Chapter 15: Faultlines
The wind was sharp that morning—pulling at jackets, whistling past the stands like a warning. The Crawley Town home ground was still quiet, but the weight of the afternoon already hung in the air. Niels stood near the dugout, arms crossed, watching the grounds crew finish marking the lines.
Today wasn't just another league match. It carried more weight.
Woking weren't the most technical side, but they were tough—mid-table battlers who fought for every inch. The kind of team that didn't need the ball for long to do damage. Give them a sloppy pass, and five seconds later, it could be in the back of your net.
Niels had drilled it into them all week: control the first twenty minutes. Win the duels. Match their intensity, then impose their rhythm.
But tension had started creeping into the edges of the squad. And Luka… Luka had been different.
—
The changing room buzzed with low voices, laced boots, and nervous energy. Niels waited until everyone had settled before stepping forward.
"Stay sharp," he said. "They'll come at us hard early on. Stay alert. Win your individual duels—don't try to force anything fancy. Keep control of the tempo, trust the man next to you, and earn your moments on the ball."
He didn't need to say more. They knew what was at stake. Not in points—but in perception. The recent wins, the press, the murmurs from the board. This wasn't just about three points anymore. It was about proving they were more than a good story.
Luka leaned forward, tying his laces tighter than usual. His expression was hard to read—calm on the surface, but too still.
—
The game opened exactly as expected. Woking pressed hard, elbows flying, snapping into second balls like hungry dogs. Simons got clattered early. McCulloch misplaced a pass. Niels paced the edge of the technical area but didn't shout.
Then came the break.
Dev won it clean on the left, flicked it to Simons, who threaded it forward. Luka ran onto it. The angle was tight, but the crowd rose with him.
He shot.
Wide.
Groans from the crowd. Luka cursed, threw his arms up.
And then turned—to McCulloch.
"Play it earlier next time!"
That was enough.
Simons stepped in, voice sharp. "We're a team, mate. Don't like the pass, make a better run."
It could've boiled over right there. But Niels barked once from the touchline.
"Luka! Focus!"
The striker turned, clenched his jaw, and nodded. Nothing more. But the fracture was showing.
—
Second half, seventy-first minute. Joel came off the bench.
The crowd didn't know the name yet. But the ones who remembered—assistant staff, a few older fans—perked up.
And Joel, surprisingly, looked calm. Not the cocky teenager from years ago. Not the ghost Niels found at the gate.
Just a man with something left to give.
His first touch was clean. His second, clever. And in the seventy-ninth minute, he slipped a perfect ball through for Luka to bury.
1–0. The stadium erupted.
Joel didn't celebrate wildly. Just looked to the bench. At Niels. Who gave the smallest of nods.
—
After the final whistle, Milan called them into the locker room.
The room quieted fast. The old coach stood straighter than usual. A folded paper in his hand.
"I won't drag this out," he said. "I've spoken to the board. I'm stepping down."
A few players blinked. One or two froze.
"It's my health. And… truth is, you lot don't need me on the touchline anymore. You've already got the right voice leading you."
His eyes met Niels' for a second. Something passed between them. Gratitude, mostly. Maybe a little sadness too.
Simons spoke first, voice softer than usual. "Boss… we didn't know."
"I didn't want you to," Milan said. "You're players. You're not meant to carry my weight."
Dev looked down. Luka shifted awkwardly. Even McCulloch looked unsettled. They'd been toughened by Milan. Guided. He was the constant in their chaos.
"I'll still be around," Milan added. "At training. On the sidelines, maybe. But this next chapter—it's his."
He gestured to Niels.
And for a second, there was silence. Then, the players clapped.
It wasn't rowdy. It wasn't dramatic. But it was real.
Niels stood still. Took it in. Felt it.
Leadership didn't always come with applause. But sometimes, when it did… it meant everything.
—
The next morning, the squad sat in the meeting room—waiting.
Niels walked in with his notes, his laptop, his calm.
They looked at him—not like a peer now. But something else.
He cleared his throat.
"Alright. Let's get to work."