Chapter 31: Back to the Grind
Friday, 2 January 2010
The Broadfield Stadium stood quiet under a sky that couldn't decide whether to rain or hold back. A damp chill hung in the air, the kind that seeped through layers and made the grass glisten under the training ground's floodlights. Niels stood on the touchline, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, his breath visible in short puffs.
The season was back, the brief New Year's pause already fading like a half-remembered dream. Two days until the next League Two match, a trip to face Torquay United on January 3, and the FA Cup Third Round loomed just after, January 5 or 6, depending on the broadcast schedule. Time was tight, and Niels felt it, the clock ticking, the weight of choices pressing down.
The training pitch buzzed with a subdued energy. The players were back, their boots thudding against the damp turf, their voices low but focused. Niels had made the call early: rest the mainstays: Max, Luka, Dev, Korey, and a few others for the league match to keep them fresh for the FA Cup. The reserves would carry the load on Saturday, a chance for the likes of Qazi, Toby, and some younger faces to prove themselves. It was a gamble, but the Cup was a bigger stage, a chance to test Crawley against higher-tier opposition, maybe even pull off an upset. Niels' old gaming instincts kicked in, the part of him that used to strategize in FIFA, balancing squads, managing stamina. This was no reset button, though real players, real risks involved.
He watched the reserves run through drills, their movements sharp despite the cold. Qazi was relentless, chasing every ball, his energy infectious [Press-resistant]. Toby, fresh off his goal against Crewe, moved with a quiet confidence, barking instructions during a passing sequence [Leadership aura]. The younger players, kids barely out of the academy looked nervous but hungry, their touches a mix of raw talent and hesitation [Good potential]. Niels' Instinct Lens flickered, those bracketed insights surfacing unbidden, guiding his gaze. He kept his corrections short, a nod here, a pointed gesture there. "Keep the ball moving," he called out, his voice steady but firm. "Don't let it stick."
In his head, he was still half in another world. If he hadn't been yanked from his old life reincarnated, transmigrated, whatever it was, he'd be deep in a FIFA session right now, tweaking lineups, scouting virtual gems. That Niels would've laughed at the idea of standing here, juggling real players' fitness and egos. He missed the simplicity of it, the way a bad match could be erased with a button. But this, he admitted, watching Qazi intercept a lazy pass and sprint forward, had its own pull. Crawley was his now, their fight his fight, and he was starting to like the man he was becoming.
The session paused for a water break, and Niels caught Max on the sidelines, stretching his taped ankle, watching the reserves with a mix of curiosity and impatience. "You sure about sitting us out tomorrow, boss?" Max asked, his smirk half-playful, half-challenging.
Niels met his gaze. "You'll get your minutes in the Cup. Don't want you limping through both." Max nodded, but his eyes lingered on the pitch, like he itched to be out there. Niels understood once a player, even a digital one, always a player.
By mid-morning, Niels was called to a meeting in the stadium's boardroom, a small, stuffy room with faded carpet and a view of the empty stands. The chairman, Mr. Hargreaves, sat at the head of the table, flanked by two board members, their faces a mix of cautious optimism and skepticism. Papers were spread out budgets, scouting reports, a laptop open to a spreadsheet Niels didn't bother trying to read.
"We've got some room in the budget," Hargreaves said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Not much, as you know. The League Two's no goldmine. But we can make a move if it's the right one."
Niels leaned back, his mind racing. His old FIFA days flooded back hours spent scouring for hidden gems, young players with high potential on the cheap. He'd built virtual dynasties that way, unearthing talents like a teenage bargain-bin striker who'd outscore the stars.
Could he do it here? His Instinct Lens flickered again, imagining a winger with [Inverted winger potential] or a defender with [Elite spatial awareness]. "What's the number?" he asked, keeping his tone even.
Hargreaves raised an eyebrow. "Enough for one, maybe two, if you're smart. No seven-figure fees, that's for sure. Think loans, free agents, or a low-ball transfer. You've got names?"
Niels nodded, though he didn't share them yet. In his head, he was sifting through possibilities a pacy winger to stretch defenses, a sturdy center-back to shore up the back, maybe a midfielder with the vision to control games [One-touch intelligence]. "I'll get you a list," he said. "Need to see who's available."
The boardroom talk dragged on wages, contracts, the usual dance of money and ambition. Niels listened, but his thoughts kept drifting to the pitch, to the reserves who'd carry the load tomorrow, to the Cup match that could define their season. When the meeting ended, Hargreaves clapped him on the shoulder. "You're doing alright, Niels. Keep it up." It was as close to praise as the chairman got, and Niels felt a flicker of pride, tempered by the weight of what was next.
Back on the training ground, the session was winding down. The reserves were running a small-sided game, and Niels watched from the sidelines, arms crossed. Toby won a tackle and played a sharp pass to Qazi, who fired just wide [Late bloomer]. The kid cursed under his breath, but Niels caught his eye and nodded. "Good run. Do it again." Toby's shoulders straightened, and he jogged back, ready for the next play.
Niels' phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Elise: "Mum's asking when you're coming. Says the pie's getting impatient." He smiled, a soft tug in his chest. He typed back: "Tell her soon. Just got a few things to sort." He pocketed the phone, his gaze drifting to the empty stands. The season was a grind, and the FA Cup was a beast potentially after a win Championship side or higher waiting to test them. Resting the main players was a risk, but he trusted the reserves, trusted the team they were becoming.
As the players headed to the dressing room, Niels lingered on the touchline, the damp air settling around him. He thought of Milan, the man who'd pushed him into this life, and the old Niels, the gamer who'd have been glued to a screen, blissfully unaware of real-world stakes. That life was gone, but this one was messy, heavy, real was his. Crawley's wins were his wins, their fight his fight. And as the floodlights flickered, casting long shadows across the pitch, he felt it: a stubborn hope, sharp and alive, carrying him into the battles ahead.
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