Chapter 7: Through the Lines
Saturday. League Match. Home Ground.
A cold drizzle misted over the pitch, blurring the floodlights just enough to give the evening a cinematic haze. The kind of weather that made boots heavy, touches unpredictable, and tempers short. Yet the stands buzzed with something different—hope. Not the kind people shouted, but the quiet kind they carried in how they leaned forward when the ball moved.
Crawley Town. Not just another League Two side scrapping for survival anymore. Not tonight.
Niels stood near the touchline, his dark coat soaked at the shoulders. He didn't mind. This was where he felt most alive. Every breath of damp air, every sound from the crowd, every shuffle of the opposition—it all made sense here. Football wasn't a game to him. It was language. It was math. It was art.
Doncaster Rovers weren't giants, but they were no mugs. Physical. Disciplined. The kind of team that could smother creativity and punish arrogance. Niels respected that.
Kickoff.
From the opening whistle, patterns began to emerge—ones most people wouldn't see. Doncaster sat in a medium block, their lines compact. They baited Crawley to build from the back, then pounced the moment the ball dared to linger.
Niels saw it instantly.
"Rotate the midfield!" he shouted. "Switch—don't force!"
Whitehall and Jamal, the heartbeat of his system, adjusted, drifting wider and deeper. It was subtle. But crucial. Doncaster's press fractured, just for a moment. A sliver of space behind their front two opened like a gate.
Minute 12.
Quick touches—Whitehall to Luka, who danced past a closing defender, dragging another with him. His pass was clever, disguised.
Dev Patel, just nineteen and full of promise, met it on the run. One touch to control. Another to whip it across the box.
Simons was there. He always was.
GOAL.
The stadium erupted.
Niels clenched his fist but didn't leap. No running down the touchline. No chest-beating. Just a glance at the scoreboard. One-nil.
He turned to the bench and nodded. Focus.
Minute 30.
Doncaster pushed back. Their fullbacks surged forward. The game was tilting, shifting.
"Trap wide," Niels instructed. "Let them come. Then slice them open."
It was risk, but calculated. He wanted them overconfident. Wanted space to bloom in the middle like it always did when teams forgot the basics in pursuit of the ball.
Luka nearly made it two with a curler off the post. Simons again found himself through but was denied by a sprawling keeper.
Halftime couldn't come soon enough.
Halftime: 1–0.
The dressing room was quiet. Not tense—just focused.
Niels stood in front of the whiteboard, markers in hand, the voice of a man not just giving instructions, but transferring belief.
"They're rushing. Losing patience. Let them. Stay disciplined. Second balls—they win matches. And remember—our football. Not theirs."
The players nodded. Sweat dripped. Boots tapped. The fire was there, but contained.
Second Half.
Doncaster came out like wolves. The first ten minutes were hell. Cross after cross. Long balls that rained like artillery. Crawley wobbled. But they didn't fall.
Minute 58.
A messy scramble in the box. A half-clearance. A blocked shot. Chaos.
Then Jamal—cool as ever—hooked it off the line. Relief rippled like a sigh across the stands.
Niels didn't yell. Didn't panic. He waved McCulloch over.
"Drop Luka and Dev. Five meters. Let them breathe. Then—hit it early. Over their heads."
Minute 62.
A poor Doncaster pass. Dev pounced. Luka peeled into space. One touch. Then a pass only someone with vision beyond his years could've played.
Simons latched on. One-on-one. Low and hard into the corner.
2–0.
This time, Niels allowed himself a smile.
He wasn't just adapting to the level—he was shaping it. Crawley looked like a team with identity, with shape, with rhythm. Like someone had breathed belief into their boots.
Post-Match:
He shook hands. Gave brief answers to questions he'd heard versions of his whole life.
But as he walked back through the tunnel, he noticed a man near the staff corridor. Long coat. Expensive shoes. Notebook in hand. Talking to Wallace.
Not a local reporter. That much was clear.
A scout, then? Maybe just curious. Or maybe—
Niels looked away.
He didn't need confirmation. Not yet.
Monday
The training pitch felt colder without Milan's usual voice barking from the sidelines. Instead, Niels received a message:
"Run the session. You have fulll control. I'll be in later."
No explanation. Just trust.
He took the whistle. Organized the warmups. Drilled the midfielders on positional rotations. Stayed long after most had showered, showing video clips to a defender struggling with body shape.
Wallace approached him after the session. No smirk this time. Just sincerity.
"You've settled in fast."
Niels wiped his hands on his jacket and looked him in the eye.
"I didn't come here to settle," he said quietly. "I came here to build."
Evening
The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of his laptop as match footage played. Niels paused the screen.
A throw-in. Seemingly meaningless. But a player's body angle gave away hesitation. A choice made too slow. A weakness.
He scribbled it down.
His phone buzzed.
Milan.
"Well done. I'm proud of you."
Niels sat there, phone in hand, longer than he meant to.
Not because of what Milan said—but because for the first time in years, maybe ever…
He believed it.
He wasn't chasing dreams anymore.
He was living one.
But dreams, like matches, didn't rest.
And the next one was already calling.