The Coaching System-Chapter 268: Inside Bradford: “One Week with Roney Bardghji”

Dates: Monday 1 March – Friday 6 March, 2026

The boots came on last. Roney didn't rush it.

He sat in the corner of the changing room at Apperley Bridge, one knee raised, the laces running through his fingers like thread. The sound of studs on tile echoed around him—early, quiet, clean. Outside, the pitch waited. Frosty grass. Northern wind. Yorkshire grey.

A soft first touch off the rebound wall. Then another. No coaches, no teammates yet—just the ball returning as true as he sent it. His eyes flicked up once, toward the horizon, where the morning sky hung still and silent.

Voiceover—his own, not performed, just real:

"People think I play with noise. But really… it's rhythm. Not chaos."

The ball rolled back again. He caught it, stilled it under one sole, and held it there.

________

Ethan Wilson waited for him at the entry doors—hood up, gloves half-pulled. They didn't talk straight away. Just nodded. The kind of nod that meant let's go, not hello. They walked into the training complex like two boys entering a library. A few claps echoed from the indoor pitch, someone finishing rehab. The rest of the squad moved slow today. Deliberate. Post-match rhythm.

Breakfast was laid out in the team café—scrambled eggs, fruit bowls, porridge that steamed in wide trays. Roney took his usual seat—middle table, back left corner. Not a statement. Just habit.

Silva and Rasmussen joined a minute later, both still in recovery tracksuits. Silva nudged him as he sat.

"You owe me one, man. That backheel from Saturday? Was art."

Roney smirked. "You just wanted the nutmeg."

"You promised the nutmeg," Rasmussen added, deadpan. "We were watching."

They laughed. Soft, easy laughter—the kind that didn't need to be loud to mean something.

Later, in the recovery room, Roney sat waist-deep in the ice bath. Headphones in. Eyes closed. No beats leaking out—whatever played was his alone. The cold climbed up his chest. Bit his ribs. His fingers twitched just once.

Off-screen, the voice again, steady:

"This is when the bruises talk. You just learn not to listen."

Steam rose from nearby mugs. The room pulsed with stillness. No one spoke.

And Roney sank a little deeper into the silence.

Day 2 – Tuesday (Tactics + Cinema Night)

Wind rolled low across the upper pitch at Apperley Bridge, but no one slowed down. Jake's whistle cut the air—sharp, constant. Wide triangle drills ran like gears in a machine. Vélez at the pivot. Silva on the break. Roney—somewhere between the two, the spark connecting them.

They rehearsed it in waves. Vélez released early. Silva dragged wide. Roney timed his run late and low. Again. Again. The ball zipped between cones and boots, rhythm sharpening with each sequence. Then it clicked.

One sequence, Roney turned away from his marker mid-run, touched it back with his heel—delicate, disrespectful—and Silva, already accelerating, snapped it into the net off one touch. Vélez barked a laugh. Silva raised a hand mid-stride, clapping even before the ball crossed the line.

Jake didn't say much. Just reset the cones and nodded. Next group.

Later that afternoon, when most of the squad trickled inside, Roney stayed out. Chapman and Fort joined him—extra shooting. Nothing formal. Just the three of them taking turns off service drills. Top corner hits. First-time volleys. Fort went for power. Chapman for curve. Roney? He chased angles. Bounce passes, outside-foot curls, no-look shots. Vélez, finished with cooldowns, stood at the far edge of the pitch and filmed one of them on his phone—slow-mo, just for banter.

"Showboating," he muttered behind the lens. "But we'll take it."

That evening, city lights painted a soft wash over Bradford. Roney and Richter walked side-by-side into The Light cinema, hoodies up, unbothered. No one stopped them. They shared popcorn. Argued over trailers. When the film ended, they drifted toward the corner shop down the road.

Inside, Richter grabbed a bag of jalapeño crisps and smirked.

"Double dare. Half the bag. One minute."

Roney raised a brow. Then shrugged.

Five seconds in, he regretted it. Red-faced, coughing, half-laughing as he chugged a bottle of water from the fridge before they even paid.

"You're not right in the head," he managed, voice hoarse.

"Yeah," Richter said, grinning, "but I'm undefeated."

Day 3 – Wednesday (Rest Day)

Quiet morning. The apartment didn't feel like much—a spare sofa, a tidy kitchen, muted walls. But Roney liked it that way.

Flatbread toasted slowly on the pan. Yogurt in the bowl. A few berries. No excess. Just enough.

Sunlight filtered through the window, catching on the Swedish flag sticker peeling slightly on the side of his guitar case. He hadn't played in weeks, but the case always stayed out. Like a reminder of something older.

A call came through—his younger brother in Malmö. The screen lit up with a smile before it even connected. They talked for ten minutes. Mostly jokes. Mostly football. They laughed about his brother rage-quitting FIFA again.

"I had Mbappé," Roney said, smirking. "You had Harry Maguire. What did you expect?"

Later that day, he logged on.

FIFA 26. A co-op session with Soro and Fletcher.

Their avatars danced through defences. Banter filled the voice chat. Then came the cross—and Roney's player launched into a bicycle kick, physics-defying and full of flair.

Goal.

Soro shouted. Fletcher dropped his controller.

Roney just leaned back.

"I mean," he said, mock-serious. "Who else would finish it?"

______

The wind came at them sideways across Apperley Bridge. Sharp, loud, merciless. But the tempo stayed high. Jake had set the small-sided pitch narrow and combative—no margins, no space to breathe.

Roney thrived in it.

Silva dropped deep early, drawing his marker, and Roney sprinted past on the blindside. One flicked pass, one no-look backheel, and Vélez volleyed home. Applause followed—mid-run, mid-smile, from Silva, from everyone. Jake didn't react. He didn't need to. Rhythm was rhythm.

They reset fast.

Roney found himself on the opposite team for the next round. Now Silva tracked him—grinning, baiting. It was only a matter of time.

Then it came.

Fort stepped too slow, squared up to trap Roney along the touchline.

Wrong move.

Roney dropped his shoulder, dipped his hips, and slipped the ball between Fort's legs without breaking stride.

The whole pitch erupted.

Someone yelled "Oh my God!" from the keeper's box.

Fort laughed. But it had bite to it. "You do that on Saturday," he shouted, turning back toward the centre, "I'm retiring."

In the locker room after, breath still fogging the air, Roney peeled off his base layer and turned straight into a trap—Walsh, lurking with a half-full water bottle, aimed squarely for the chest.

The hit never landed.

Roney caught the bottle one-handed. No blink. No word.

Vélez raised both eyebrows.

"Spider-sense."

Laughter burst again—fast, bright, clean.

Friday opened with frost again. A soft crunch underfoot and white lines barely visible. Jake paced slowly along the sideline during walkthroughs. Blackburn were coming. Press-heavy. Mid-block choke.

Jake wanted release valves wide.

"Roney," he called out after the third drill cycle, waving him over.

They stood shoulder to shoulder as the others cycled through a possession grid.

"Blackburn will jam the middle," Jake said. "When they do, drag them wide."

A pause.

"Then… end it."

Roney nodded. Quiet, focused, all edges honed.

Later at home, he moved with ease—routine, mechanical. Boots wiped, bag packed. Earbuds zipped into the corner. And, almost without thought, a folded notebook slid into the side pouch.

No label. Just pages. Worn. Familiar.

The coach waited outside Apperley Bridge at sundown. Engine running. Fog lights cutting through the dusk.

Roney boarded last. Found his seat by the window. Hood up. Bag between his legs.

He leaned his head against the glass.

Closed his eyes.

And let the silence do the rest.

Text scrolled quietly across the dark screen:

Next Match: Blackburn (A) – Saturday, 7 March.