Chapter 2: Signs of Life

  The Monday after that first drill, training felt different. More focused. The players moved with purpose—not because they’d suddenly become superstars, but because someone had finally started paying attention.

  Luka Radev, especially.

  His pace was still wild, almost reckless at times, but now it was starting to look more controlled. Niels had helped him channel that raw energy into something more purposeful. Luka was cutting inside with sharper angles, making better decisions. But Niels knew he wasn’t there yet. The flashes of talent were evident, but Luka still had a bad habit of avoiding defensive work.

  “Kid’s got fire,” Milan muttered one afternoon, watching Luka burst past defenders. “Just hope he doesn’t burn out.”

  Niels grinned. “He won’t. We’ll manage the spark.”

  Milan gave him a curious glance. “You seeing something in him?”

  “I’m seeing something in all of them.”

  Marko Simic, the nervous center-back, was a different kind of challenge. His positioning was still all over the place. In one drill, he got turned twice by a journeyman striker who had no business beating him. Milan immediately started barking orders, but Niels raised his hand.

  “Let me.”

  He jogged onto the pitch and took control of the drill, walking Marko through each movement. Every step, every angle.

  “You can’t rely on instinct if your instincts are wrong,” Niels said. “Think before you act. Play smart, not brave.”

  Marko didn’t respond, but the next round was better. Not perfect, but better. Small wins. One at a time.

  By Thursday, Niels could see the shift. He was getting nods from players he barely knew. A few stayed behind to ask questions after training, something that hadn’t happened before. He gave them simple advice—how to position for corners, when to press, how to spot passing lanes. Nothing flashy. Just the basics, but it helped build trust.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  He even started keeping a notebook in the office. Jotting down player traits, ideas for drills, things he noticed on the field. It wasn’t a perfect system, but it was something to keep him sharp. The “cheat”—those flashes of insight—weren’t always there. Sometimes, it was just him, his knowledge, and his gut. But when the cheat did show up, it felt like an edge.

  Wednesday evening, the sky over Crawley was turning a dusky orange as Niels sat alone in the video room. He’d spent hours rewinding and fast-forwarding through Grimsby Town’s last few matches, looking for patterns—long balls, late overlaps, predictable restarts.

  “Thinking ahead?” Milan asked as he walked in, handing Niels a cup of instant coffee.

  “Always,” Niels replied, not even looking up.

  Milan leaned against the doorframe. “Good. Tactics are all yours this weekend.”

  Niels froze. He hadn’t expected that. “You sure?”

  “You said you’re ready. Prove it.”

  It felt like the first real test. The pressure was real, but there was a spark of excitement in Niels, too. He didn’t know if he was ready, but there was no backing out now.

  Friday’s internal match was next. First team against second string. It wasn’t official, but it felt like a huge deal.

  Milan handed Niels the clipboard. “Your call. Line ‘em up.”

  It wasn’t just a matter of picking a formation—it was about making decisions that could affect everything. It was his first real chance to prove he could handle the pressure.

  He started Luka. Benched Marko. Moved a midfielder into a deeper role. Nothing flashy—just smarter.

  The match was scrappy. The kind of game where mistakes are easy to miss, where bad habits go unnoticed. But with five minutes left, Luka found space on the wing, beat two defenders, and curled a shot into the far post. The ball hit the net with a satisfying thud.

  1–0. First team wins.

  It wasn’t pretty, but it was progress. After the final whistle, a few of the players clapped—not just at Luka, but for the team effort. For the structure. For the work. It wasn’t perfect, but it felt like a step forward.

  Milan clapped once, a short, sharp gesture. “Not bad.”

  Later, in the staff room, Milan leaned back in his chair, feet up, an unread scouting report resting on his chest.

  “You want more responsibility?” he asked, his voice casual, but the look in his eyes told Niels he was serious.

  Niels didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  Milan didn’t even blink. “Good. You’re on tactics next matchday. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  That night, Niels sat at his desk, scribbling in his notebook under the yellow glow of the desk lamp. His head was spinning with ideas—formations, transitions, counter-attacks. He couldn’t sleep, his mind running through every detail of the upcoming match. It felt like he was on the edge of something. It wasn’t just about improving the team anymore. It was about making a statement.

  Crawley Town was 21st in the table, just three points above relegation. The next match? Away at 17th. It wasn’t glamorous, and it wouldn’t be televised. But it mattered. Every point counted.

  Niels could feel the weight of it. His second chance had begun, and he wasn’t going to play it safe.

  He was here to change the game.