The Coaching System-Chapter 103: The Ghost of Kaiserslautern

Jake Wilson sat in his office, staring at the screen. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating. He had done this search a hundred times in his mind but never had the nerve to actually type it out.

But tonight was different.

His hands moved on their own.

"Ethan Carter, Kaiserslautern, death."

The results loaded instantly.

The headlines felt like a punch to the gut.

"One Year Since the Loss of Ethan Carter – Kaiserslautern's Unfinished Story."

"A Manager's Last Victory: The Night That Took Ethan Carter."

"Remembering The Cursed Manager: Fans Gather to Honor Carter's Legacy."

Jake leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly.

He knew this day would come—the day he would finally confront his past, acknowledge the man he used to be. But knowing and facing it were two different things.

A memorial.

They were holding a memorial for him.

For Ethan Carter.

For the man he used to be.

Jake clicked on one of the articles. The screen filled with a familiar sight—the entrance of the Fritz-Walter-Stadion, bathed in candlelight. A massive banner hung over the gates, his old face staring back at him.

His old club, FC Kaiserslautern, was organizing the ceremony. Former players, staff, and fans were expected to attend. They would gather to honor the man they had spent years ridiculing—the manager they had once labeled a failure.

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For a decade, Ethan Carter had been a joke. The man who couldn't win. The man who never lived up to expectations.

Now, he was a tragedy.

Jake's hands curled into fists. Why now?

Why did it take dying for them to see his worth?

He should leave it alone. Ignore it. Move forward.

Focus on Bradford.

But he couldn't.

His past wasn't finished with him.

Jake booked a flight to Germany that night.

The air in Kaiserslautern was as he remembered—cold, sharp, familiar. The city hadn't changed, but Jake had.

He walked the streets with a sense of uncanny detachment. The old buildings, the faint scent of fresh bread from the bakery at the corner of the street, the constant sound of the tram moving through the city, it was all the same. And yet, everything felt different.

It had been over a year since Ethan Carter had died, and for the people here, that was all he was now. A memory. A story. A name attached to a tragic night.

Jake kept his hood up, his hands in his pockets, as he made his way toward the stadium. He knew the path well, even though his body had never walked it before.

The closer he got, the heavier his steps became.

Candles flickered at the entrance of the Fritz-Walter-Stadion, their soft glow reflecting in the eyes of those gathered. Fans stood in clusters, some quietly murmuring, others simply staring at the large banner draped over the entrance. It bore Ethan Carter's face—his old face. The same tired eyes, the same furrowed brow. A face he had left behind.

Scarves had been tied to the gates. Flowers lay beneath the banner, alongside notes written in German. Some were messages of thanks. Others, apologies.

"You deserved better."

"Gone too soon."

"Danke für alles, Carter."

Jake stayed at the back, hidden in the shadows, watching.

A former player stepped forward to speak, his voice thick with emotion.

"He wasn't perfect. But he believed in us when no one else did."

Jake's throat tightened.

They were talking about him. And yet, they weren't.

His eyes scanned the small crowd until they landed on a familiar face. Markus Reinhardt—his old assistant. His hair had more gray in it now. He looked older, heavier, burdened.

Markus stepped up to the microphone, clearing his throat before speaking.

"He never got to celebrate that victory," Markus said, his voice cracking. "But that night, for the first time, Ethan Carter wasn't a joke. He was a winner. And that's how we should remember him."

Jake swallowed hard, looking away.

The emotions clawed at his chest, threatening to spill over. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to remain still.

They had spent years doubting him, mocking him. But now, when he was gone, they finally saw him for who he had been.

A bitter smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

It was easier to love the dead.

After the ceremony, he didn't head to a hotel.

He took a taxi to a small house on the outskirts of town.

His grandmother's house.

The place Ethan Carter had always considered home, long after everything else in his life had crumbled.

Jake stood at the edge of the driveway, staring at the familiar structure. It looked smaller than he remembered. The paint on the shutters was peeling. The garden, once carefully tended, had started to grow wild.

And there, sitting on the porch, bundled in a thick coat, was her.

She sat with a steaming cup of tea, hands wrapped around it for warmth. Her gaze was distant, lost in the sky, as if searching for something—someone—she had long since lost.

Jake hesitated before stepping forward.

"Excuse me," he said softly.

Her head turned. Eyes—old, wise, and endlessly kind—landed on him.

"Yes?"

Jake forced a small smile. "I… I was a friend of Ethan's."

Her expression changed instantly. Her lips parted slightly, then closed again as she studied him. "You knew my grandson?"

Jake nodded. "Yes. I just… I wanted to make sure you were okay."

She let out a soft breath, setting her cup down with slightly trembling fingers. "People don't ask about me much anymore. Only when the anniversary comes."

Jake swallowed the lump in his throat and sat beside her, clasping his hands together. "He talked about you a lot."

A gentle smile touched her face. "Ethan was a stubborn boy. But he had a good heart. A hard life, but a good heart."

Jake inhaled sharply, his chest tightening. "He really did."

The afternoon passed in quiet conversation.

Jake helped around the house—fixing a loose step on the porch, carrying groceries, adjusting a leaky faucet.

She told stories. Stories he already knew. Stories he had lived.

He listened to them anyway, laughed at memories that still burned, pretended to be someone else while sitting in the only place that had ever truly felt like home.

It was both comforting and agonizing.

She never suspected. Never questioned.

To her, he was just a kind stranger who had cared about her grandson.

And for now, that was enough.

As night fell, Jake stood at her door, feeling heavier than ever.

She studied him for a long moment before speaking.

"You remind me of him."

Jake's breath caught.

She smiled, faint but certain. "You have his eyes. The same sadness."

His hands clenched at his sides. "Maybe he just had a lot to regret."

Her gaze softened. "No. He had a lot to be proud of."

Jake held her stare, feeling something deep inside him crack, something he wasn't sure he could fix.

For the first time that day, he allowed himself to smile.

"Thank you," he murmured.

She reached out and patted his hand gently. "Take care of yourself, young man. And if you ever find yourself in town again… my door is always open."

Jake nodded, turned, and walked away.

The flight back to England was quiet.

He sat by the window, staring at the sky, the weight of his past pressing down on him.

As the plane took off, a single tear slipped down his cheek.

He wiped it away before anyone could see.

Ethan Carter was dead.

But Jake Wilson still had a future to build.

And he wouldn't waste it.