Chapter 16: A New Beginning
The boardroom was colder than usual.
The early sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting long shadows over the shiny mahogany table. Though the heater was on, its warmth didn't quite penetrate the room's core. It felt empty, quiet, as if something essential had been removed from its essence.
And it had.
A day had passed since Milan had stood on the pitch, waving to the fans with watery eyes and a tired smile. A day since the chants. The shoulder claps and the goodbye.
Now, the room he once anchored felt strangely off-balance without him.
Niels sat at one end of the table. Not at the head, not yet. Across from him sat the chairman, the finance director, the head of recruitment, and a club lawyer with a folder full of officialese. Contracts, clauses, salary plans, performance bonuses, everything was organized neatly in a manila folder. The folder smelled like ink and stress, as if it had absorbed the tension of its contents.
The chairman leaned in and clasped his hands. "Niels, first of all—congratulations. We're officially offering you the position of Head Coach. It's an 18-month contract, with the possibility to extend if everything goes smoothly."
Niels managed a small, polite smile. "Thank you, sir. I'm honored. I'll do my best to carry on the legacy Milan left behind."
But deep down, his stomach tightened with a heavy truth: this wasn't just a new job, it was a responsibility. He wasn't just replacing someone; he was stepping into Milan's shadow. Into the seat Milan had filled with steady, quiet strength. The place where every choice mattered, where wins and losses left a mark, and where respect had to be earned, not given. Milan had built something lasting there, through every match, every setback, every long night. And now, that weight was on his shoulders.
The finance director pushed the papers across the table. "There's no time to ease in, Niels. You know that. League matches every week, and the FA Cup third round coming up next. The Wrexham game this weekend… that's a serious challenge."
"I know," Niels said, straighter now. "I know what's at stake."
"Good," the chairman said, his voice sharp but warm. "Then let's sign."
Niels picked up the pen. It felt heavier than it should have.
With each signature, it was like making a promise: This is yours now.
He didn't go home afterward. It didn't feel right. His flat would just be a silent space filled with yesterday's dishes and a bed still holding the warmth of restless nights.
Instead, he walked the halls of Broadfield Stadium, the way Milan used to after late games. He passed the locker rooms, still faintly smelling of liniment and sweat. He passed the gym, where a medicine ball sat abandoned in a corner. The air hummed with a quiet energy, it was familiar, but just out of reach.
Finally, he stepped onto the frost-laced pitch.
It was still early. The sun hadn't reached its peak yet, casting long, warm orange streaks across the grass. The stadium was empty, silent, but not lifeless. Just... waiting.
He pulled out his phone.
Then he called Milan
Two rings. Then the voice.
"Didn't think you'd call this early," Milan said, his voice calm as always.
"I signed the contract," Niels said, a small smile in his voice, proud and a little relieved.
A beat of silence.
"Good," Milan said, his voice warm with pride. "Now it's official."
There was a silence, not awkwardly, but with a quiet understanding, sharing everything that didn't need to be said.
"I keep waiting to see you walk back in," Niels confessed. "Like this is still your team, and I'm just... holding the keys for you.
Milan chuckled softly. "It stopped being just my team the moment the lads started looking to you for answers. You're already stepping up and doing the job."
Niels stared down at the pitch, nudging a divot with his boot. "What if it's not enough?" he asked quietly.
"It won't be. Not every time," Milan said simply. "But you'll learn. You'll stumble, and you'll get back up. And when you do, they'll follow you, not because you're me, but because you're yourself."
Niels swallowed, his throat dry. "Thanks... for everything."
"You don't owe me anything," Milan said softly. "But if you mess it all up, I'll be back just to give you a hard time."
That broke the tension. Niels laughed, the cold air sharp in his lungs. "Fair enough."
"Go get 'em, coach," Milan said, and then the line went dead.
Training the next morning had an unusual rhythm.
It wasn't tense, but it wasn't relaxed either. The locker room was quieter, voices softer. The music still played from someone's speaker probably Dev's, but it felt more like background noise than the usual heartbeat of the room.
Niels arrived early. Maybe too early. He paced the length of the field alone, his hand brushing along the cold metal of the dugout, as if trying to confirm it was real.
Luka arrived first, bouncing a ball against his hip.
"You alright, boss?"
"As good as I can be."
"That's a start," Luka said, nodding with respect.
Dev arrived next, hoodie pulled up, headphones on, his face unreadable but his body tense and focused. Reece, as usual, came in last quiet, watchful, like a shadow moving across the grass.
By the time they gathered at midfield, Niels could feel their eyes, uncertain but open.
"I'm not Milan," he said quietly, without any showmanship or clipboard—just simple words. "And I'm not trying to be. But I've learned from him. I know what he built. And I believe in it. I believe in you."
There was no applause. No chorus of "yes, boss" or "let's go." Just silence.
But Luka gave him a look that said more than words.
Reece straightened.
Dev pulled off his hoodie.
That was enough.
Training was intense but rough. Runs were mistimed, and frustrated sighs filled the air. Dev sent a through-ball flying past the cones. Niels approached quietly, speaking in a low voice.
"You're forcing it. Relax. Let the game come to you."
Dev nodded, jaw tight. On the next drill, he sliced through the defense with a pass that earned a whistle of admiration from Liam.
The system Milan left behind, scouting reports, stat tracking, fitness monitors was humming in the background. But Niels found himself paying less attention to the tablet. Instead, he focused on the little things: how Reece adjusted his shoulders before every sprint, how Liam kept looking out for the younger players. He trusted his instincts more than the numbers.
Later, he pulled aside young Nate, a reserve winger who'd been riding the bench for weeks.
Niels's Cheat Insight flickered in his mind, surfacing key insights: [Huge potential], [Best suited as an inverted winger], [Fragile confidence]. Nate had the tools to explode onto the scene, blistering pace, sharp instincts, but he was still nervous, still learning to trust himself fully.
"I'm gonna start you on the left Friday," Niels said, watching Nate's eyes widen. "Wrexham won't expect it."
Nate blinked. "Really?"
"You've worked hard to get here. Now don't play like you're still trying to prove yourself, just play with confidence, like you truly belong."
The kid grinned, wide and disbelieving, but something steadied in his stance, a spark of belief.
That felt good.
Everyone cleared out by late afternoon. Niels stayed behind, watching the ground crew rake and roll the turf. The sun dipped low, turning the stadium gold.
He sat in the dugout, Milan's seat and let the stillness settle.
Footsteps approached.
It was Reece. Quiet as ever, holding two protein shakes.
"Thought you might still be here," he said, handing one over.
Niels took it, surprised. "Thanks."
They sat together in silence for a long time, drinking in the quiet. Then Reece said, not looking at him, "He believed in you. We do too."
It landed heavier than anything Niels had heard in days.
"Thanks, Reece."
The winger gave a soft nod, then walked off, leaving Niels alone again.
He pulled out his phone, opened the notes app, and typed:
Milan built the team.
Now I have to raise it.
He stared at the words for a long while.
Then saved them, tucked the phone away, and stood.
The responsibility was his now. And the new chapter was just beginning.