Touchline Rebirth: From Game To Glory-Chapter 110: Luka’s Silence
Chapter 110: Luka’s Silence
Sunday, July 4, 2010
The early morning air in Crawley was cool and smelled of rain-soaked grass as Niels walked through the gates of Broadfield Stadium. Around him, the town was slowly waking up.
Yesterday, getting the board to approve Thomas as fitness coach had been a big win. It was the first real step in building a staff that shared his vision.
But today, as he prepared for a staff meeting to plan the first week of preseason, the uncertainty over Max and Luka hung over him like a storm cloud, threatening the heart of Crawley’s story.
The staff meeting was held in a small, familiar room just off the main corridor. Faded team photos from past seasons decorated the walls, and the smell of coffee filled the air. Emma sat at the head of the table, her notes neatly stacked, looking both focused and urgent. Thomas, the new fitness coach, leaned forward with his clipboard, eyes sharp and alert.
The rest of the staff, two new assistant coaches and a young analyst with a laptop full of data filled the room. They looked eager but tense, aware of the tough season ahead.
Niels stood at the front, speaking clearly as he outlined the plan for the first week: fitness tests to check the players’ readiness, a tactical refresher to sharpen their high-press system inspired by Milan, and early work on formations to get ready for the tough League One matches.
Thomas jumped in with his confident Dutch accent. "We’ll start with individual fitness tests, endurance for Max to keep his runs strong, agility for Luka to stay quick and sharp, and speed for Thiago to break past defenders. Then, recovery sessions to keep everyone fresh through the season’s grind."
The team nodded in agreement, the plan was coming together like a well-rehearsed play. But Niels couldn’t stop thinking about Emma’s transfer updates, with Levante and Parma’s interest looming over every choice.
The meeting ended with a clear schedule, but the real challenge was keeping the team’s heart and spirit alive.
After the meeting, Niels pulled Emma aside in his office. The room felt familiar, filled with old match programs, a chipped mug, and a photo from last season’s FA Cup run. The window looked out over the quiet pitch, muddy and waiting for the season to begin.
"Any news on the transfers?" Niels asked, his voice calm but ready for bad news.
Emma leaned against the desk, arms crossed, and sighed. "Parma’s still interested in Luka, but no word from him. It’s silent on his end."
Niels leaned back, the chair creaking under him, feeling the weight of her words like a cold fog. He thought of Luka’s calm presence on the field, controlling the game with steady passes and holding Crawley’s midfield steady through tough moments.
"He already knows he’s leaving," Niels said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper as if afraid the walls might overhear. "He just hasn’t told us yet. I think he’s still trying to figure out how to say it... or maybe he’s afraid of how we’ll react."
Emma nodded, worry in her eyes. "Levante has raised their offer for Max. The board is nervous, they’re focused on the money. And Drinkwater’s loan from United is still not confirmed, they’re delaying. We’re short in midfield, and time is running out."
The news hit hard. Crawley’s backbone, Max’s leadership and Luka’s vision might be gone before the season even starts.
Niels stood and paced the cramped office, the worn floorboards creaking beneath his heavy boots. Outside, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the town, but inside, tension hung thick in the stale air.
Losing either of them to the glittering leagues of La Liga or Serie A would be like severing Broadfield’s own pulse. And with Baxter already gone, the midfield was stretched dangerously thin, like a puzzle missing its most crucial pieces.
"We’ll fight to keep them," Niels said, his voice low but resolute, though beneath his words a flicker of doubt gnawed at him. "Max and Luka aren’t just players. They’re Crawley’s heart. We can’t let them go without a fight."
Emma met his gaze, her eyes sharp with determination. "I’ll push the board hard," she said, "but you need to come up with a plan, a replacement in midfield, someone who can keep the engine running without breaking the bank."
Niels nodded slowly, his mind already racing through the "Future Stars" list pinned to the wall, the names Barkley, Coady, Pogba offering a sliver of hope in the encroaching storm. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way to hold the team together.
Later that afternoon, Niels walked across the empty pitch. The ground was soft and muddy under his boots. His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Max calling from Spain.
"Coach, I’ll be back in two days," Max said. But his voice was quieter than usual, missing the energy that usually carried Crawley through tough times.
Niels stopped and looked up at the gray sky. "Are you sure everything’s okay?" he asked. He could tell something was bothering Max, like Levante’s offer was pulling him away.
There was a long silence. Then Max finally said, "Yeah. Just thinking a lot."
Niels felt a knot in his stomach. Max, the team captain and heart of the squad, sounded unsure like he was being pulled in two directions.
"We need you, Max," Niels said firmly but kindly. "Take your time. But come back ready to fight." 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞
Max agreed softly, and the call ended.
Niels stood alone on the pitch, the floodlights casting long shadows. Max’s quiet words stayed with him like a warning.
That night, Niels sat alone in his office. The stadium was quiet, and the pitch outside was dark except for the faint glow of the floodlights cutting through the rain. The soft sound of raindrops against the window matched the muddy heart of Broadfield, a steady rhythm that kept him grounded despite the storm of the transfer window.
He opened his "Future Stars" notebook. The names stared back at him like small sparks in the dark: Ross Barkley, Conor Coady, Wilfried Zaha, Nick Powell, Nathaniel Clyne, James Tarkowski, Paul Pogba, Danny Drinkwater, John Lundstram.
The uncertainty hit him like a cold wind. Luka was likely gone, his silence louder than any words. Max was unsure, his quiet voice a crack in Crawley’s strong armor. Barkley was too young to guarantee a loan. Drinkwater’s move was stuck in talks with Manchester United. Pogba was still a distant dream, his agent’s interest only a faint hope.
Niels picked up a pen and wrote a new note. His hand was heavy but steady: ’The star’s vanishing before the season starts.’
The words were harsh and real, but they didn’t break him. Instead, they lit a fire inside, a quiet defiance, built on lessons learned from Milan, Genoa, Utrecht, and Eindhoven.
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning the familiar clutter of the office, old match programs stacked in a corner, a chipped mug holding pencils, and a photo of the FA Cup run pinned to the wall.
Niels pictured a rebuilt midfield: Drinkwater’s steady work rate grinding through matches, Barkley’s creative sparks igniting attacks, or Pogba’s towering vision changing the team’s rhythm.
He imagined Thiago’s flair weaving past defenders, Max’s grit leading the line if he stayed, and Luka’s quiet genius holding the team steady, if he chose Crawley over Parma.
Thomas’s preseason plan, focusing on fitness and resilience, would keep the squad sharp. But the real challenge was keeping the team’s soul alive.
Luka’s silence, Max’s uncertainty, and the board’s tight budget were tests, not defeats. They were chances to prove what a small club with big belief could achieve.
Niels stood and walked to the window, his breath fogging the glass as he stared out at the pitch. The muddy patches gleamed under the floodlights, the rain falling harder now, a steady drumbeat that seemed to match the pulse of Broadfield’s heart.
The season was fast approaching, with its battles raw and urgent. But Niels was ready. He would fight to keep Max and Luka, push hard for Drinkwater’s loan, and chase the dream of Pogba.
Crawley wasn’t here just to make up the numbers. This was a club with fire in its veins, a place where passion outweighed wealth, and determination shaped every game.
Their true victory would be measured not just in trophies, but in the spirit they left behind, a spirit that no rain or mud could wash away.
