Chapter 13: Rumblings
The rain came steady that morning—thin streaks tapping on the windows of the training facility like fingers too polite to knock.
Inside, Niels stood by the glass, arms crossed, eyes distant. The pitch outside looked heavier than usual, soaked and dragging at the boots of the early arrivals. Jamal and McCulloch were already jogging slow laps, their breath rising in soft clouds. Dev shuffled out next, hoodie up, earbuds in. The kid still looked like he wasn't sure if the last few weeks were real.
Behind Niels, the door eased open with a familiar creak.
"Press is here," Wallace said, stepping in with two cups of tea. "Brought company too."
Niels turned. "Company?"
"Tripods. Boom mics. A couple of eager interns with too much gel in their hair. Local news types—waiting for someone to slip up and hand them a headline."
Niels took the tea and stared into the steam. "I should've worn a better jacket."
Wallace grinned. "You're not a pop star, Niels. Just a football coach. Act like it."
But that was the thing. Lately, it hadn't felt like just football. Every pass on the pitch was underlined by expectations. Every glance from the boardroom came with questions. Every whisper in the hallway sounded like the start of a rumour.
The team was winning. That was the truth. But winning came with weight.
In the locker room, the mood was different today.
Not worse—just sharper. A little quieter. Players stretching with focus, not laughter. Luka was lacing his boots in silence. Simons had his game face on already. Even Dev wasn't making side comments.
"Eyes up," Niels said, stepping in. "We've earned this atmosphere, but don't mistake tension for pressure. It's not fear. It's preparation."
They looked at him, and something passed between them—an unspoken pact. He was one of them, but also something more now. The line was blurry. But it held.
Later that afternoon, the mood in Wallace's office had cooled, like the half-finished tea on his desk.
"They've sent word," Wallace said, sliding a printed email across the table. "FA wants you to do a feature next week. Cup buildup, media fluff. They're calling it optional, but you know how that goes."
Niels scanned it. "And if I say no?"
Wallace leaned back. "Then they write about how you're 'dodging the spotlight.' And boom—your silence becomes the story."
Niels sighed. "I just want to coach."
"I know," Wallace said softly. "But sometimes the story wants more from its main character."
There was a knock. One of the interns poked his head in.
"Sorry—there's someone asking for you outside. Says he used to play here. Said his name's Joel. Joel Ayodele."
Wallace raised an eyebrow. Niels froze.
Joel.
A name from years ago. A local kid with magic feet and no discipline. Back when Niels was just another injured player on the bench, Joel was the golden one. Speed, flair, arrogance. Vanished after an injury, rumors of bad habits and worse company trailing him like a shadow.
Outside, the rain had eased.
Joel stood by the gate, hood down, face older but still recognizable. There was a hint of swagger, but his eyes looked tired. Not in the physical way—just worn by years.
"I saw the Oxford game," he said when Niels approached. "Didn't expect you to be the one pulling the strings."
"Didn't expect you to come back," Niels replied.
Joel shrugged. "Was in town. Thought I'd say hi. Thought maybe… I dunno. Thought you might need someone who still sees the game the way we used to."
"You still playing?"
"Not professionally. Some amateur stuff. Coaching the local kids now. Trying to stay out of trouble."
There was silence between them. History too thick to walk through in one conversation.
"You think there's room for a second chance around here?" Joel asked.
Niels looked past him at the pitch, the mud, the cones, the echoes of laughter and yelling.
"Maybe," he said. "If you're not here for nostalgia."
Joel smirked. "Fair enough."
Niels didn't give a yes. But he didn't say no either.
That evening, back in the office, Niels sat again under the low hum of the desk lamp. His notes were messier than usual. His head, fuller.
He scribbled something in the margin of one of the reports:
Talent without direction fades. But scars don't always mean weakness. Sometimes they mean experience.
He looked at the squad list again. His players weren't stars. But they were his. And maybe, just maybe, there was room for a few more.
Outside, the rain started up again—gentle, steady, insistent. Like a reminder that growth didn't come all at once.
It came in storms. In second chances. In rumblings just beneath the surface.