‘I probably do’

‘We lost’

‘Aye’

'So?’

Callum looked at him ‘so... we shouldn't’

Brynjar smiled faintly ‘no team wins every week’

‘You don't seem too worried’

'Oh, I am’

‘You don't look it’

Brynjar shrugged ‘we train’

‘Then?’

‘We play’

‘And after that?’

‘We train again’

It was such a simple answer that Callum almost laughed. No philosophy, no motivational speech, just football.

Train. Play. Train again. Play again.

== == == == ==

That evening Callum returned to the office after everyone had gone home. The silence was familiar now. He straightened the magnets again, lined the pens up beside the notebook.

Blue. Black. Red. Always in that order.

He looked at the league table pinned to the wall. There wasn't much point, he already knew exactly where Höttur were.

He opened the notebook:

11th. Played 19. 3 matches left. 15 points. 

Beneath it he added another line:

Keep trusting them.

He read it back once. Then, underneath that, almost automatically, he wrote the words that had become as much a part of his routine as the morning coffee:

This is definitely the week they realise I'm useless.

He closed the notebook, locked the office and switched off the light.

Outside, the evening air was cool, the mountains stood exactly where they'd been that morning, and somewhere in the distance he could hear the players still laughing as they finally found the football somebody had punted over the fence.

Life, he was beginning to understand, really did go on.

== == == == ==

Chapter 12 - Tomorrow

GK - Anton Helgi Loftsson

RB - Ísleifur Guðmundsson

LB - Kristófer Örn Kristjánsson

DC - Óttar Steinn Magnússon

DC - Jordan Farahani

RM - Garðar Már Grétarsson

CM - Friðrik Ingi Þráinsson

CM - Brynjar Árnason

LM - Marteinn Gauti Kárason

CF - Högni Helgason  

CF - Alexander Már Þorláksson

The first ripple came after seven minutes, it wasn't for Höttur. The ball had gone out of play on the far side when a murmur rippled through the small crowd. One steward turned to another, then to a club official. The message travelled along the touchline before reaching the Höttur bench.

The assistant leaned towards Callum ‘Sindri are losing’

Callum nodded once ‘good’ Nothing more needed. There were still eighty three minutes to play. He folded his arms and turned his attention back to the pitch.

== == == == ==

Grotta sat deep, content to frustrate. Every pass into midfield was met with a challenge, every loose ball contested. Höttur had enough possession without really creating much, but there was no panic. Brynjar Árnason drifted between the lines, demanding the ball, slowing the game when it threatened to become rushed. Beside him, the rest of the midfield began to settle.

Patience. That had been the message all week.

On thirty eight minutes, that patience was rewarded.

A quick exchange on the edge of the area pulled Grotta's defence just far enough apart. Brynjar slipped the ball into the channel and Þorláksson burst onto it without breaking stride. One touch to steady himself, the second found the far corner.

For a split second there was silence. Then the Höttur bench erupted. Substitutes leapt to their feet, a water bottle rolled across the technical area after being kicked over in the celebrations. Höttur taking the 1-0 lead their play deserved.

Callum allowed himself one sharp punch of the air ‘get back’

The players barely had time to celebrate before they were jogging towards the halfway line again.

There was still too much football left.

== == == == ==

The dressing room at half time was unusually quiet. No shouting, no music, only the hiss of the showers in the next room and the sound of heavy breathing.

Callum waited while everyone took a drink ‘they'll have a go’

A few heads nodded. ‘We knew that before kick off’. He looked around the room, making eye contact with every player ‘we've earned forty five minutes’. A pause. ‘Earn another forty five’

He stood up. ‘That's all’

The players rose almost immediately. There was nothing else to say.

== == == == ==

Grotta came out with far more intent after the restart, pressing higher and committing bodies forward whenever they could.

A member of the coaching staff drifted towards the technical area ‘Sindri are still….’

Callum shook his head before he could finish ‘I'll find out later’

His eyes never left the pitch. Only one game mattered. Höttur weathered the pressure after the restart, then they struck again.

Brynjar collected the ball just inside his own half, looked up once and immediately spotted the run. His over the top pass split the Grotta defence with the kind of confidence that had become increasingly common over recent weeks. Helgason never broke stride. He opened his body, guided the ball beyond the goalkeeper and wheeled away towards the home supporters. 2-0 and Höttur are cruising.

It was becoming a familiar sight. Only a few months earlier Helgason had looked like a striker carrying the weight of every missed chance. Now he played with a freedom that hadn't been there before. He trusted the runners around him, and they trusted him.

Just as importantly, he trusted the man finding him.

Brynjar didn't celebrate the assist, he simply pointed towards Helgason before jogging back towards the halfway line, as though he'd expected the finish all along.

The home support found its voice, louder this time, sensing that survival might finally be within touching distance.

The bench had started looking beyond the pitch. One substitute craned his neck towards the stand where supporters were refreshing league tables on their phones.

Callum noticed ‘watch this game’

Embarrassed smiles followed as everyone turned back towards the field. There was still work to do.

== == == == ==

The third goal arrived with just over ten minutes remaining.  By then, Grotta knew exactly where the danger was. It didn't matter. Brynjar drifted into a pocket of space thirty yards from goal, lifted his head and saw the run before anyone else. Helgason peeled away from his marker at precisely the right moment.

The pass was almost effortless. So was the finish. Helgason side footed beyond the advancing goalkeeper before turning immediately towards Brynjar, pointing both hands in his direction long before his teammates caught up with him.

It had become an understanding more than a partnership. One knew where the other would be before either had looked. Only a few months earlier, Höttur had looked like eleven individuals trying to survive.

Now they looked like a team. Callum applauded from the touchline. Not the goal. The move. It was exactly the kind of football they'd worked on in training. Quick, simple, trusting the pass, trusting the runner.

For perhaps the first time since arriving in Iceland, Callum wasn't watching a team trying to follow his ideas.

He was watching a team that believed in them.

The fourth arrived from a corner. Even then, Brynjar took his time. He waited for bodies to gather in the penalty area before raising one arm. The signal had become second nature over the course of the season, recognised by every white shirt without a word being spoken.

His delivery was perfect, curled beyond the goalkeeper, away from the defenders.

Then right full back Guðmundsson arrived unnoticed from the edge of the box and met it with a thunderous header that crashed into the roof of the net.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved. Then the celebrations began all over again.

Helgason, the captain, was the first to reach him, followed by Brynjar, who simply laughed as Guðmundsson disappeared beneath a pile of white shirts.

Four different moments. Four goals. Three assists from the vice captain. One finish from the full back. Two goals for the captain. It didn't matter who had scored anymore.

What mattered was that every player on the pitch seemed to know exactly what the player beside him was going to do.

Callum folded his arms and looked across at the home bench.

The result was beyond doubt now. 4-0, game over, three points. Job done.

The players were still exchanging handshakes when the assistant emerged from the tunnel with his phone in hand. He didn't need to say anything, the smile was enough. ‘They lost’

Callum looked at him for a second ‘Sindri?’

The assistant nodded ‘they lost, 2-0’ Only then did Callum allow himself to exhale.

He closed his eyes for a moment before looking back across the pitch. White shirts were still applauding the supporters, who answered with a chorus that echoed around the little ground.

Someone behind the dugout shouted across.

‘Ninth!’

Another voice quickly added ‘one point clear!’

Both were true. Höttur had climbed to ninth place with that resounding 4-0 win, the highest they had occupied all season. They were also only a single point above the relegation places, the table still offering no guarantees.

But it offered something it hadn't for months.

Hope.

Not hope built on mathematics, hope built on performances.

Four goals, a clean sheet, players beginning to understand one another without thinking and a dressing room beginning to believe it would survive relegation.

As Callum made his way towards the tunnel, Brynjar caught up alongside him.

‘Ninth’ he said with a tired smile.

Callum nodded ‘aye, for now’

Brynjar laughed ‘for now, yeah’

Neither man needed reminding that there was still work to do. Callum ended the conversation with ‘see you tomorrow’. Nothing more, nothing less.

Because for the first time since Callum Fraser had arrived in East Iceland, survival no longer felt like a distant ambition. It felt possible.

== == == == ==

Chapter 13 - After training

Training finished with the shrill blast of Callum's whistle. The players drifted towards the changing rooms in small groups, conversations already turning away from football. Some laughed about a misplaced pass during the final practice match, others debated what was for their evening meal.

Callum stayed where he was, the bag of training bibs lay open beside him and without thinking, he began sorting them.

Red into one pile. Yellow into another. Blue into a third.

Every now and then he stopped to untangle two that had somehow knotted together before folding them neatly and placing them back into the bag. Tomorrow's session would be easier if they were done now. He barely noticed footsteps approaching.

Helgason, the captain, stood watching him for a moment before breaking the silence ‘you always do that’

Callum glanced up ‘what?’

‘The bibs’

He looked back down ‘they get tangled’

Helgason frowned ‘so?’

‘They'll still be tangled tomorrow’

Helgason laughed quietly, shaking his head ‘you always stay behind’

Callum shrugged ‘they won't put themselves away’

Before Helgason could reply, another pair of footsteps crunched across the gravel.

Brynjar bent down, picked up the stray footballs scattered around the edge of the pitch and began dropping them into the net bag without saying a word.

Helgason watched him ‘you too?’

Brynjar smiled ‘it's quicker if there's two of us’

For a minute the only sounds were footballs dropping into the bag and the rustle of bibs being folded.

Then Helgason spoke again ‘can I ask you something?’

Callum nodded.

‘When you came here, did you think you'd still be here now?’

Callum laughed ‘nope’

‘Really?’

‘I nearly flew home’

Helgason stopped walking ‘what?’

‘The first week’. Callum smiled awkwardly ‘I thought I'd made a mistake’

‘You never said’

‘I wasn't going to’.

Helgason looked across at Brynjar ‘you knew?’

Brynjar didn't even hesitate ‘yep’

Callum looked at him ‘you did?’

‘You unpacked your suitcase in the office after three weeks’. There was a pause.

‘You noticed that?’

‘I notice everything’

Helgason burst out laughing ‘I thought you just looked terrified'

Callum couldn't help smiling ‘I was’

The three of them continued gathering the last few bits of equipment in comfortable silence.

Eventually Helgason spoke again ‘you know…’ he waited, then said ‘I've scored more goals in these last few months than I did in the whole of last year’

Callum zipped the bag closed ‘because he keeps finding you’ and pointed towards Brynjar.

The captain shook his head ‘no’

Callum frowned ‘no?’

‘You've changed where he starts’ Brynjar said

Helgason picked up the thought immediately ‘and where I run’

Brynjar continued ‘and where I pass to’

Neither player said another word. They didn't need to.

Callum looked from one to the other. For all the time he’d been there he'd wondered whether anyone had truly understood what he was trying to build. Standing on a quiet training pitch in East Iceland, surrounded by nothing more glamorous than footballs and muddy bibs, he realised they had.

Helgason slung an arm over Brynjar's shoulder as they started walking back towards the clubhouse and said to Callum ‘you know something, I didn't think you'd last’

Callum laughed ‘I didn't either’

Brynjar looked across at him ‘I told him you'd be fine’

Helgason raised an eyebrow ‘you also said he looked terrified’

‘I did, because he did’

Callum smiled to himself ‘fair enough’

The clubhouse came into view ahead of them, warm light spilling through the windows into the cool Icelandic evening. There were two games left, six points to be won in their quest for survival. Nobody mentioned them. Football wasn’t the only thing keeping them three of them together.

== == == == ==

Chapter 14 - One left

If Grotta had felt like a breakthrough, the home game against  Ægir felt like a reminder, football had a habit of dragging you back to earth.

The game drifted for more than an hour without either side finding much rhythm. Chances came and went, usually ending with frustrated gestures rather than genuine celebrations. Every misplaced pass carried a little more weight than usual.

Neither side wanted to make the mistake that would define the afternoon.

With fifteen minutes remaining, Höttur finally found a way through. A free kick, twenty yards from goal slightly right of the center of the box. Not close enough to shoot comfortably, too close to simply float into the box.

Brynjar stood over the ball while Helgason waited alongside the defensive line.

The delivery wasn't spectacular, neither was the finish.

The ball clipped the shoulder of a defender, and changed direction just enough to wrong foot the goalkeeper and bounced into the corner.

Helgason turned instinctively towards the home supporters before looking back at Brynjar with a grin that said everything.

They'd found another way. The celebrations were hopeful rather than wild. Everyone knew what a goal like that could mean.

Callum remained in the technical area, applauding once before urging everyone back into shape ‘concentrate!’

There were still fifteen minutes to survive and for a while, they did. But then fate intervened with barely ninety seconds remaining, disaster arriving in the most ordinary way imaginable.

A hopeful ball into the penalty area, just a standard clearance needed, left full back Kristjánsson stretched for it, just a touch too late as his outstretched foot clipped the attacker.

The referee's whistle came almost before anyone realised what had happened.

Penalty.

No protests. Kristjánsson simply stood with his hands on his head, staring at the turf.

The kick was dispatched with ruthless confidence.

1-1

As the smattering of away supporters celebrated, Callum glanced at the stadium clock. There wasn't enough time left and the final whistle followed soon after.

Nobody shouted. Nobody blamed Kristjánsson. Helgason gave him a pat on the shoulder as they walked from the pitch. Brynjar said something quietly that nobody else heard.

Callum waited until every player had disappeared down the tunnel before taking one final look across the emptying ground.

Twenty one games played, four wins, seven draws and ten defeats.

Nineteen points gained, one point above the relegation places. One game remained.

Everything they had built over the last 3 months now rested on ninety minutes.

== == == == ==

Chapter 15 - Ninety minutes

Callum arrived at the stadium before anyone else. The dressing room was silent.

Outside, volunteers were beginning to unlock gates and wheel advertising boards into position. Somewhere in the distance came the dull thud of a football being struck against a wall.

He sat down in the away dressing room, placed a paper cup of coffee beside him and opened the battered notebook that had travelled with him from Scotland. Most of the pages were untidy. Training ideas, names, little reminders, things to improve.

He turned to a blank page. For a few moments he simply stared at it before writing:

One more game.

He stopped and read it back. Then wrote another line beneath it:

One more ninety minutes.

Another pause, then pen to paper:

Keep them up.

He laid the pen down, that last sentence stayed unfinished longer than the others. Eventually he smiled to himself and finished it with:

Then we'll have a proper pre-season.

He closed the notebook. Outside, he could hear the first players arriving.

== == == == ==

The away dressing room slowly filled. One by one the players drifted to their places, conversations quieter than usual but no different to any other Saturday. Tape was wrapped around ankles. Boots were laced. Music played softly from a speaker in the corner before somebody turned it down without being asked.

Callum waited until everyone was seated before standing. He carried his notebook to the tactics board, the magnets marking the starting eleven were already in place.

He looked at them for a moment. Then, one by one, he lifted them off the board.

The defenders disappeared first, then the midfield, finally the forwards.

The last magnet dropped into the tray with a gentle click.

Nobody spoke.

‘You all know where you play’. He looked around the room ‘you know what we're trying to do’. Another pause ‘we've spent three months becoming a football team’. His eyes settled briefly on Helgason, then Brynjar, before moving around the rest of the room. ‘If we change today, what was the point of the last three months?’

Nobody moved. Callum folded his arms ‘so nothing changes. We press together, we defend together. When we've got the ball, we trust each other’

He glanced towards the door leading to the tunnel ‘and don't ask about the other scores’. 

A couple of heads lifted. Callum continued ‘they're irrelevant. If we're good enough today, nothing else will matter’. He nodded once ‘that's it’

For a second nobody moved. Then Helgason stood. The captain looked around the room, there wasn't a dramatic speech waiting, he simply smiled ‘we've spent all season chasing everyone else’. He pointed towards the door ‘today, they have to deal with us’. He pulled on his shirt and said ‘let's go’.

The scrape of benches echoed around the room as players stood together.

Brynjar stopped beside Callum on his way towards the tunnel ‘no tactics board?’

Callum smiled ‘we didn't need one’

Brynjar nodded ‘no. You’re right, we don't’. He disappeared through the doorway.

Callum remained alone for a few seconds. The room that had been full of noise only moments before now sat empty. Discarded tape lay on the floor. A half empty water bottle rested beneath one of the benches.

His notebook remained where he'd left it. He picked it up, slipped it beneath his arm and followed the team. The tunnel was colder than he expected.

At the far end, bright daylight spilled across the concrete.

Knattspyrnufélag Fjallabyggðar's players stood waiting. Some bounced on their toes, others stared straight ahead, a few laughed among themselves before falling silent as Höttur emerged.

Callum looked along his own line. No laughter, no fear, just quiet concentration.

For the first time since stepping off a plane in East Iceland he looked at his team and saw exactly what he'd hoped to build.

Not eleven individuals trying to survive. A team.

The referee glanced at both captains ‘ready?’

Helgason nodded. Across from him, the opposition captain did the same.

The ref waved them all forward. There was no more talking. Only ninety minutes.

== == == == ==

The opening exchanges belonged to nobody. Knattspyrnufélag Fjallabyggðar had the ball more often, just as everyone expected they would, but every pass was met by a black shirt. Every loose ball was chased. Every tackle was followed by another. Callum barely moved, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the pitch.

‘Good’ he muttered after another interception. ‘Again!’ he shouted as Helgason dropped deep and urged the players forward.

Helgason heard him. The captain nodded once.

The travelling supporters, tucked away behind one goal, answered with cheers that seemed far louder than their numbers should have allowed.

Twelve minutes in. Brynjar stepped in ahead of his marker and won the ball cleanly in midfield. One touch, then another and then a pass through a gap that hadn't existed a second earlier.

Þorláksson was already running and he reached it before the defender.

The goalkeeper came off the line, Þorláksson clipped it beyond him. For a heartbeat the ball rolled almost painfully slowly towards the empty goal.

Then the net rippled, ever so slightly. The away end jumped up. 1-0 Höttur.

Callum applauded once. No fist pump, no mad sprint along the touchline. He simply pointed towards the halfway line ‘again’

Helgason didn't even celebrate properly. He grabbed Þorláksson by the shoulders, smiled, then turned him back towards the centre circle and shouted ‘come on!’

There was still a football match to win.

== == == == ==

For the first time the home crowd fell quiet. Not silent, just uncertain. The league leaders had gone behind, nothing more, nothing less.

The game settled again, Fjallabyggðar tried to respond.

A cross was headed clear by Kristjánsson before it made it’s way into the box. Another attack was broken up by Brynjar before it reached the penalty area. Helgason chased a lost cause forty yards simply because he could.

Every minute that passed chipped away at the confidence of the home side.

Callum didn't notice the clock. He noticed distances, five yards too deep, two yards too narrow. A quick wave of his hand and the back line line stepped forward. Exactly as they'd practised. Exactly as they'd learned.

Thirty seven minutes on the clock and Þorláksson collected the ball with his back to goal.

He feigned laying it outside and rolled one defender, slipped between the second defender and then the challenge came late.

The whistle came first. Penalty.

For a second nobody reacted. Then Brynjar jogged into the area, picked up the ball and wiped it against his shirt before placing it into the captain Helgason's hands.

No discussion. No debate. They'd rehearsed this often enough.

Helgason placed the ball carefully on the spot, wasting no time. One breath, the whistle, right foot, bottom corner. The goalkeeper guessed correctly, he still couldn't reach it.

The away supporters found their voices again. This time even Callum smiled, only briefly.

Across the pitch, the opposition manager barked instructions so quickly that nobody could possibly have understood them all.

For the first time all season, the league leaders and favourites for promotion looked uncertain. Football has a cruel way of punishing uncertainty.

Three minutes later Höttur struck again. The ball ricocheted from one challenge to another before breaking kindly for Þorláksson.

He didn't hesitate. One touch and finish, low and across the goalkeeper.

Three. Nil.

For a second nobody seemed quite sure what they were looking at. Then the away end exploded again. Helgason reached Þorláksson first. Brynjar was next.

Black shirts gathered together before jogging calmly back towards halfway. No theatrics. No pointing at the scoreboard. Just quiet belief.

Callum finally looked up. 41 minutes on the clock, 0–3 to Höttur 

He stared at the numbers for longer than he realised. The notebook drifted back into his thoughts:

One more game.

One more ninety minutes.

Keep them up.

He watched Helgason reorganising the midfield before play had even restarted. Brynjar pointed two defenders five yards wider.

Nobody was waiting for instructions anymore. They already knew.

A fourth line appeared in his mind. Not written on paper this time, simply thought:

We're actually doing it.

He caught himself smiling. Not because they were three goals ahead, but because they looked exactly like the team he'd imagined three months earlier.

The referee glanced at his watch. Five minutes until half time. Five minutes. It didn't feel very long.

The whistle eventually arrived almost unnoticed. Players walked towards the tunnel breathing heavily, shirts clinging to their backs.

Nobody celebrated, nobody spoke.

Callum waited until everyone had taken a drink, only then did he stand ‘forty five. We’ve got forty five to go’. That was all.

Helgason nodded and repeated what the manager said ‘forty five’

A couple of tired smiles appeared around the room.

Callum looked from face to face ‘nothing changes. The football got us here, and that football gets us home’

He didn't touch the tactics board, didn't raise his voice ‘keep trusting each other’

Another pause, then a nod ‘right, it’s to to go and finish the job’

== == == == ==

The second half lasted less than a minute before belief met reality. Fjallabyggðar came forward immediately. The cross was deep, headed back across goal as Bjarnason arrived between two defenders.

His finish was simple. 3-1. Forty six minutes barley on the clock. The home supporters finally found their voices again.

Callum stood and shouted reset!’

Helgason echoed him instantly ‘reset!’

The players jogged back towards halfway, a three goal lead had just become two. Nothing more, nothing less, or so Callum told himself.

For a while Höttur steadied and controlled the game, the next few minutes passed without much panic. A clearance here, a good tackle there, enough to convince everyone that the early goal had merely delayed the inevitable.

Then, on fifty minutes, Birgisson struck. The move seemed to happen too quickly. One pass became two, movement from both wingers, a low cross flashed through the six yard box.

Birgisson arrived unmarked and wide open. 2-3.

This time nobody spoke. Callum folded his arms and stared at the pitch. Not in frustration, but to stop himself reaching for answers that didn't exist.

Football has a habit of asking questions before you've had time to think of them.

A murmur spread around the stadium. Not celebration, yet, but conversation. People checking phones, looking towards radios and asking others around them. Other matches and other scores were the subjects.

Somewhere behind the dugout someone shouted that Magni had conceded on fifty six minutes.

Höttur were still going to survive relegation. Callum heard it, but ignored it. The table could wait, the next pass couldn't ‘keep playing!’

Helgason repeated it ‘keep playing!’

But something had changed. Not the shape or the tactics. The confidence. Passes that had been taken first time were now controlled first. Clearances that had found black shirts now disappeared into empty grass. Players looked over their shoulders before receiving the ball, not because they lacked ability, because they were thinking.

Callum recognised it immediately.

Fear.

He wanted to stop the match, not to change the formation, not to make a substitution, just to tell them that nothing had changed. That they were still the same footballers who had walked onto this pitch forty five minutes earlier.

But football doesn't stop for reassurances, t keeps moving.

The equaliser arrived in the sixty eighth minute. Nobody closed the shot quickly enough, and the ball skipped through a crowd.

The goalkeeper saw it too late. 3-3.

The noise hit Callum before the ball reached the net. Every home fan celebrating at once.

He cupped his hands ‘keep playing!’ Whether anyone heard him he couldn't tell. Three minutes later the game turned completely. Bjarnason drifted away from his marker.

One touch and finish. 4-3. 

For the first time all afternoon Fjallabyggðar led. Callum looked towards his bench, then back at the pitch.

Every substitution felt wrong. Every change felt like an admission that the football which had brought them here was no longer enough. He stayed where he was, trusted the players who had earned this moment.

The scoreboard no longer mattered. Not entirely.

A coach leaned towards him ‘Magni have conceded again’ Callum nodded once. If Höttur could find one goal, just one, it would be enough.

The players didn't need telling, they were already throwing themselves forward. Leaving spaces, taking risks. The football disappeared, and hope replaced it.

Then came the mistake. A loose pass, a quick counterattack and Bjarnason racing clear.

The finish was inevitable. His hat trick. 5-3. Game over, heart breaking stuff.

Callum lowered his head. Only briefly. When he looked up again the players were already collecting the ball from the net.

Still believing, because somewhere else Magni were losing, somewhere else survival still existed.

The fourth official held the board aloft. Ninety minutes, one final attack, one final chance. It never came. Instead the news did. Not from the referee, not from the scoreboard in the ground, but from somewhere inside the crowd.

‘Sindri have scored!’

The words spread faster than the celebration itself. One supporter told another, then another, then another. The sound inside the stadium changed, not everyone understood why.

Callum did. He looked towards the away end, the singing and movement had stopped.

Helgason remained standing in the centre circle. Brynjar stared into the grass. Þorláksson hadn't moved since the announcement.

The referee checked his watch then readied the whistle.

Its sound disappeared beneath the celebrations of one club and the the silence of another.

Ninety minutes. They hadn't been enough.

== == == == ==

The home crowd sensed it before the scoreboard confirmed it.

Champions.

Callum watched one of his players collect the ball from the pitch as the whistle went.

Nobody complained. Nobody argued. Helgason simply carried the ball back to the centre circle, placing it carefully on the spot before looking around at his teammates.

Helgason stood in the centre circle, hands resting on his hips, staring towards the referee as though willing him to find another five minutes. Brynjar looked across the pitch, then towards the travelling supporters.

Neither expression held hope anymore. Only understanding.

White shirts sprinted in every direction, coaches embraced, supporters spilled forward against the advertising boards.

Champions.

Across the halfway line, Höttur barely moved.

Þorláksson sat exactly where the final whistle had found him, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. Brynjar slowly lowered himself onto one knee.

Helgason remained standing.

Still. Silent. As though accepting defeat required more strength than fighting it.

Callum looked up at the scoreboard.

5–3.

It wasn't the score that mattered. One of the club staff approached him quietly.

No rush, no panic, just exhaustion.

‘They've confirmed it’

Callum already knew ‘Sindri?’

The man nodded once ‘they've won’

Neither of them spoke again.

Around them, Fjallabyggðar's celebrations gathered pace.

Children climbed onto their parents' shoulders. Scarves spun above heads. Music echoed around the stadium.

One club had reached the summit. Another had slipped from the mountain.

Callum closed his eyes, only for a second.

The notebook found its way back into his thoughts:

One more game.

One more ninety minutes.

Keep them up.

Then we'll have a proper pre season.

For a while, he'd believed those words.

He opened his eyes again. There wouldn't be one.

== == == == ==

Chapter 16 - After the whistle. 

The celebrations of the home team lasted longer than the walk to the dressing room.

Callum waited near the touchline while players in white embraced family members, coaches and supporters who had spilled onto the edge of the pitch. Scarves spun through the cold Icelandic air. Someone had found a club flag almost twice the size of the man carrying it.

He watched for a moment. Then he walked.

The opposition manager spotted him before he reached the tunnel. They shook hands ‘you made us work for it’

Callum managed a tired smile ‘congratulations’

Nothing else needed saying.

== == == == ==

The dressing room door closed behind the players.

For a while, nobody spoke. Boots laid on the floor, tape peeled away from tired legs. Someone turned on the showers, the sound of running water filled the room more completely than conversation ever could.

Callum remained standing, hands in his pockets, looking around the room.

Not at the players. At everything else. The tactics board. The battered treatment table. The pegs lining the wall. The players jackets and jumpers hanging where they'd been left before kick off.

Three months earlier none of it had meant anything to him. Now every corner of the room carried a memory.

‘Sorry’. The voice was quiet. Helgason.

Callum looked across at his captain ‘don't’.

Helgason opened his mouth as if to continue.

Callum shook his head once ‘you've got nothing to apologise for’

The room fell silent again. There wasn't an argument, there wasn't anyone to blame. Sometimes football simply refused to reward effort.

Brynjar sat a few places away, unlacing his boots with slow, deliberate movements.

He glanced towards Callum.

The manager wasn't looking at anyone, his eyes wandered across the room as though trying to remember it.

Brynjar frowned almost imperceptibly, then looked back down at his boots.

Nobody said another word.

== == == == ==

The coach pulled away from the stadium just after seven. Darkness had already swallowed the mountains, the celebrations disappeared in the mirrors long before anyone spoke.

Most of the players slept.

Those who didn't stared through the windows or down at their phones.

Every so often a screen lit up.

Unlucky.

You gave everything.

Proud of you.

Replies were rare.

Callum sat near the front beside the driver. The roads looked familiar now. When he'd first travelled them they'd felt endless.

Wild. Unforgiving. Trees everywhere.

Now they felt almost comforting. He watched the headlights carve a path through the darkness.

Three months.

It hadn't seemed long enough to build anything, yet somehow it had been long enough for the place to start feeling like home.

== == == == ==

The coach rolled into Höttur's small car park well after nightfall.

Nobody hurried to leave. Players gathered their bags in silence. One by one they stepped off into the cold.

Helgason stopped beside Callum ‘see you Monday?’

Callum looked at him and smiled ‘yeah, corse’

The lie came more easily than he expected.

Helgason nodded ‘good’. He walked away.

Brynjar lingered for a second longer. He looked as though he wanted to ask something. Instead he simply offered his hand ‘night, boss’

‘Night’

Brynjar held his gaze for a fraction longer than anyone else had all evening.

Then he left too.

Soon the car park was empty. Only Callum's rental car remained.

== == == == ==

The flat felt strangely unfamiliar. He dropped his keys into the bowl by the door and switched on the kitchen light.

Silence. No supporters. No whistles. No celebrations. Just the quiet hum of the fridge.

His notebook lay where he'd left it that morning. He picked it up and opened the first page.

One more game.

One more ninety minutes.

Keep them up.

Then we'll have a proper pre-season.

He read the words once. Then again. For a while, he'd believed them. He closed the notebook carefully and rested it on the table.

The room remained silent.

Outside, the Icelandic wind rattled against the window. Callum reached into his pocket and took out his phone. He scrolled until he found the chairman's name, his thumb hovered over the screen for several seconds.

Then he typed:

Can we meet tomorrow morning?

He read the message once. Pressed send.

The phone buzzed almost immediately.

Of course. Nine?

Callum stared at the reply, then placed the phone face down on the table.

He switched off the kitchen light.

The notebook remained where it was.

Closed. Waiting.

== == == == ==

The chairman was already waiting. He stood as Callum stepped into the office, offering the same handshake he had on the day he'd been appointed.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

‘Coffee?’

Callum nodded ‘aye, please’

Neither man spoke while the kettle boiled. Rain tapped gently against the office window overlooking the empty pitch. The same pitch that had looked full of possibility three months earlier.

The chairman placed two mugs on the desk before sitting down ‘you wanted to speak with me’

Callum wrapped both hands around the mug, more for something to do than because he wanted the coffee ‘I've come to resign’

The words settled between them. The chairman didn't look surprised, he simply nodded once. ‘I thought that might be why you wanted this meeting’

Silence returned. Not awkward, just thoughtful.

Eventually the chairman leaned back in his chair ‘why?’

Callum looked through the window ‘you hired me to keep this club in the division’. He paused ‘I didn't’

The chairman let the answer hang for a moment ‘when you walked through that door….' he pointed towards the window ‘...we'd gone nine league games without a win’. A pause. ‘Our supporters had accepted we were going down. Our players looked like they had accepted it too’. He smiled sadly ‘I wasn't looking for a miracle’

Callum lowered his eyes ‘you nearly got one’

The chairman continued ‘you gave this team a bit of hope. You gave people something they'd stopped believing in, they'll remember that I’m sure’

Callum shook his head gently ‘they'll remember relegation They'll remember yesterday’

‘No’ the chairman replied quietly. ‘They'll remember believing they might stay up’

The room fell silent again. Callum had no answer, but eventually he spoke ‘If I stay….’ he searched for the words ‘….every conversation becomes about rebuilding. Every signing, every decision, every mistake, they'll all belong to me’. He looked back towards the chairman ‘and I don't know if I'm the right man for that'

The chairman studied him carefully ‘I think you are’

‘I don't’

Another silence.

The chairman folded his hands together ‘take a week. No football, no decisions. Go fishing or drive somewhere, maybe go back to Scotland, then come back’

Callum smiled despite himself ‘I've been thinking since yesterday’. He glanced down at the coffee ‘I think I knew before we got back on the coach yesterday’

The chairman sighed ‘I was hoping you'd say something different’

‘I'm sorry’

'Don't apologise’. The chairman stood ‘so that's it?’

Callum nodded ‘that's it’

The chairman walked around the desk and offered his hand ‘you'll always be welcome here’

Callum stood and shook it ‘thank you, for the opportunity’

‘No’ the chairman smiled, ‘thank you’

== == == == ==

The cold air hit him as he stepped outside. The training ground was empty, only the wind moved.

Callum stood for a while looking across the pitch.

Three months. It wasn't long, yet somehow it had become difficult to leave.

His phone vibrated.

Stevie.

Callum smiled as he answered.

‘Morning’

‘How's Iceland's most famous Scottish manager?’

Callum looked across the empty ground ‘I've resigned’

Silence. Not the silence of a bad phone line. The silence of someone trying to find the right words.

Finally Stevie spoke ‘right’. Callum waited. No joke followed, no attempt to lighten the mood. Just another question ‘you alright?’

Callum thought about the answer ‘I will be’

Another pause ‘you want me to come over?’

Callum laughed quietly ‘it's about a thousand miles’

‘Details. I've got Google Maps anyway’

‘You hate flying’

‘I hate seeing my pal miserable more’

Callum smiled to himself. For what felt like the first time in days ‘you don't have to’

‘I know’ Stevie replied, ‘but I would’

Callum looked back towards the stadium one final time ‘you know, I thought we'd done it’

‘I know’

We were three nil up against the leaders’

‘I know’

‘We were safe’

‘I know’

Stevie didn't offer explanations, didn't talk about bad luck, didn't actually mention football. He simply listened, and sometimes that was enough.

‘So…’. Stevie eventually said ‘what's next?’

Callum looked at the empty pitch. For the first time since the final whistle yesterday, he realised he didn't have an answer ‘I've no idea’

Stevie laughed softly ‘good’

Callum frowned ‘why's that good?’

‘Because every stupid adventure you've ever dragged me into started with those three words’

This time Callum laughed properly. The sound surprised even him.

For the first time since he’d decided to resign, the future didn't feel quite so empty.

== == == == ==