Chapter 22: Beneath the Surface
Sunday, 7 December
The morning after the win against Morecambe felt lighter. Not in the weather as it was still bitter, with a crust of frost on the windshields and breath that turned instantly to mist, but in the air around the club.
Something had shifted.
At the stadium, the staff showed up earlier than needed, even though it was only a recovery session. The locker room had its buzz back. It was about Max Simons, about the clean sheet, about what this team was becoming. Coffee steamed in styrofoam cups, and someone actually laughed in the physio room. Even the smell of deep Heat didn't seem so miserable.
Max arrived last, as usual. Same jacket he'd worn for years, slightly frayed at the collar. He moved like someone with nothing to prove. When he stepped through the door, Reece held it open for him and grinned.
"Hero's welcome?"
Max shrugged with a tired smirk. "One goal doesn't make a legend... but it's a decent start."
They all smiled, even Luka and Dev.
In the video room, they slouched in their chairs, legs stretched out, some icing knees, others shoulders. There wasn't much talking. No music either. Just that low drone of the projector kicking in.
Niels stood at the front with the clicker in his hand. Same place he always stood. Same stillness.
"Watch this."
The screen flickered to life. Footage from the 93rd minute. Luka's switch of play to the right. The fullback's delivery, just a shade behind. Max was adjusting by stepping back and swinging. That unmistakable thud of clean contact.
The ball tore into the bottom corner.
He paused the clip. The ball frozen in the net. The stadium blurred in the background.
"That's not luck," Niels said with a half-smile, voice calm. "That's composure. That's belief."
He scanned the room. No one moved. Not even Nate, who usually couldn't sit still.
"You earned that."
He let it hang there for a moment, then clicked the remote again. A new screen popped up. Plain black background and bold white text.
FA Cup Round 3
Crawley Town vs Leyton Orient (A)
Saturday, January 3rd
A few players shifted in their chairs. Luka leaned forward. Nate tapped his fingers on his knee. Reece just nodded slowly.
Leyton Orient. A proper League One side. They are disciplined, compact, ruthless. They didn't give you much, and punished every mistake.
But still, beatable as long as we play our cards right.
"Big stage," Luka muttered, eyes scanning the empty stands like they were already filled with pressure.
Reece didn't flinch. "Good. Big stages are where people notice. Let's give them something to talk about."
Nate didn't say anything. Just smiled to himself.
Max glanced at the screen and said quietly, "I've played them before. They hate losing at home." He paused. "Let's get them."
That afternoon, Crawley Town was all over the place, local sports radio buzzing with their name, highlights running on Sky's League Two wrap, and social media lighting up with clips of their best moments.
"Veteran Simons snatches last-minute winner" was the common headline.
And the goal was on loop.
"Max Simons… oh my word, he's done it! Crawley have stolen it at the death!"
In pubs across the town, fans rewatched the clip on phones over pints. Something about that goal felt different. Not just the timing or the finish, but what it represented.
Crawley weren't hoping anymore. They were expecting something more.
At training on Monday, you could feel it.
Reece ran the warm-ups like a drill sergeant. There was no slack, no slouching. Luka and Dev started snapping passes in tight spaces before the first whistle. Nate looked stiff but pushed through, jogging extra laps before the main session.
Even the lads who'd barely seen minutes lately, Korey, Ellis, Qazi were sharper. They wanted in.
Belief, once just a fragile thread, had now been woven deep into the very fabric of the club.
By midweek, Niels was back in his office watching Leyton Orient matches on repeat. Same setup most games: three at the back, wingbacks flying forward, a clever number ten who drifted into spaces, and a target man who didn't need much to punish you.
They liked to press for the first fifteen, then drop into their shell.
"Score early, then bully you," Niels muttered under his breath.
But he also saw gaps. Especially down the flanks in transition. Their midfield didn't recover quickly. Their left-sided centre-back was clumsy under pressure.
He jotted down notes. Drew lines on the whiteboard. Then reached for his phone.
He hadn't spoken to Milan in weeks. When he finally called, Milan answered on the third ring.
"Cup draw," Niels said. "against Orient."
A low chuckle on the other end. "I've lost there twice. It's a ugly place when they're winning."
"They're good," Niels admitted.
"So are you."
There was a beat of silence.
"I've got a squad," Niels said. "Still need a team."
Friday's training was crisp. It was short yet controlled, just enough to keep the engine warm before two days off.
But it had an edge.
Reece barked louder than usual. Dev and Luka passed between each other like they had invisible strings connecting their boots. Nate beat two players in a tight-sided drill and didn't even look back. No celebration. Just hunger.
And Max… did it again.
Near the end of the session, with everyone slowing, he peeled off his marker in a small-sided game, waved once, and got the delivery he wanted. One touch. One hit. Bottom corner.
It was not dramatic, just clean and inevitable.
A couple of the younger lads turned their heads.
He didn't say anything. Just dusted his gloves off and said, "Same boots. Just different grass."
On Saturday, the local paper ran with:
"Orient Awaits: Crawley Town Head Into Cup Round 3 With Wind In Their Sails"
The full back page was a photo of Max mid-celebration with arms wide, the ball nestled in the net behind him, floodlights above like theatre lights.
At the corner café near Niels' flat, the same barista he passed every morning finally spoke.
"You lot made me scream last night," she said as she handed over his coffee.
He blinked. "Was it the goal or the whole game?"
"Both," she grinned. "But mostly Max."
Niels smiled. "Yeah. He's not done yet."
Later that night, back at his flat, he opened the same document he'd been writing in since August.
What comes after survival?
He scrolled past the old entries. Past the one from Wrexham. Past the line after Morecambe.
He tapped out a new one:
"The climb becomes a run. And the run becomes belief."
There was one last thing that happened before the weekend ended.
Max came back to the ground. There was no fanfare, no boots. Just a coat, a hoodie, and sore knees. He told the physio he wanted a quick ice wrap before dinner. But he lingered and walked out to the pitch.
The floodlights were off now. The seats empty, It was just him and the goal where it had happened.
He stood at the edge of the box. He was quiet watching nothing, but thinking something.
He could feel that moment again. The silence before the swing. The pause before the roar.
He didn't say a word. Just stood for a while. Then turned and walked away.
Boots crunching frozen gravel.
His face was calm.
There was another moment coming.
Maybe in East London.
Maybe once more, right when it matters.
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