Chapter 26: No Room for Winter Myths
The morning after the draw at Burton felt like the world holding its breath. Not a loss, not a triumph just a quiet, weightless pause before the next step. The team had clawed out a point, and no one was grumbling. Not in the locker room's muted chatter, not on the long bus ride home, not even in the private moments when players peeled off tape from aching ankles, wincing with every tug. It wasn't a dazzling performance, but it was solid. Honest. The kind of game that keeps a season from slipping away. Teams that grind out those points often end up higher than they began.
Niels stood alone at the training ground before dawn, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, watching the fog curl low over the grass like a restless ghost. Sunday was optional recovery, but the lads trickled in anyway. Quiet laughs broke the stillness. Light jogs stirred the mist. A few kept the ball dancing just to feel the rhythm in their bones. Max lingered longest, juggling near the touchline, the ball a steady pulse against the morning chill. No one told him to stay. He just wasn't ready to leave.
Niels watched, a faint nod to himself. This week, he didn't need to rally them with words. He needed their focus to sharpen, to cut through the haze.
The festive season was creeping in, but only on the edges. A plastic Christmas tree, barely knee-high, sprouted in the staff office, looking more apologetic than festive. Tinsel clung to a window frame, catching the gray light. Someone had left a tray of mince pies near the physio room, and Reece, ever the critic grabbed one, chewed thoughtfully, and declared it "decent enough." From him, that was a Michelin star.
But the video room was all business. No holiday glow here. On the whiteboard, in sharp red marker:
*Matchday 20: December 26, Bradford City (H)
Underlined twice, like a promise.
Niels stood at the front, his voice steady, slicing through the room's quiet hum. "Some of you are already thinking about Christmas. That's fine. Just don't let your minds wander too far. You get Christmas Eve off. You get Christmas Day morning. Then you're back here."
His eyes swept the room, meeting every gaze. No one flinched.
"No late nights. No wild parties. No stuffing yourselves until you're groaning. We play on the twenty-sixth. At home. That's not a chore, it's a chance to rise in the table."
He let the words settle, heavy and clear. Nate sipped his water, face blank but listening. Luka gave a slow, deliberate nod. Dev let out a soft "tch," like he'd already wrestled his holiday plans into submission. Max, sitting up front, just said, "Got it, boss."
Niels ended with a quiet truth: "There is time for family later. There is no time to waste now."
The air bit harder now, each breath a sharp reminder to stay awake, stay alive. Training snapped into focus. The tempo was crisp, urgent. Luka was threading passes into half-spaces, each one slicing through like a blade. Nate drifted through drills with his usual nonchalance, but in small-sided games, he came alive, slipping past defenders like he could read their thoughts. Even Qazi, usually understated, rifled a shot into the top corner during shooting drills and jogged back without fanfare, like it was just another day.
Niels didn't raise his voice. He watched, scribbled notes, pulled players aside for quick, calm words. Adjustments, not overhauls. A nudge here, a tweak there.
As the session wound down and the lads started trudging off, he clapped once, sharp and final. "Good. But we're not there yet."
The message was clear: momentum was building. Don't let small distractions get in the way.
Wednesday, 24 December: Christmas Eve
Half-day session. Light drills, some finishing, a bit of tactical shape. Enough to keep the edge without dulling the spirit. Smiles crept in, softening the mood. Someone had dragged a Bluetooth speaker into the dressing room, and holiday tunes spilled out, tinny but warm. Even Dev, who usually kept to himself, mumbled along to "Fairytale of New York," his voice barely audible but there, like a secret he didn't mean to share.
Niels didn't squash it. He let them have this moment.
As they packed up, Reece lingered, catching Niels by the door. "You staying in tonight, boss?"
Niels nodded. "Not big on holidays."
Reece paused, then said, "Some of the boys are planning Christmas dinners with family. But they get it. Matchday's the priority."
"I'm counting on them," Niels said, his tone firm but not cold. "Don't let me down."
Reece flashed a grin. "They won't."
That evening, Niels sat in his flat, a bowl of reheated pasta cooling on the table, a muted match replay flickering on the TV. It wasn't lonely, not exactly just still, like the world was holding its breath again.
His phone buzzed. A message from his sister Elise:
*Mum's saving you a plate. Dad's grumbling because you're not coming. They're keeping your seat open. Also, Merry Christmas... a bit early.*
He stared at the screen, thumb hovering, before typing back:
*Tell them I've got a match to win. I'll sit in that chair when it feels right again.*
Her reply was just a heart emoji. No push, no questions. She understood him better than he sometimes understood himself.
Thursday, 25 December – Christmas Day
Morning training, short and sharp. An hour to loosen up, keep the touch alive. Max passed out chocolate bars after warm-ups, grinning like a kid. Luka sprinted with a Santa hat until it flew off, tumbling into the grass. Nate, of all people, showed up with a rare smile, and that felt like the biggest surprise of the week.
Niels kept his words brief, gathering them at the end. "Enjoy tonight. Be with your families, your people. But tomorrow, it's us again. Bradford's coming for points. Don't let the holiday make you soft. Be ready."
As they dispersed, Reece clapped a hand on Niels' shoulder. "You know, some of these guys would skip dinner if you asked."
"I know," Niels said quietly. "That's why I didn't."
Later that night, his phone rang. Elise again. He hesitated, then answered.
"Hey," he said, voice softer than he meant.
"Hey yourself," she teased. "You sound like you've been standing in the wind for days."
"Something like that."
Her voice warmed, no trace of judgment. "They asked about you again."
"I told them you're doing alright. That you've got a team now. That you're... building something."
He exhaled, the sound carrying more than he intended. "Was that okay?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said after a beat. "It's true enough."
They talked longer than he expected. Not about football or the past, but small things, like movies she'd binged, a café near her office with terrible coffee, a song she swore he'd like if he gave it a chance. For a moment, Niels forgot the distance, the years, the weight of being the brother who left. For a moment, it felt like they'd always been this close.
Friday, 26 December – Matchday 20
Boxing Day dawned cold and unforgiving, the sky a flat, frozen white. The pitch's edges crunched underfoot, brittle with frost. English football didn't pause not for weather, not for holidays, not for ghosts.
The team arrived, bundled in puffer jackets and thermals, breath clouding in the air. Niels stood by the tunnel, nodding to each player as they passed. No grand speeches. They didn't need them.
Bradford was waiting, hungry for points.
Crawley was ready to fight back.
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