Chapter 17: New Skin, Old Bones
The sky above Crawley's training ground was the color of wet cement. A low mist clung to the grass, muffling the usual morning chatter. For once, the players weren't joking or snapping towels at each other. They waited in small groups—some stretching, some silent—throwing the occasional glance toward the changing room door.
Then it opened.
Niels stepped out in his black tracksuit, his boots crunching over the gravel. His posture was calm, but his stomach twisted like a knotted shoelace. He wasn't the assistant today. Not anymore. Today, the air around him felt heavier.
He gave a nod to Simons. A small, firm gesture. "Let's warm up."
The drills were slightly different—sharper, tighter, more deliberate. Rondos with a tighter grid. Press-and-react patterns in waves. Short passing under time pressure. It wasn't revolutionary, but it was unfamiliar. And footballers, even good ones, didn't always like unfamiliar.
He caught the flicker of uncertainty on McCulloch's face. Jamal groaned audibly when a drill was reset for sloppiness. Luka snapped at a misplaced pass.
[McCulloch – Morale: Uneasy. Feels pressure to impress.]
Niels watched, adjusting nothing for the moment. He let them breathe inside the discomfort. Let them fumble through the new rhythm. Not because he wanted to prove a point, but because he needed them to find the beat themselves.
Then, near the final round, Joel shifted the entire drill's tempo. One disguised pass, a spin, and a perfectly timed one-two with Luka. Smooth. Sharp. Like old habits waking up inside new boots.
It turned heads. Luka raised his eyebrows. Jamal nodded, grudging but impressed.
Something clicked.
Niels allowed a small smile. Not bad, Joel. Not bad at all.
—
Inside the locker room, the steam and smell of sweat gave way to something lighter. Luka and Jamal exchanged a few jabs about who lost the most rondos. Simons, ever the anchor, diffused a brewing spat between two midfielders with a quiet word and a towel toss.
Niels stood outside the door for a second longer than usual before stepping in.
"Same time tomorrow," he said. "Bring focus. We're building something now. It starts here."
As players filed past, Joel lingered behind, quietly icing his ankle.
"You alright?" Niels asked.
Joel nodded, gaze on the floor. "Ankle's fine. Just… tight."
Then, without looking up, he added, "You think you're doing okay?"
The question caught Niels off guard. "I should be asking you that."
"I'm serious," Joel said. "You're not trying to copy Milan. That's a good thing."
Niels chuckled under his breath. "I don't think I could even if I wanted to."
"Exactly."
The two sat in that quiet for a beat longer than necessary. Nothing profound was said, but something settled.
—
Later that afternoon, Wallace called him into the boardroom.
"You're not dodging the press forever," the club president said, hands folded over his belly.
"I'm not trying to hide," Niels replied. "I just want the focus on the team."
"They want a face. Someone to put behind the win against Oxford. Milan stepping down stirred more than just sympathy. There's talk now. Expectation."
Niels shifted in his seat. "I'm not here to sell a story."
Wallace studied him for a long beat, then said, "No. But stories get told whether we like them or not. Best you tell it your way."
Niels didn't answer. He just nodded, once.
—
That night, the rain returned. Not a storm, just a persistent drizzle that whispered against the windowpanes of his apartment.
Niels sat at his desk, wrapped in a hoodie, half-drained cup of coffee beside his laptop. On screen, he wasn't studying formations. He was watching moments.
Luka's frustrated shrug after a turnover. McCulloch's hesitation before a simple pass. Joel's glance upfield before every touch.
He paused the video, leaned back, rubbed his temples.
His phone buzzed. Another message from Milan.
"Watch how they walk, not just how they run."
He stared at it for a long time, then reached for a sticky note and wrote three words:
"Build trust. Not control."
He stuck it to the edge of his monitor.
The truth was, he didn't know how this would go. The press might dig into his past. The board might get impatient. Players might falter.
But the path forward didn't need fireworks. Just clarity.
One session at a time. One decision at a time.
He wasn't Milan. He wasn't some tactical genius born from a textbook.
He was just a man trying to give meaning to the pieces left behind—of players, of memories, of himself.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to begin with.