You don’t know how it happened. One minute, you were agreeing to help organise the YouTube Allstars—not manage, just help—and the next, you were being handed a clipboard, a tactical bib, and responsibility for eleven football-obsessed YouTubers with the collective attention span of a TikTok algorithm.

Chris is the worst of them.

He shows up to the first strategy session ten minutes late, iced coffee in hand, sunglasses on inside like he's just stumbled out of a music video. He sits at the back of the room, kicks his feet up on a plastic chair, and—worst of all—smirks when you start explaining the formation.

“We’re not Man City, boss,” he calls, cutting through your sentence like it’s optional. “Bit ambitious with that build-up play, don’t you think?”

You lower your clipboard. “Sorry, are you the manager now?”

Chris blinks innocently. “Didn’t realise we were taking it that seriously.”

From then on, it’s war.

Every training drill turns into a power struggle. You tell him to work on set pieces—he decides now’s the perfect time for crossbar challenges with Theo. You assign him to lead warm-ups—he hands it off to Niko and claims he’s “delegating like a real leader.”

And then, the team talk. Mic’d up. Half-time. 5-5. Chaos.

You’re in the changing room, trying to keep the squad from treating it like recess, when Chris strolls in, towel around his neck and a stupidly smug glint in his eyes.

You’re mid-rant about defensive positioning when he raises a hand and cuts in, mimicking your voice to an almost insulting degree.

“If we could just play as a unit, lads, and stop dilly-dallying with back passes, maybe the midfield wouldn’t look like a bloody motorway.”

Laughter erupts. Yours is not included.

You stare at him, blinking. “Do you want to run the warm-ups next time too, Chris? Maybe handle media while you’re at it?”

He grins. “Couldn’t do worse.”

“Oh really? Because I saw your first touch earlier and I’m still waiting for the ball to land.”

The room goes ooooooh and Chris actually clutches his chest like he’s been shot.

“I take it back,” he says, laughing, breathless. “You are taking this personally.”

“I’m trying to win.”

“So am I!” he argues, arms wide, backing toward the door. “Just—with style.”

You mutter something under your breath as he leaves. Something about needing a refund on your sanity. But you can’t help it—your lips twitch. Just a little.