Chapter 6: Rising Tensions
Crawley Town buzzed with energy after their FA Cup win over Hereford.
In training, the players moved with new confidence passes sharp, tackles strong.
That 1-0 victory wasn't just a step forward in the cup, it was a spark for a team that had spent the early season unsure if they could climb out of League Two's bottom.
Niels felt a warm spark despite the November chill.
Luka Radev demanded the ball with confidence, weaving through drills.
Jamal Osei controlled the midfield, his orders steadying the younger players.
Even Milan, usually stone-faced, let small smiles slip, pride shining in his eyes.
The squad's laughter was louder, their boots kicking up clumps of wet turf a rhythm of hard-earned belief.
But beneath the energy, a shadow crept in around Milan.
On Tuesday morning, with mist hanging low and the air sharp, Niels saw it.
Milan's whistle cut through the fog, then suddenly he froze, clutching his chest, his face tightening for a moment before he kept going.
Niels told himself it was just the cold but that moment stayed with him, sharp and impossible to forget.
That evening, as the players slowly left and the groundskeepers packed up, Niels saw Milan standing alone by the touchline.
The floodlights shone down on him as he held his chest and looked at the long shadows on the grass, breathing unevenly.
"Milan, you okay?" Niels asked softly, careful not to push too hard.
Milan stood up straight and lowered his hand, forcing a small smile. "It's just the cold," he said, looking away. "Don't worry about it, lad."
Niels wanted to say more but held back. Milan had helped him when he was lost and given him this chance. "Okay," Niels said, nodding. "Just take it easy, alright?"
Milan's laugh was weak, fading into the empty stands. "Easy? You sound like my wife."
The next week, the FA Cup second-round draw had everyone buzzing.
In the canteen, players gathered around a flickering TV, whispering nervously.
Crawley had drawn an away game against an old Conference rival, a scrappy team that would push their new confidence to the limit.
"Alright," Milan said as he walked in, his voice firm but slower. His steps were heavy and purposeful. "No more daydreaming. The league game is what matters."
The team nodded and focused, but Niels felt a knot in his stomach.
Milan leaned against the wall, sweat on his forehead even though it was cool, his hand briefly moving toward his chest before he stopped himself.
Later, as Niels headed to his office to go over scouting reports, he noticed Milan's door was slightly open.
Inside, Milan sat with his eyes closed, rubbing his chest, breathing short and uneven like he was struggling to catch his breath.
Niels knocked quietly. "Milan?"
Milan's eyes shot open, his face hardening as he regained control. "Yeah?"
"You sure you're okay?" Niels stepped inside, his voice low and worried. "You've seemed off lately. I'm worried, coach."
For a brief second, fear showed in Milan's eyes something Niels had never seen before.
Then it vanished, and Milan went back to being the strong, controlled man he always was. "I'm fine," he said shortly. "Just tired. These games are taking a lot out of me, that's all."
Niels held his gaze, looking for more, but Milan brushed him off sharply. "Go on. We've got a back line to fix before Saturday."
Niels hesitated, then gave a slow nod and stepped out of the office.
As he walked down the hall, a cough followed him muffled but rough, full of pain, like a truth Milan couldn't keep buried anymore.
Niels' chest tightened.
This was the man who had pulled him out of the wreckage of his career, who had believed in him when no one else would.
Now, watching him weaken, Niels felt something burn in his gut, a fierce, protective instinct.
He owed Milan everything.
And he wouldn't let him go through this alone.
The signs were no longer subtle.
Milan's voice, once sharp and commanding, had grown faint.
His sideline presence once electric was quiet, his steps slow and careful.
Niels started picking up the pieces without thinking: adjusting tactics mid-match, barking instructions from the bench, even leading the pre-game talk when Milan couldn't speak his throat shredded from another long night of coughing.
The players noticed.
During drills, their eyes flicked to Milan more often now, worry in their glances.
Whispers moved through the team like ripples on water soft, but impossible to ignore.
Friday morning, during a tense training session, Milan suddenly sank onto the bench. His face was pale, sweat beading on his forehead despite the crisp, cold air.
Niels rushed over, heart pounding, but Milan waved him off with a tight jaw and fire in his eyes.
"I'm fine," he growled low, fierce, and full of pride.
The players froze, caught in the silence, glancing between each other.
Uncertainty hung in the air.
Then Milan's whistle cut through it sharp, defiant, impossible to ignore. It snapped them back into motion, but the moment lingered.
When the session ended, the players drifted off, quieter than usual.
The energy was gone, dulled by what they'd seen.
Niels stayed, watching from a few feet away as Milan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head down, breathing uneven.
It was a small moment quiet, almost easy to miss but to Niels, it felt deafening.
Louder than any crowd, clearer than any words. Milan was slipping, and they all knew it.
That night, Niels lay awake in bed.
The streetlight outside his window flickered, casting moving shadows across the ceiling.
A heavy feeling sat in his chest, tight and constant.
Crawley was growing stronger, braver, full of belief.
But the man who built it all the one who gave Niels a second chance was falling apart. He was falling apart slowly, silently, still pretending nothing was wrong.
For the first time, Niels found himself thinking beyond the next game.
He thought about the team, about the future, and what it would mean if Milan couldn't keep going. The thought scared him.
The weight of it pressed down on him like the thick mist that covered the pitch at night.
And for the first time, he asked himself: if it came to it, was he ready to step up? To lead?
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