Chapter 12: Shadows and Spotlight
Morning came slow.
For once, Niels didn't wake up to the blare of an alarm or the rustle of match notes. No drills echoing in his head. No schedules blinking on a phone screen. It was light—sunlight, soft and unfamiliar—spilling through the blinds and gently pulling him out of sleep.
His body felt sore. Not from running or lifting, but from something deeper. A kind of heaviness that came from carrying too much inside. Mental fatigue. Emotional drain.
Oxford still echoed in his mind.
The final whistle. The raw shouts. The effort in every sprint. Luka pressing with everything left in his legs. Simons throwing himself into tackles like it was the last game of his life. Dev, young and reckless, refusing to be rattled. And Jamal—steady, calm—dictating the rhythm like a metronome, dragging the team along with every pass.
They'd pulled off something special.
And now, the world had noticed.
His phone buzzed again. It hadn't really stopped since last night. Notifications stacked like dominoes. Headlines. Social media posts. Podcast clips calling Crawley Town the "Cup Darlings" of the early rounds. One labeled him "The Touchline Tactician"—a name that sounded more like a Saturday cartoon than a serious compliment.
He scrolled slowly.
Celebration photos. Luka's goal from the edge of the box. His own image on the touchline—mid-shout, coat flapping, eyebrows drawn tight.
It all felt distant. Like watching someone else live out your dream.
A knock broke the silence.
Wallace stood there, two coffees in one hand and a folded newspaper in the other.
"You're in the Times," he said, walking in. "Page twelve. Bottom half. Still worth a frame, I think."
Niels took the cup. The aroma snapped him back. "Thanks."
"You alright?" Wallace asked, leaning against the doorframe.
"I think so," Niels said. "Just… trying to sort through all the noise."
Wallace nodded slowly. "Well, sort fast. The board's already asking questions."
Niels looked up. "What kind?"
"The hopeful kind," Wallace said. "Worse than the angry kind, if you ask me."
Niels tilted his head.
"They're talking projections. Ticket sales, new sponsors, youth exposure. And… whether you're ready for a bigger stage."
Niels took a sip of the coffee. It was strong. Bitter. Grounding—like something real that brought him back down to earth.
"I'm not chasing anything," he said simply.
"Good," Wallace said with a small grin. "Because whatever it is… it's already chasing you."
—
At the training ground, the energy was different. Not cocky, but lighter. Earned.
Luka nailed a cheeky no-look pass during rondo, and even the grumpy fullbacks cracked up. Dev was smiling more, shoulders relaxed. Simons was cracking jokes with the fitness coach about eating too many protein bars. McCulloch and Jamal were already setting up cones before Niels even arrived, their usual quiet focus now lined with subtle pride.
But Milan wasn't there.
And his absence was felt.
It hung in the air like a silence between songs.
Later, Niels visited him at the hospital. No fanfare. Just a quiet check-in.
Milan sat propped up in a recliner, scarf around his neck, looking thinner than usual. But his eyes still had that stubborn gleam.
"You looked calm," Milan said.
"I wasn't," Niels admitted.
Milan chuckled. "Good. Means you still give a damn."
They sat in peace. No talk of tactics or systems. Just presence.
"I don't think I'm ready," Niels said after a while.
"You weren't ready yesterday either," Milan replied. "Didn't stop you then."
Niels looked down at his hands. "It's a lot to carry."
"That's why it matters," Milan said quietly. "If it was easy, anyone would do it."
—
That night, back in his small office, Niels turned on the desk lamp and opened the internal player reports. Not scouting opponents—but his own squad.
He read each sheet like a story, not a stat sheet. His cheat-sense flickered to life—offering insights only he could see.
Jamal: [Peak reached. No room for major growth. But elite leadership and reliability.]
Simons: [Moderate athleticism. Sharp instincts. Learns fast with clear coaching.]
Dev: [Technically gifted. Still raw. Prone to mistakes under pressure but has potential.]
Luka: [Creative. Takes risks. Needs tactical discipline. Can become elite with the right guidance.]
They weren't stars. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But they fit together like puzzle pieces.
They didn't need one hero.
They needed each other.
Belief. Direction. Time.
As the night stretched on, Niels leaned back and looked at the whiteboard—names, ideas, plans.
These players weren't just a team anymore.
They were his team.
And the weight of that didn't crush him.
It steadied him. Like something he was finally meant to carry.
The spotlight had found him.
And in its glow, even the shadows began to matter.
Because the shadows—the flaws, the doubts, the overlooked potential—were part of the story too.
And now, it was his turn to write the next chapter.