Chapter 6 – Rising Tensions
The mood around the Crawley Town camp was full of confidence in the days following their FA Cup win against Hereford. The players moved with a swagger in training, passes zipping faster, tackles coming harder, the air around the pitch charged with a new, simmering confidence. That 1-0 victory hadn't just put them through to the next round – it had breathed new life into a squad that had spent much of the early season doubting itself.
Niels felt it too. He saw it in the way Luka demanded the ball more often in practice, in the way Osei barked orders with renewed authority, and even in the rare, easy smiles that crept across Milan's usually intense face. There was a bounce in their collective step, a sharpness in their movements. The kind of confidence that only comes from winning.
Yet, alongside this newfound belief, a shadow had started to creep in – one that clung to the edges of Milan's otherwise sharp presence. It started subtly. Niels first noticed it during a Tuesday morning training session, the damp mist clinging to the grass as Milan's whistle cut through the air. The head coach had paused mid-sentence, pressing a hand to his chest, his brow furrowing for a brief, unguarded moment before he continued barking instructions. Niels had chalked it up to the morning chill, but the image stuck in his mind like a splinter.
That evening, as the players filtered off the training pitch and the groundskeepers rolled their equipment back into the sheds, Niels found Milan alone by the touchline, his hand still resting on his chest, his face turned away from the floodlights casting long shadows across the grass.
"Milan, you alright?" Niels asked, trying to keep his tone light.
Milan straightened quickly, his hand dropping to his side. "Of course. Just... cold air catching up with me." He forced a small, tight smile, his eyes refusing to meet Niels' for more than a heartbeat. "Don't worry about it."
Niels hesitated, the words catching in his throat, but he let it slide, nodding instead. "Alright. Just... take it easy, yeah?"
Milan's chuckle was a hollow echo in the empty stands. "Easy? You sound like my wife."
The following week brought the second-round draw for the FA Cup, and the locker room buzzed with nervous anticipation. Crawley had been handed an away fixture against an old Conference rival, a tie that would test their newfound mettle. Niels watched as the players huddled around a small TV in the corner of the canteen, murmuring excitedly as the draw unfolded.
"Alright," Milan's voice cut through the chatter as he strode in, his steps deliberate but a touch slower than usual. "Let's focus. We've got a league game to win before we worry about the cup."
There was a murmur of agreement, the players quickly snapping back to attention. But Niels didn't miss the way Milan leaned against the wall, a bead of sweat on his brow despite the coolness of the room.
Later that day, as Niels made his way to his cramped office to review some scouting reports, he noticed Milan's door slightly ajar. Peeking in, he found the head coach rubbing his chest again, eyes closed, breaths coming in short, controlled bursts.
Niels knocked lightly. "Milan?"
Milan's head snapped up, the mask of control slipping back into place with a sharp inhale. "Yes?"
"You sure you're alright?" Niels asked, stepping inside. "You've been... off. I just want to make sure."
For a moment, something vulnerable flickered in Milan's eyes, quickly replaced by the iron-willed focus Niels had come to respect. "I'm fine, just tired. These matches are taking their toll, that's all I guess."
Niels held his gaze, searching for any signs of weakness, but Milan waved him off with a dismissive flick of his hand. "Go on. We've got a back line to tighten before Saturday."
Niels hesitated, then gave a nod, backing out of the office. As he turned down the hallway, the faint sound of Milan's coughing followed him, muffled and desperate, like a secret being smothered. He was really worried about Milan as he had always been there for him in past so he wanted to help him now.
As the days went on, the signs became harder to ignore. Milan's sharp barks from the sideline grew fewer, his pacing along the touchline more measured, and Niels found himself stepping in more frequently – adjusting formations, shouting corrections, and even handling a pre-match talk when Milan's voice had all but given out the night before a crucial league clash. The players seemed to notice too, their eyes occasionally flicking to Milan during drills, their whispered conversations growing more frequent.
In one tense moment during a Friday morning session, Milan had to sit down abruptly on the bench, his face pale, sweat trickling down his temple despite the cold. Niels had rushed over, but Milan waved him off, jaw clenched in silent defiance. The players paused for a moment, uncertain, before the sharp blast of Milan's whistle cut through the air, urging them back into their drills.
As the final whistle blew to end the session, the players began to filter off the pitch, their earlier energy dampened by the tense moment. Niels hung back, his eyes lingering on Milan as the head coach leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed. It was a small, unguarded moment – the kind that spoke louder than any words.
As Niels lay in bed that night, staring at the flickering streetlight outside his apartment window, a knot of worry twisted in his gut. Crawley's resurgence was undeniable, but so too was the slow, silent unraveling of the man who had orchestrated it.
For the first time, Niels found himself wondering not just about the next match, but about the future of Crawley Town itself.
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