Chapter 10: The Eye of the Storm
Saturday. The day before the FA Cup tie with Oxford United.
Niels stood in the quiet of the changing room, his hands resting on the back of a wooden bench. The usual buzz of pre-match banter was absent, replaced with an undercurrent of tension. Crawley had done well to reach this stage, but tomorrow was a different challenge. Oxford were a League One side, and they were hungry to make a statement of their own.
The weather outside mirrored the mood inside. Dark clouds clung to the sky, making the world feel smaller, enclosed. The rain came in heavy sheets, lashing against the windows with a rhythm that was almost soothing—if you weren't already on edge.
Niels had spent the last few days in a blur of preparation, dissecting Oxford's game, watching their set pieces, their movements off the ball. Every small advantage counted, and he knew he had to be meticulous. But it wasn't the opponent that consumed his thoughts now.
It was his players.
He'd seen the weight they carried on their shoulders. The added eyes on them, the heightened expectations. It wasn't just about winning anymore; it was about proving they belonged, about showing that this wasn't some fluke. It was a moment to cement their rise.
"Tomorrow," he muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper. He shook his head, pushing away the nagging thought that the pressure might break them. He couldn't afford to doubt now—not when the team had come this far.
The team meeting was brief, but it had the weight of a thousand words. Niels spoke less than usual, but when he did, his words had an almost magnetic effect.
"We're not here to survive," he said, looking at each of them in turn. "We're here to play. We've earned this chance. Now let's take it."
The players nodded, their faces a mixture of determination and nerves. Luka stood near the back, his eyes scanning the room, his usual cocky demeanor tempered by something else—something quieter. The team's progress, his own potential, it all felt real now.
Dev, on the other hand, seemed to carry a different burden. His gaze flickered to Niels every now and then, uncertainty still lingering. He was young, too aware of the potential that came with his talent. It wasn't just the fear of failure that held him back. It was the fear of success, of being seen, of the expectations suddenly thrust upon him.
The room was silent for a moment, the tension thick. But Niels knew the trick. He leaned forward, his voice low but firm.
"Remember who we are. We're Crawley Town. We fight for each other. We play for the badge, not for the scouts or the headlines. Tomorrow is another game. Just like Mansfield. Just like Doncaster."
Luka's eyes met Niels'. There was a spark there, a recognition. A challenge. Luka had always wanted more—now, he would have to prove he was ready for it.
"We're ready," Jamal said, breaking the silence. His calm confidence echoed in the room, and for a moment, it felt like a weight lifted. The team was in it together.
"Good," Niels said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Let's make tomorrow a statement."
The evening before the match was the hardest part. There was no training to distract them, no drills to focus on. Just time to think.
Niels sat alone in the manager's office, the glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows across the room. He stared at his laptop screen, game footage playing, but his mind wasn't on the tactics anymore. He was thinking about the people who'd made him who he was—the players who had pushed him, the coaches who had molded him. He thought about Milan, about the early days when they had both believed in something bigger than just the game.
Tomorrow, everything would change again.
The scout from the other night was still on his mind. It wasn't just a distraction anymore. Niels had to face it head-on. Someone was watching them, and not just for the players. There was something about this match, something bigger than Crawley Town's rise. This could be the moment that defined his career—not just as a coach, but as someone with the ability to shape a story that went beyond football.
His phone buzzed, pulling him from his thoughts. Milan's name flashed on the screen.
"Good luck tomorrow," the message read. "Whatever happens, you've already done more than most could ever dream of."
Niels smiled faintly. It wasn't just about luck. It was about taking control, about defining his own future. But Milan's words reminded him of something he needed to hold onto. This wasn't just about the game—it was about what came after, about the legacy they would build together.
Tomorrow would come, and they would face it with everything they had.
He stood up, turned off the laptop, and stepped out of the office. The rain had softened into a light drizzle, the kind that made the world feel quieter, more deliberate.
"Tomorrow," he whispered again, walking down the corridor to the locker room.
And just like that, the quiet before the rise turned into the quiet before the climb.