Chapter 26 – Cracks and Corners
The dressing room still carried the faint smell of mud and adrenaline from the Macclesfield win, but the mood had shifted.
Victory didn't always mean peace.
Back at Broadfield, the focus narrowed. The fixture list gave them no room to breathe—another league match loomed in just four days. It would be at home, but the visitors were cut from the same cloth as Macclesfield: direct, physical, no-nonsense. One lapse in concentration, one sluggish start, and their momentum could disappear like breath on a cold morning.
Niels arrived at the training ground that Monday with his hood up and his thoughts racing. Plans buzzed in his head—squad rotations, medical reports, midfield combinations. But data wasn't enough now. He needed more than spreadsheets and statistics. He needed to read body language, tone, mood. Grit had won them three points. But grit, left unchecked, could also tear a team apart.
By mid-morning, the sharp rhythm of training drills echoed across the pitch. The session had intensity, but not cohesion.
Dev chased shadows during a pressing drill. Simons laid off a short pass, and Dev was a half-step late closing it down. The whistle cut the air.
"Again!" Niels shouted. "We close together, not one-by-one."
Dev sighed and wiped the sweat off his brow. "Doesn't work when the trigger's wrong."
Simons turned quickly. "Maybe if you didn't ball-watch for three seconds—"
"Hey!" Niels stepped in, voice firmer now. "That's enough."
The moment passed, but the tension lingered just beneath the surface. It wasn't a blow-up. No shouting, no thrown boots. But the look Dev gave Simons, and the way Simons glanced away, said more than words could. It was the kind of silent rift that didn't explode—but festered. Niels took mental notes as the drill resumed.
That afternoon, Luka missed the optional recovery session. No message. No warning. Just didn't turn up.
It wasn't the first time, either.
Niels didn't react—not in front of the staff. He logged it, quietly. There was a line between discipline and disconnection, and he had to know when to act. There's a difference between punishing a player and understanding what's slipping through the cracks. Leadership wasn't just about control—it was about timing.
That evening, Niels found himself in the club's small video room with Milan. The older man was wrapped in his usual scarf, his face pale but alert. He'd stopped attending full training sessions on doctor's advice, but he still showed up to watch, to listen, to guide—quietly.
"Dev's on edge," Niels muttered as he rewound a clip. "Simons too. And Luka… I don't know. Feels like he's drifting."
Milan gave a faint smile. "It means they care."
"Sure, but it's friction. It's spreading. I bench one too many of them and I lose the group."
Milan leaned back in his chair. "You will lose some, now and then. That's part of the deal. The players who love you when they're in the starting eleven will hate you when they're not. Doesn't mean you're wrong. Managing a team isn't about being liked all the time. It's about doing what needs doing—even when they don't see it."
Niels didn't say anything. He just stared at the paused footage, the press drill frozen mid-motion. His fingers drummed on the arm of the chair. Quietly, thoughtfully.
The next morning, he wandered down to the academy pitches while the senior staff ran warm-down sessions. He often found clarity down there. No media, no pressure, no contracts or agents. Just ambition, raw and unshaped.
Amid the scattered groups of youth players and hopefuls, one caught his eye—a tall, wiry kid, maybe seventeen at most. The ball stuck to his feet when he dribbled. He had balance, instinct. But his passing was wild—rushed, scattered, too eager to impress.
Still, something stirred in Niels. That familiar pulse in the back of his mind. A gut feeling he'd learned to trust.
The kid overhit another ball and lost possession. But instead of sulking, he chased it down full tilt, sliding hard near the corner flag to recover it. That kind of effort couldn't be taught.
"Who's that?" Niels asked one of the academy coaches.
"Trialist," the coach said. "Milo. No current club. Played Sunday League. Bit of a stray, but he's got something."
Niels nodded slowly. His brain was already working—development plans, structure, potential mentors.
Later that day, he called Wallace into his office. The club president strolled in with his usual flair—scarf, blazer, and that practiced grin.
"You're not asking for another striker, are you?" Wallace said.
Niels shook his head, handing over a folder. "This is about the academy. We've got real talent down there—raw, but promising. If we want to stop scrambling for loan deals every window, we need to invest now. A couple more coaches, clearer structure, better support."
Wallace raised a brow. "We're just sitting at mid-table, and you're thinking about long-term development?"
"I'm thinking about not getting stuck," Niels said. "We're getting stable, sure—but we're not building. If we want to move forward instead of drifting season to season, this is how we do it. Start shaping the future before it slips away."
Wallace didn't give an answer. But he didn't shut it down either.
As the sun dipped below the stadium roof, Niels sat alone in his office. He opened his notebook, thumbing through pages until he found it—a faded scribble from Milan, years ago:
"Don't just manage players. Build people."
He closed the book.
This wasn't just about the next match anymore.
He was trying to build something that could last.
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