Chapter 24: The Noise Between
Chapter 24 – The Noise Between
For once, it wasn't just a whisper.
Crawley Town was making headlines.
The morning after the Oldham win, the local paper splashed "Cup Shock as Crawley Advance" across its front page. By lunchtime, regional media had picked it up. By evening, Sky Sports aired a thirty-second segment under the banner:
"The Team That Won't Go Quietly."
And by the next morning?
They were swarmed.
At training, Niels pulled into the lot and immediately noticed the two white vans parked by the fence—press vans. A crowd of reporters leaned in through the railings, arms stretched out with boom mics and flashing cameras, calling his name the second he stepped out.
He was still holding his thermos when Wallace marched up beside him, smirking. "I hired a PR manager," he said simply. "She starts now."
The PR woman—mid-30s, sharp bob, clipboard in hand—greeted Niels with a smile of her own.
"Congratulations," she said, handing him a printout. "These are your media appointments for today. Local radio. BBC South. Some podcast. And—yes—the tactical YouTuber with 400k subscribers."
Niels blinked. "Wait. That guy?"
"Three emails. He's already uploaded a video titled 'Young Genius Coach? Crawley's Tactical Surprise'. Your face is in the thumbnail. Wearing a crown."
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "God help me."
Inside the dressing room, the energy was unmistakably different.
It wasn't arrogance—it was buzz. A spark that hadn't been there before.
Simons strolled in with a bounce in his step, chin tilted slightly higher than usual. Dev and Joel were mid-argument over who'd had the better pre-assist. Luka leaned back in his chair, sunglasses on indoors, scrolling through what looked like a flood of Instagram DMs.
And Max?
Max looked like someone had told him he was starting for Real Madrid or FC Barcelona next weekend.
He stood by his locker, phone in hand, screen lit up with notifications. His name had been trending in a local hashtag the night before. A clip of his cut-inside-and-pass had gone mildly viral—some amateur analyst had even compared him to a young James Milner.
A scout from League One had called Wallace asking if the kid was available on loan.
Niels pulled him aside near the boot rack.
"You alright?"
Max nodded, then hesitated. "I—I didn't even score."
"You didn't have to," Niels replied. "People saw something in you. Now it's about what you do next."
Max tried to nod again, but his eyes kept flicking down to his phone. He still looked like he hadn't fully processed any of it.
The next few days flew by in a blur.
Wallace strutted through the club offices like a man who had just discovered gold.
Ticket sales were up by 30%.
The online store's scarf inventory sold out within 48 hours.
The club's ancient website crashed under the weight of new visitors.
A small local brewery offered a sponsorship deal—limited edition "Crawley Courage" ale. A camera crew from a minor sports documentary channel reached out for behind-the-scenes access. Even a rival club chairman made a thinly veiled jab during a radio interview about "cup luck and media darlings."
Niels didn't flinch. He just stayed the course.
He did his interviews—measured, humble, composed.
Always credited the team first.
Talked about the fans, the effort, and yes—Milan, without fail.
No soundbites.
No ego.
Just clear, grounded leadership.
The press started calling him "the calm architect."
But beneath the excitement, deeper under the skin of the squad, Niels sensed something else: a shift.
Simons had drawn interest from two League One clubs. Luka's name appeared in a scouting brief for a Championship side's recruitment analyst. Even Toby, of all people, was being asked for post-match interviews now.
The change wasn't loud—it was in the body language.
Shoulders pulled back.
More private side chats.
Subtle hesitations when Niels entered a room.
He understood.
They were hungry.
And ambition—while powerful—was never without cost.
Pressure was building again. Not from failure this time, but from expectation.
And expectation, Niels knew, was an even sharper blade.
Saturday evening. FA Cup Round 5 draw.
The squad gathered in the staff lounge. Half-eaten takeaway boxes, soda cans, and the occasional nervous laugh filled the space. Simons had his arm casually slung around Jamal's shoulder. Max sat on the edge of his seat, bouncing one knee like it owed him money.
The presenter's voice boomed from the screen.
"Number 28..."
Everyone froze.
"Crawley Town."
A half-beat passed before the second name dropped:
"They'll travel to... Sunderland."
The room exploded.
Shouts, backslaps, laughter—pure, chaotic adrenaline. Luka threw both fists into the air.
"They've got a proper stadium," he grinned. "Let's make it loud."
Simons stood and shouted, "That's a game, boys!"
Even Jamal cracked a smile. Max looked like he might actually pass out.
"We're really doing this, huh?" he said, eyes wide.
Niels didn't rise. He just sat, arms folded, quietly watching the mayhem with a faint smile.
Not because he wasn't thrilled.
He was.
But because his mind was already elsewhere—already on the details, already on what came next.
While the noise around him continued, Niels felt his phone buzz in his jacket pocket.
It was a message from Milan. Just two words:
"Stay sharp."
Niels smiled as he read it.
He typed a quick reply:
"I will."
If you're having fun reading, please consider voting with Power Stones!
It really helps boost the novel's visibility on the Webnovel app and gives me tons of motivation to keep writing.
Thank you for your support! 🙏