Touchline Rebirth: From Game To Glory
Chapter 36: Steel in the Frost

Chapter 36: Steel in the Frost

Chapter 36: Steel in the Frost

Sunday, January 17, 2010

Frost crusted the edges of Broadfield Stadium’s training pitch, the January air sharp as Niels watched his Crawley Town squad gear up for tomorrow’s League Two clash against Rochdale. The 1–0 win over Lincoln City two days ago, Matchday 25, Max Simons’ volley sealing it had kept their fire alive, lifting them to seventh with 46 points.

The day began in the club’s boardroom, a small room smelling of stale coffee and damp wool. Claire, the financial officer, stood by a whiteboard, her voice taut. "Lincoln’s gate receipts brought £45,000, but Thiago’s £200k transfer and Baxter’s loan wages are bleeding us. Barnsley’s TV deal could mean £100,000, but a loss at Rochdale could kill our momentum." Mr. Hargreaves, the chairman, leaned forward, his tie askew. "The team’s behind you, Niels, but budgets don’t bend for dreams. Rochdale’s a must-win." Niels nodded, his chest tight. Thiago’s flair and Baxter’s vision, still untested in matches due to paperwork delays, were his gambles, pushed through despite Hargreaves’ glares. His gamer instincts, honed on digital sliders, urged him to trust the squad’s heart, but the financial stakes felt like a blade at his throat.

Claire flipped a page in her ledger. "Rochdale’s away end is sold out 1,800 fans. Barnsley’s tickets are at 12,000 and climbing. We’re under scrutiny, Niels." He met her eyes, seeing the strain of late-night calls to São Paulo, the wrangling over Thiago’s £200k fee, the quick deal with Everton for Baxter’s loan, wages split evenly. "We’ll deliver," he said, voice steady despite the doubt gnawing within. Hargreaves grunted, unconvinced, and dismissed them. Niels lingered, his thoughts on Elise and Pie, their texts a tether: "Pie’s singing ’Red Devils’ at breakfast!" Elise had written. Their faith was a warmth he clung to, but the fear of failing them loomed large.

On the pitch, training kicked off under a pale sun, the squad’s breath clouding in the cold. Niels had designed the session to counter Rochdale’s bruising, direct style: high-pressing drills to choke their midfield, wing-back overlaps to exploit their narrow shape, and set-piece headers to match their aerial threat. Thiago, now cleared for Rochdale, darted through a cone drill, his quick feet a blur, but his limited English sparked a mix-up in a passing sequence. "Thiago, right flank!" Korey Henry bellowed, but Thiago veered left, the ball rolling to Jamal Osei, who sighed. "Mate, we’ll get you a dictionary," Jamal teased, clapping Thiago’s shoulder. Thiago’s sheepish grin eased the moment, but Niels noted the risk, miscommunication could cost them tomorrow.

The session intensified with a scrimmage, and drama flared when Kieron Marsh, buoyed by his Lincoln tackle but still fragile [Uncertain positioning], misjudged a challenge, clipping Luka Radev’s shin. Luka hit the turf, cursing loudly. "Kieron, what’s that about?!" Kieron froze, his face flushing, the squad pausing, frost crunching under their boots. Reece Darby stepped in, voice calm but firm. "Luka, he’s learning. Kieron, keep your head up." Niels approached, his **Instinct Lens** humming: Thiago’s [Silky technique], Baxter’s [Creative spark], Luka’s [One-touch intelligence]. "Kieron, lock onto your mark. Luka, channel that fire for Rochdale," he said, defusing the tension. Kieron nodded, but his eyes lingered on the ground, a spark Niels vowed to nurture.

Mid-session, Niels called a break, gathering the squad near the touchline. "Thiago, José, you’re Crawley now. Rochdale’s a war, but we’ve got the heart to win it. Barnsley’s watching, let’s show ’em we’re coming." Korey pumped a fist. "Smash ’em, new boys!" Thiago’s grin "I fight hard" drew chuckles, while Baxter’s Scouse drawl "They’ll be chasing shadows" sparked laughter. Max Simons’ nod, silent but resolute, anchored the group. Niels’ thoughts drifted to his 2025 self, a gamer lost in FIFA’s glow, tweaking tactics for virtual Cup runs. That life felt distant, but its instincts trust the squad, seize the moment pulsed in him now.

The drills resumed, shifting to set-pieces. Tom Whitehall towered in the box, his headers rattling the practice net, while José Baxter’s corner deliveries were pinpoint, curling past defenders. Adam Fletcher, in goal, nodded approval. "That’s the stuff, José." Luka, recovered, teased Thiago, mimicking his stepovers, and Thiago retaliated with a playful shove, their laughter echoing. Korey’s loud "Thiago’s stealing my moves!" drew grins, the squad’s bond tightening. But Niels noticed Kieron hanging back, his passes cautious, his confidence still brittle. During a water break, Niels pulled him aside. "You’re growing, Kieron. That tackle vs. Lincoln was massive. Trust yourself." Kieron’s shy nod was progress, a flicker Niels held onto.

A media van rolled up outside the fence, reporters unpacking cameras, their voices carrying: "Crawley’s Cup run, Barnsleys next?" Fans gathered, scarves waving, chanting, "Red De-vils!" A teenage girl shouted, "Niels, sign my shirt!" He jogged over, scrawling his name, her grin infectious. "You’re taking us to Wembley!" she said, her dad nodding proudly. "Keep the faith," Niels replied, the crowd’s energy a pulse in his veins. A reporter called out, "Niels, can Crawley shock Barnsley?" He smiled tightly. "We’re focused on Rochdale first." The question lingered, sharpening his nerves Rochdale was a stepping stone, but Barnsley was a giant.

Post-training, Thiago lingered, his English halting. "Coach, I... worry. Rochdale, big fight." Niels gripped his shoulder. "You’re ready, Thiago. Play your game." Baxter joined, smirking. "He’s got me, boss. We’ll carve ’em up." Thiago nodded, their bond raw but fierce, a spark Niels saw as vital. Claire caught him later, her clipboard heavy. "Rochdale’s away end is packed 1,800 fans. Barnsley’s at 12,000 and rising. The town’s alive, but we’re on a knife’s edge." Niels nodded, the stakes clear.

In the tactics room, Niels led a video session, breaking down Rochdale’s play: direct runs, set-piece threats, a towering striker who’d scored thrice this month. "Jamal, Reece stick to him," Niels said, pointing at the screen. "Luka, Korey use the wings." His 2025 memories stirred, vague FIFA sliders: high aggression, low width. He pushed them aside, focusing on Crawley’s grit. Max lingered after, his voice low. "Thiago’s nervous but buzzing, boss. Kieron’s trying harder after your chat." Niels smiled. "Keep pushing ’em, Max. You’re the spine."

Evening brought a quiet moment by the pitch, the stadium dark, frost glinting under floodlights. Niels’ phone buzzed, Elise: "Pie’s practicing headers, says he’s Max! Rochdale’s ours." He typed, "Love you both. We’re fighting." A fan, an old man in a Crawley scarf, lingered by the gate. "Seen this club through decades, son. Never felt this hope before," he said, voice rough. Niels shook his hand, moved. "We’ll fight for you."

Back in his office, Niels pored over Rochdale’s lineup, Barnsley’s threats looming in his mind. Thiago’s flair, Baxter’s vision, Kieron’s grit, Max’s steel they were his weapons. The squad’s fire, the town’s hope, it all fueled him, a flame against his fractured past. Rochdale was the next battle, Barnsley the war, and Crawley’s dream burned fierce, ready to face the frost.

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