Touchline Rebirth: From Game To Glory-Chapter 112: The Talk and the Truth
Chapter 112: The Talk and the Truth
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
The dawn light filtered through Crawley’s gray clouds, painting Broadfield Stadium’s muddy pitches in soft gold as Niels arrived, the familiar scent of wet grass grounding him.
Preseason was underway, Thomas’s intense fitness drills sparking energy, but today, Niels braced for the truth about his team’s spine, ready to fight for Crawley’s story on the muddy pitches where it would come alive.
Early that morning, a soft knock broke the quiet of Niels’s office. He looked up from his window to see Max standing in the doorway, his face drawn, eyes heavy with exhaustion, as if sleep had eluded him.
The captain looked drained, his shoulders slumped under an invisible burden. Niels motioned to a chair, the cluttered office match programs, a chipped mug, a photo from the FA Cup run fading into the background.
"Max," he said, keeping his voice warm but steady. "What’s on your mind?" Max sat, his hands fidgeting, his gaze fixed on the floor.
"Levante contacted my agent, Coach," he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. "La Liga. A chance to play at the top. I never thought I’d get a shot like this."
The words hit hard, each one a crack in Crawley’s heart. Max looked up, eyes full of conflict caught between loyalty and ambition. "Crawley’s home. This town, this team, it means everything. But this might be my only shot at that level."
Niels leaned back, his chair creaking, his heart aching for his captain but his face calm. He saw Max’s fiery Spanish sunset, his Wembley strike that had sent Broadfield roaring, his grit leading the line.
"I’m not going to stop you, Max," Niels said, his voice firm but kind, echoing Matteo’s advice to love the process. "Just don’t walk away with regrets. Think it through. Crawley needs you, but you need to choose what’s right for you."
Max nodded, his jaw tight, the weight of the decision clear in his eyes. "Two days," Niels said. "Let’s talk again then." Max gave a small nod, stood, and left, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving Niels with a quiet pang of dread.
Losing Max would tear at the team’s soul, but forcing him to stay could dim his fire. The choice was his, and Niels had to trust him to make it.
The afternoon brought a new shock. As Niels reviewed Thomas’s fitness reports, youth players struggling but improving, Thiago, still glowing from his fast start, heard footsteps nearing his office. He looked up, Luka stood in the doorway, unannounced.
No fanfare, no warning just Luka standing there, pale-faced, his eyes heavy with something unsaid.
He didn’t move, didn’t speak, and for a moment, neither did Thiago. The air between them thickened, silence pressing in like a storm about to break. It was clear, whatever Luka had come to say, it wouldn’t be easy.
Niels’s heart sank, Luka’s silence over the past days now feeling like a final goodbye. "Luka," he said, his voice steady but laced with disappointment. "You’re finally here."
Luka stepped inside, closing the door, and spoke first, his voice soft but resolute. "I’m leaving, Coach. Parma. I didn’t know how to say it... so I ran instead." The words hit like a cold wind, confirming Niels’s fears.
Luka looked down, his hands stuffed in his pockets, conflict etched across his face. "I’m sorry. I should’ve told you."
Niels stood, his chest tight, but he kept his composure, his eyes locked on Luka’s. "I trusted you," he said, his voice low, the hurt clear but controlled. "You could’ve told me."
Luka’s gaze dropped, his shoulders slumping. "I know," he said, his voice cracking. "You gave me everything, Coach. The senior team, minutes, responsibility, you made me love the game. That’s why this hurts so much. But I want more. I want to see how far I can go before it’s too late."
Niels nodded slowly, picturing Luka’s quiet Croatian field, his steady passes knitting Crawley’s midfield, his vision shaping their attack. "Then chase it,"
Niels said, his voice softening, echoing Erik’s wisdom from Eindhoven. "Just don’t forget where it started." They shook hands, the grip brief but heavy, a lingering silence filling the room.
Luka hesitated at the door, turning back, his voice barely a whisper. "No matter where I go, I’ll owe you everything, Coach."
Then he was gone, his footsteps fading, leaving Niels alone with another hole in the squad, another goodbye he didn’t want to give.
That evening, Niels met Emma in the boardroom, the stadium quiet, the pitch cloaked in darkness save for the faint glow of floodlights.
Rain tapped against the windows, a steady rhythm that echoed Broadfield’s muddy heart.
Emma’s desk was buried in papers, her expression tight but composed. "Luka’s officially gone," she said, voice sharp and to the point. "Parma’s finalizing the deal. Max is still up in the air, Levante isn’t backing down. Pogba’s agent is interested but not convinced, he wants more than just promises. And Drinkwater’s loan is nearly done, but United’s playtime clause is causing delays."
Niels leaned against the wall, the weight of it all pressing down, Luka’s departure sealed, Max hanging by a thread, the midfield still adrift.
He exhaled slowly eyes fixed on the floor. "We need a statement signing," he said, the words heavy with urgency.
Emma’s eyes were sharp, her tone firm. "Something to show the board and the fans that we’re not falling apart."
Niels gave a tight nod, already flipping through names in his head, clinging to his "Future Stars" list like a lifeline in a storm. Each name a flicker of hope, none a sure thing.
Back in his office, Niels slumped into his chair as rain lashed the windows, a steady reminder of the day’s unraveling.
He flipped open his notebook, the names scrawled in ink now feeling more like guesses than answers.
Luka was already a memory. Max could go next. Barkley wasn’t ready, Drinkwater’s deal was dragging, and Pogba, Pogba was fantasy dressed as hope.
He grabbed his laptop and started typing a fresh pitch to Pogba’s camp, fingers steady but driven by urgency: "This isn’t just about playing at Crawley. You’ll lead. You’ll grow. You’ll dominate. Come help us build something nobody will forget."
The words were sharp and daring, a vision of Pogba as the heart of a new midfield, combining his strength and vision with Thiago’s flair and whatever fight Max still had left to give.
Thomas’s relentless drills were building a team tough enough for the grind of League One, but the real fight was something deeper keeping Crawley’s spirit alive.
The mess in the office faded match programs, a chipped mug, a photo from the FA Cup run anchored him. Not just nostalgia, but a quiet reminder of what this club meant to the town.
Niels leaned back, the rain tapping steadily against the glass, a rhythm that matched Broadfield’s gritty soul.
Crawley’s foundation wasn’t built on flair or money, it was built on trust, fight, and belief. A culture shaped by the players, the staff, and the town that refused to let go.
Luka’s goodbye hurt, Max’s uncertainty stung, but they were tests, not defeats. Niels would fight to keep Max, push for Drinkwater, chase Pogba’s dream.
The season loomed ahead, fierce and demanding, but he felt prepared. The note tucked in his pocket "Keep going. We’re behind you" throbbed with quiet strength, connecting him to the roar of Broadfield, to Thiago’s smile, and to a town that never stopped believing.
Crawley’s story wasn’t about quietly surviving or accepting defeat. With every obstacle thrown their way, they fought harder ready to shock the world and prove the doubters wrong.
On rain-soaked, muddy pitches, they carved out a legacy built on raw grit, relentless hustle, and fierce determination.
