Chapter 25: The Matches You Don't Remember, But Always Matter
Friday, 19 December
The wind was sharp again, bitter, but not strong. It slipped through jacket gaps, between zips and collars. At the training ground, even the usual small talk was cut down to the essentials.
Niels stood near the halfway line, arms folded, watching Reece adjust his shin pads mid-drill. The mood wasn't tense, just serious and more focused.
Accrington Stanley were next. Away.
No glamour, no noise. Just one of those matches you mark on the calendar, not because they're special, but because they'll punish you if you're not ready.
"They'll make it ugly," Niels said during the walk-through. "So we take control first."
He didn't draw too many diagrams and didn't go too deep into tactics as the team already knew. The rhythm had started to live inside them now.
Luka moved different in buildup. Nate no longer waited for direction, he gave it. Max had stopped trying to chase the spectacular and started playing like a man who trusted what would come.
It was slow, subtle, but clear.
The climb wasn't glamorous.
It was real.
Saturday, Matchday 19 — Accrington Stanley (A)
The bus pulled into a narrow lot beside the stadium just after noon. Low stands, wind swirling in the corners, and the smell of old burgers in the air. A few kids leaned over the railings, marker pens in hand.
As the players filed out, Luka pulled his hood up. "This place always feels like it's waiting for a fight."
Nate smirked. "So don't blink."
Inside, the away dressing room was cramped. One long bench on each side. No music this time. Just tape tearing, studs scraping, the snap of gloves going on.
Niels stood near the door, giving them space. When everyone was seated, he stepped forward.
"Don't chase the game," he said quietly. "Force them to chase us."
A few nods. No speeches. That wasn't needed now.
Just belief.
Kickoff:
The first ten minutes were nothing but second balls and collisions.
Accrington came flying out with crunching tackles, clipped balls into the corners, one long throw after another. It wasn't pretty. But it was theirs.
Crawley held the line. Max dropped deeper to help Dev and Ellis hold shape. Reece was snapping into challenges. Luka floated between the chaos, ducking under shoulders and releasing quick passes before the press could catch him.
But possession didn't mean much here. This game was about control, emotional control.
In the 28th minute, Crawley nearly cracked when a floated cross came over the back line, and the Accrington striker rose clean. Free header. Just inches wide.
Niels didn't flinch.
He just turned slightly and made a note in his book.
Halftime: 0–0
Inside the dressing room, nobody slouched. Nobody shouted.
Reece took a sip of water and spoke first: "We're one pass from breaking them."
Niels pointed at the whiteboard, three triangles drawn quickly.
"They overload on the right," he said. "We exploit the space on the left."
He looked at Luka, then at Max.
"It's there if you take the first risk."
Second Half:
Crawley began to impose their game, not avoiding the chaos, but using it to their advantage.
In the 54th minute, it clicked.
Luka dropped into a deep pocket, pulled one marker with him, then shifted the ball through Max, into Reece's feet out wide.
One touch. Then a whipped cross to the top of the box.
Nate arrived again. Same run, same quiet confidence.
A low drive, it was precise and ruthless. The net rippled, and everything shifted.
1–0.
No roaring celebration. Just a look exchanged between three players. Like it had been waiting to happen.
Accrington cranked up the aggression after that long balls, set pieces, pushing the limits. The ref started to miss calls, or maybe just ignore them.
Dev got caught with a late boot in the 70th. Reece took a shove into the ad board in the 75th. Luka got stepped on in a tangle and didn't react. Just got up.
That was the difference now.
They didn't flinch.
Final Whistle: 1–0 Crawley wins
Niels didn't raise his arms nor did he shout. Just clapped once and turned toward the tunnel.
Behind him, the players shared quiet smiles, pats on the back, small nods.
No fireworks.
Just the satisfaction of a job well done.
One of those matches people don't write headlines about. But the kind that wins promotions. The kind that proves something internal.
Sunday
Recovery was quiet and calm. The physio room hummed with soft chatter and the whirr of machines. A few sore ribs, an iced ankle, nothing serious.
Max had bruises on both shins. Dev had a cut just under the knee. Reece still walked like a man with unfinished business.
But the smiles were real, hard-earned.
Niels sat in his office again that evening. Coffee on the desk. A fresh file open.
He typed:
"It's not the matches you remember that define a season.
It's the ones you survive, with your shape intact."
He leaned back, exhaled slowly.
Then his phone buzzed again.
Another message from his sister.
"Mum says she found your old tracksuit. The one with the hole in the knee. Dad says it still smells like grass. Also… they're asking if you're coming home for Christmas. Or maybe New Year?"
Niels stared at the screen.
There was a beat of silence in the room. Just the faint hum of the radiator, and the tapping of rain against the window.
He hadn't been back. Not since everything… changed. No memories of that house. No connection to those small things the hole in the knee, the old smells, the family habits. They remembered everything but he remembered nothing.
It wasn't their fault.
He typed slowly:
"Tell Dad he should probably wash it."
Then, after a pause, he added:
"I'll see about New Year."
Not a yes nor a no.
But something.
He set the phone face down and leaned back in his chair, eyes tracing the ceiling.
A part of him wanted to go, to take the chance to fill the empty spaces with something real, something that mattered.
But another part, the one that felt like a visitor in someone else's story wasn't sure he could.
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