Chapter 2: The First Step
The Monday after that first drill, something shifted.
It wasn't that the players had suddenly become faster or sharper. It was something beneath the surface—a sense of purpose. Training had rhythm now. Players were focused. The players had stopped sleepwalking through training. For the first time in a long time, they knew someone was actually watching—really watching. Someone who cared whether they improved or not.
Luka Radev stood out more than anyone. His pace had always been there—erratic, explosive—but now it had direction. Niels had spent the week helping him find control within that chaos, teaching him when to burst, when to hold. Luka was making smarter runs, cutting inside at better angles. There were still issues—he avoided tracking back like it was beneath him—but his decision-making was improving.
"Kid's got talent," Milan muttered one afternoon as Luka flew past a defender during a small-sided game. "Just hope he doesn't burn out."
"He won't," Niels said, hands in his pockets. "We'll help him control it."
Milan shot him a sideways glance. "You think he's ready for the next step?"
Niels nodded slowly. "Maybe. But it's not just him. There's something in this group."
His eyes drifted to Marko Simic. The lanky, uncertain center-back was still a work in progress. He had decent instincts but poor positioning. Niels saw something in him that numbers or drills wouldn't catch—a willingness to learn, a quiet resilience.
During one defensive drill, Marko was turned twice in a row by a journeyman striker with heavy boots and no pace. Milan started shouting, frustration rising, but Niels raised a hand.
"Let me take this one."
He jogged over, slowing the drill down to its basic movements.
"Your body shape is wrong," Niels said, mimicking the positioning. "You're chasing instead of guiding. You can't rely on instinct if your instincts are wrong. Think before you act."
Marko nodded, listening closely. He didn't say much, but on the next rep, he showed improvement. Nothing groundbreaking—but better than before.
That was enough for Niels. Progress, not perfection. He believed in small wins.
By Thursday, a few players had started staying behind after sessions—asking questions, reviewing clips, even requesting drills. They weren't doing it for Milan. They were doing it because Niels had made them feel seen.
He started keeping a notebook. Player notes, ideas for drills, quick sketches of pressing triggers or set pieces. The cheat—those rare flashes of instinctual insight—still came and went. But even without it, Niels had begun shaping the team in small, deliberate ways.
On Wednesday night, long after the stadium lights had dimmed, Niels sat alone in the video room. Match after match of their next opponent—Grimsby Town—played on screen. He studied everything: long balls over the top, slow buildup, shaky defending on corners.
He barely heard Milan walk in.
"Thinking ahead?" Milan asked, holding two steaming mugs of instant coffee.
Niels didn't look away from the screen. "Yes."
Milan leaned on the doorframe. "Good. Tactics are yours for the weekend."
Niels turned slowly. "Are you serious?"
"You've been running sessions. Shaping ideas. You've deserve a chance." Milan shrugged. "We're bottom of the table. It's time for bold moves."
Niels hesitated. "You think the squad's ready for that?"
Milan tilted his head. "Doesn't matter. You're ready. Show me."
The words settled heavy on Niels' chest—but there was excitement too. He nodded.
Friday's internal match came quick. First team versus reserves. Not a real fixture, but it felt like one. Players knew eyes were on them. So did Niels.
Milan handed him the clipboard. "It's yours now. Pick the team."
Niels opted for discipline over flair. Luka started. Marko didn't. A holding midfielder dropped deeper to shore up the back line. It wasn't a radical system—just practical. Smarter.
The game started fast but messy. Passes missed targets, players slipped. The second string played like they had something to prove. The first team played like they didn't want to embarrass themselves again.
Niels shouted instructions, urging calm, composure, structure. Luka was quieter than usual, waiting instead of bursting forward every time. But that patience paid off.
With five minutes left, Luka got his chance.
A quick combination play on the right opened space. Luka took a touch past one defender, then another, and powered down the wing. He cut inside just outside the box, paused, and curled a left-footed shot toward the far post.
The ball bent perfectly past the keeper and smacked the netting.
1–0.
There weren't many watching—just staff and a few injured players—but the bench exploded with noise. Not because it was beautiful, but because it worked. The shape, the roles, the preparation—everything had finally clicked, even if just for a moment.
At full time, the players shook hands and trudged off, tired but buzzing.
Milan gave Niels a slow nod. "Not bad."
Later that night in the staff room, Milan sat back with a report in one hand and his feet up on the table.
"You want more responsibility?" he asked, without looking up.
"Yes," Niels said immediately.
"Good," Milan replied. "Since you won this game. Next matchday. All yours."
That night, Niels couldn't sleep. He sat at his desk with his notebook wide open. His mind spun with ideas—how to build from the back, how to press without tiring too early, how to protect a narrow lead. Every formation, every pattern mattered now.
Crawley Town had just climbed out of 21st place. The 1–0 win from the scrimmage had earned them a spot back in 20th. They weren't out of the woods—not by a long shot—but the gap from relegation had stretched to seven points.
It was still tight. A single loss could drag them back under, but for now, they had something to build on.
Their next match? Away to the 17th-placed side. A mid-table club with a bruising midfield and a high press. It wouldn't be televised. No big crowd. But it was a test.
And for Niels, it was more than a match—it was a statement.
No more playing it safe.
He was here to change the game.