Chapter 22: Beneath the Surface
Chapter 22: Beneath the Surface
The sky over West Sussex was grey again—dull and flat, like wet paper. A heavy fog clung to the training ground, and every footstep landed with a dull thud on the soaked grass. Players' breaths steamed in the cold morning air.
Simons stood with the ball under his foot, giving sharp, quiet instructions like a coach in disguise. Luka jogged around the cones with his head down. Joel and Dev passed the ball back and forth by the sideline—every touch precise.
No shouting. No music. Just the quiet, steady rhythm of a team taking football seriously.
Niels stood near the edge of the pitch, arms crossed, collar up against the wind. The excitement from their win against Tranmere had settled into something quieter—but more lasting. He saw it in the way they moved, in their touches. Belief. Quiet. But real.
A few younger players had joined the session. Max was among them, clearly nervous—his passes too soft or too short. After one went wide, Simons gave him a look and said,
"Don't pass like you're apologizing. Trust your feet."
Max straightened up a bit after that.
In the changing room, Luka dried his hair and looked over at Dev.
"You see the draw's today?"
Dev nodded while tying his boots. "Hoping for someone big?"
"Not really," Simons muttered as he walked past. "Just someone we can bleed dry."
A few players chuckled. Niels didn't. He met Simons' eye and gave a small nod.
That afternoon, Niels grabbed his coat and left the office without a word.
St. Clements Hospital was on the edge of town, quiet and grey. The reception smelled like antiseptic and old coffee. Niels gave his name and was shown to the second floor.
Room 214.
He knocked gently.
Milan was awake, sitting up in bed with an old paperback in his hands.
"Niels," he said, his voice scratchy but kind. "I thought you'd forgotten about me."
Niels stepped into the room. "I almost did," he said with a small smile. "But then we started winning, and I knew you'd want to know."
Milan chuckled softly, though it turned into a cough. "Yeah... winning has a way of bringing people back. I'm glad you came."
He looked weaker—thinner, paler. A cannula was taped to his wrist. His once-strong voice now trembled slightly.
"Sit down," Milan said. "You look like you're about to give bad news."
"I'm not. Not yet."
They sat in silence for a moment. Then Milan put his book down.
"You've got them believing again. That's more important than tactics. Don't lose it."
"I won't."
"But pressure's coming. A winning streak makes people dream. That can be dangerous—especially at a club like this."
Niels watched the rain on the window behind Milan's bed. From inside that hospital room, the outside world looked far away. Fragile.
"I'm not dreaming," he said. "Just building. One step at a time."
Milan smiled faintly. "That's why I trusted you."
They didn't speak much after that. Just some updates. A few old memories. Niels asked about his treatment, but Milan brushed it off.
As Niels stood to leave, he hesitated.
"Need anything?"
Milan shrugged. "Win the next one. That'll do."
Niels got home around seven. The hallway light flickered. Letters were stacked at the door.
He dropped his bag, kicked off his shoes, and turned on the TV.
The FA Cup draw was already on.
"...and next, Crawley Town. They'll host—Oldham Athletic."
Not a big-name opponent. Not a simple match either.
Oldham played rough, pressed hard, and closed down the midfield. A physical battle.
Niels watched the screen, then glanced at his phone.
A message from Wallace:
"Win this, and they'll start watching. Properly."
Niels didn't reply.
At training the next day, the mood had shifted—just a little, but enough.
Joel sprinted harder in the wide drills, cutting in with purpose. Simons tackled like he had something to prove. Luka stayed late to study film with Niels, quietly asking about Oldham's number 6, who often pushed too high during transitions.
"Can we press him?" Luka asked.
"If the timing's right, we can break through."
Luka nodded slowly, taking it in like it was part of him now.
Niels didn't raise his voice once.
He didn't need to.
That night, alone in his office, he rewatched Oldham's last two matches. Noted their aggression, their shape, their tendency to overcommit.
But his mind kept drifting.
To Milan—breathing just a bit too shallow.
To Wallace's message—half warning, half challenge.
To his players after the Tranmere game—no longer surprised they won, just confident they deserved it.
This match wasn't just about proving they were good.
It was about proving they belonged. That Crawley Town wasn't a lucky name pulled from a hat—but a club with something real.
It wasn't just a cup tie coming.
It was a threshold.
And Niels knew—this one had to hold.
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