Chapter 4: Ripples
The bus ride home was quiet—but not in a heavy, defeated way.
After the 1–0 win, the players were spent in that satisfying way where your legs ache but your spirit feels full. A few of the lads had already dozed off, earbuds still in. Others scrolled through their phones, their faces lit up by mentions and praise from fans online.
Niels sat by the window, hoodie pulled low, watching the countryside melt into the night. His reflection stared back—drawn, a little pale, but... calm. At 25, he wasn't the golden boy anymore. The world had moved on. But tonight, for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel like someone who'd missed his shot. He felt... present.
Across the aisle, Milan caught his eye. Gave him a small nod—no fuss, no speech. Just a quiet recognition.
"You held your nerve," Milan said, voice low and steady.
Niels gave a half-shrug. "Did my best."
Monday rolled in grey and cold, with a drizzle that made everything feel soggy before noon.
But Crawley's training ground felt different. Lighter. The usual tension had thinned out. The players moved with a little more ease. The coaching staff cracked jokes without forcing them. Someone dropped off donuts in the physio room—no one asked who, but they were gone by ten.
Niels arrived with a warm paper cup in hand, steam rising as he stepped into the analysis room. Milan was already there, hunched over his old laptop, eyes fixed on the match replay.
"Smart call on that free kick," Milan said, eyes still on the screen. "That bounce threw their line off. Caught them flat-footed."
Niels sipped his coffee. "Bit lucky, really."
Milan finally looked up, a twitch of a smirk playing on his lips. "Luck's just what happens when preparation shows up on time."
Niels raised an eyebrow. "You get that from a coaching podcast?"
Milan chuckled. "Probably. Doesn't mean it's not true."
They went back to the footage, breaking down runs, scanning for missed cues, sketching movement patterns on paper with a pencil that kept disappearing under their notes. But something had shifted. Milan wasn't just critiquing—he was listening. Engaging. For once, it didn't feel like a hierarchy. It felt like a partnership.
Just before lunch, Niels's laptop chimed.
Subject: Board Meeting – 5 p.m. Conference Room 2
No context. Just a time and a place.
He stared at it for a second, fingers still over the keyboard.
That evening, he sat at the far end of a polished table in Conference Room 2, fiddling with a pen while the walls echoed silence. He'd thrown on a jacket, but noticed a faint coffee stain on the sleeve too late to do anything about it.
Wallace entered first—composed, every line of his suit sharp. Behind him came the director of football and the club's head of operations. Milan wasn't there.
Wallace sat down, hands clasped. He didn't warm up the room.
"We were impressed," he said plainly. "You stepped up under pressure. That matters."
Niels gave a short nod. He didn't need to say anything more.
Wallace continued. "We've had a few clubs reach out—lower leagues, mostly. They're asking if you'd be open to a managerial role."
Niels blinked, thrown. "I didn't even know I was an option."
"You're not," Wallace said, with that boardroom calm. "But in football, being 'official' means less than being noticed. People talk. Whispers move faster than paperwork."
He paused. Then shifted.
"There's a cup match this weekend. Nothing glamorous—just early rounds. We're resting Milan, rotating the squad. You'll take the team."
Niels froze. "You want me in charge?"
Wallace nodded. "It's official. Your team, your plan. We'll be watching."
The days blurred after that.
He was in early, out late. Watching grainy footage of the opposition—non-league, physical, chaotic. They were known for long throws, aerial battles, and playing like every tackle was personal.
Niels didn't sleep much. His notebook filled with ideas and second-guesses. He trusted his gut, more than ever—but he checked it against the footage. He wasn't guessing. He was reading.
By Friday, the rain had returned. Training was short and grimy. The pitch was mud. Passes skipped like stones—or didn't move at all.
He pulled the squad in near the touchline. Rain slicked his jacket. The cold bit at his fingers.
"Cup matches like this," he said, scanning the faces around him, "aren't won with pretty football. They're won with guts. When the pitch is a swamp and the opposition are all built like center backs, it's not about looking good. It's about staying sharp."
He looked at Luka. At the winger he'd trusted in the last game. At the quiet midfielder with a crunching tackle.
"You don't rise to the occasion. You fall to your level of preparation. So we raise the floor."
No fist pumps. No shouting. Just a shared silence.
They were with him.
Saturday.
A cold wind rolled through the open stands. The pitch looked more like a cow pasture than a football field—bumpy, patchy, soaked. Fans leaned on rusted railings just feet from the touchline. Their voices carried: curses, songs, crude chants. Niels could smell the beer from the bench.
The whistle blew. Crawley barely had time to settle.
Long throw. Flick-on. Scramble in the box. The ball ricocheted off a shin and past the keeper.
1–0.
For a moment, Niels stood frozen.
Welcome to the cup.
But then he moved. Tweaked the shape. Pulled off a veteran who looked half-a-step behind. Sent on the young winger with pace to burn.
They hung on. The ball stuck in puddles, slipped off boots. Crawley clawed for rhythm, for ground. Every minute felt like an hour.
Then, in the 68th—chaos in their box turned into clarity. A second ball off a cleared corner fell kindly. One touch. Shot.
1–1.
The crowd roared, a mix of home groans and away cheers.
Niels clenched his fists, not in celebration, but in focus.
Fifteen minutes later, Luka made his run—right flank, dancing past two, a slick one-two near the edge of the box. Cutback. Finish.
2–1.
When the final whistle came, it was like breaking through the surface after holding your breath too long.
Niels didn't jump. Didn't scream. He just exhaled—long, deep. Let the moment land.
Back in the dressing room, the mood was wild. Someone was singing off-key. A Bluetooth speaker buzzed as it pumped half-broken beats. Boots banged against benches. Laughter echoed.
Milan walked in last. Arms crossed. Watching.
Then, one loud clap.
"Alright," he said, grinning, eyes on Niels. "Two for two."
Niels looked up, unlacing his boots, damp socks sticking to his heels.
He met Milan's gaze and gave a small smile. Not smug. Just honest.
He wasn't a kid anymore.
And maybe—just maybe—he was starting to look like a real manager.