Chapter 20: The Climb Starts Here
Wednesday, 4 December
Pre-Match Build-Up – Match 17 vs Morecambe
The air at the training ground had a bite to it. The december in Crawley wasn't dramatic as it crept in quietly, with frost along the grass and a chill that lingered even under thermals. Boots crunched over frozen blades of turf. Breath fogged in short puffs. But there was something alive under all that stillness.
There was momentum now. Not too loud or flashy, but real and earned.
The squad had strung together two decent performances in league, one gritty draw, and then the breakthrough win against Wrexham. They were 13th in the league now. They were still in the middle of the table, lot of work in progress. But you could feel it, something had shifted. The nerves were starting to give way to belief. It was not just hope but belief.
The next test? Morecambe.
Top-four in the table. They are well-organized and play more physical. They pressed high, they recovered fast, and when they smelled weakness, they didn't hesitate. You didn't play around with teams like that. You need to play smart and play together.
Inside the meeting room, the lights were dimmed and the projector clicked to life. A grainy freeze-frame filled the screen: Morecambe, in red, crowding the final third.
Niels stood at the front. No opening jokes. No icebreakers. Just a mug of half-cold coffee in one hand and the remote in the other.
"Alright. Watch this," he said, voice steady but clear.
He hit play.
The clip played: Morecambe pressing high, forcing a defender into a sloppy pass. The ball was intercepted and three quick passes later, they scored a goal.
"That's how they hurt teams," Niels said, pausing the frame. "It's not about keeping the ball. It's about what they do the moment they win it back. One mistake, one loose touch, that's all they need."
He moved to the next clip. It was about another goal. This time, from a corner. No one picked up the runner. A free header. It was easy goal.
"They don't overwhelm you with pressure. They wait for a mistake and then strike. Our job? Don't give them those moments in the first place."
He looked out at the group. Nate sat near the front this time, next to Dev. Luka was in the back, arms folded, chewing a gum that had long lost its flavor. Reece was leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes locked on the screen.
"This one isn't about reputation," Niels continued. "It's about identity. It's about who we are and how we play.."
The room was quiet, and focused.
They got it.
That afternoon, training was sharp, unforgiving, and exactly what they needed.
It wasn't long, but it was fierce. Everything was tight and intense, one-touch rondos, small-area games with brutal pressure, transition drills that punished hesitation.
Reece was barking directions from the back like he was already in the match. Luka took a knock to the shin, waved off the physio, and stayed in the game. Dev looked sharper than he had in weeks, pinging balls between lines, covering ground like he'd slept with his boots on.
And Nate? He was calm today. There was a moment in a possession drill, he drifted into the half-space, let the ball run across his body, then slid a pass between two defenders to Dev, who finished low at the near post.
Niels didn't say much, just made a note in his head.
That was growth.
And not just from Nate. The whole squad looked different now. Not settled far from it, but connected. The lines were tighter. The talk was smarter. The energy had gone from jittery to focused.
Niels kept his distance for the most part, arms folded at the edge of the drill, watching. He stepped in occasionally and a pointer here, a reminder there but mostly, he let them feel it for themselves.
Because belief doesn't come from shouting.
It comes from clarity.
By late afternoon, the training ground had quieted. The sun had dropped below the rooftops, leaving a bruised sky streaked with cold pink and fading orange. Most of the players had gone inside. Some hit the recovery tubs. Others trickled off toward the showers.
Niels stayed back in his office, the door half-closed, the desk lamp casting a soft glow on the whiteboard.
The magnets were scattered in loose shapes mostly a 4-3-3, but he was playing with it. The midfield needed more cover, especially against a press like Morecambe's. A single pivot made sense. Let Reece drop a bit deeper, give Dev and Luka room to rotate further ahead.
He slid a magnet slightly wider. That's where the gap would be between their press line and the fullbacks. If they could play through the first pressure, there'd be space, a real space.
His phone buzzed.
It was a message from Milan:
"Morecambe presses hard from the start. Don't give them an inch, make them work for every ball."
Niels smiled faintly. Milan hadn't been around much since handing over the reins, but he always had an eye on the fixtures.
Niels typed back:
"We're ready to make them run."
That night, Niels didn't drive straight home.
Instead, he walked.
The streets near his flat were quiet. The kind of silence only winter brought. A few houses had lit their Christmas decorations early, plastic reindeer in the yard, string lights blinking behind curtains. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked twice and stopped.
Life outside football existed. It moved on, even when training didn't go right or tactics needed changing. It was strange. So close, yet always a bit out of reach.
He passed the corner café, it was closed now, but soft golden light still glowed inside. He remembered the girl who worked there who always smiled at him once after a win. He hadn't said more than "Americano, thanks."
Maybe he would next time.
Maybe.
But not tonight.
Back at the flat, he sat on the couch, tablet in his lap. He opened a file, not the match footage, not the scouting reports. Just a page with a title:
"What comes after survival?"
He stared at it for a long time. Then added beneath it:
"A team that believes in something more."
He leaned back, let the thought sit. The season was long. Too long to survive it on fear alone.
Friday morning. A day before match
The final session was sharp but light. It was set pieces practices. Match scenario walk-throughs. They controlled the intensity. The players moved with quiet focus; even their usual chatter was toned down, it was not tense, just completely focused on the task at hand.
After the final drill, Niels called them into the middle circle.
He let the silence hang for a second.
"We've earned the respect," he said. "Now we fight for position, for progress with each win, we rise in the table."
He scanned the group. From seasoned players to academy kids. From Luka's steely focus to Nate's barely-contained energy.
"Morecambe will be tough, but they're not unbeatable. This isn't just about holding on, it's about proving we're ready to take control and make our own chances."
A few players nodded, some clenched their jaws.
He didn't say more.
He just turned and walked toward the dugout, boots crunching frost, hands buried in his coat pockets.
Because tomorrow wouldn't be about speeches.
Tomorrow would be about proving we're ready to compete at the highest level.
If you enjoyed the chapter, please consider dropping a Power Stone! Your support means a lot and really motivates me to keep writing. Thank you! 💖⚽