Chapter 18: Smoke and Mirrors
The press room had that usual stale scent of old coffee and artificial calm.
Niels sat upright, suit crisp, hands folded on the table. The Crawley Town crest repeated behind him, flanked by sponsor logos that looked more hopeful than prestigious.
It was his first press conference as head coach. And the spotlight burned hotter than he expected.
A reporter from Sussex Sports leaned forward.
"Coach Marjan, congratulations. But let's address the obvious—Milan's departure was sudden. You're twenty-five. So say this job ca too soon. Do you feel ready?"
Niels nodded slightly, voice calm but firm.
"I don't take this responsibility lightly. I grew under Milan. Learned from him. But we aren't trying to replace anyone. We're building forward. With the sa core, the sa belief."
A few pens scribbled. One recorder blinked red.
A regional outlet jumped in. "So fans worry that the club's rushing things. That you're too inexperienced. What do you say to them?"
"I say judge us by how we train. How we fight. Not by assumptions. We've already shown who we are on the pitch."
That hung in the air—defiant but asured.
A voice from the back, softer than the rest, cut through the chatter.
"You were once tipped as a future star. Then... you disappeared. Why co back to football now? And why here?"
Niels didn't answer right away. A flicker crossed his eyes—sothing between mory and pain.
He t the reporter's gaze, steady.
"Because football never stopped mattering to ," he said quietly. "And Crawley... it feels like sothing worth believing in again."
There was a pause—brief, but full.
Before anyone could follow up, the press officer stepped in.
"That's all for today."
Niels rose, nodding politely to the room, and walked out.
As he moved through the corridor, the hum of the press faded behind him. His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Wallace:"You did well, but they'll co again. Stronger next ti."
Niels exhaled slowly, the ssage sinking in. The job had only just begun, but already the weight of it pressed against his chest.
Training the next day looked normal—on the surface. But underneath the drills and claps, Niels could feel it.
Energy was flat. Movents just half a beat off. Luka, usually sharp, miscontrolled a simple pass and snapped at himself. McCulloch was quieter than usual, barking fewer orders, letting things slide. Even Simons, their steady anchor, looked hesitant as he guided positioning.
Niels flipped open the system.
[Luka – Focus: Low. Emotionally unsettled.][McCulloch – Confidence drop. Feels uncertain about new leadership.]
He called Luka over after the last sprint. The midfielder wiped sweat from his brow, chest still heaving.
"You alright?" Niels asked, tone calm.
Luka nodded quickly. "Yeah. Just tired."
Niels gave him a look. Said nothing.
Finally, Luka sighed. "It's not just , you know. People feel... off."
"Why?"
A beat of silence. Then Luka muttered, "Pressure. Noise. And maybe... not everyone's convinced."
Niels frowned. "Convinced of what?"
Luka hesitated, then said it.
"Of you. I an... back then, people believed because Milan believed. He was like a pillar. Even if you were the one making calls, they leaned on his presence. Now he's gone, and..."
He trailed off.
"Now they're unsure," Niels finished for him.
Luka nodded slowly. "It's not that they don't trust you. It's that they're afraid. We've never done this without Milan before."
Niels looked out over the pitch.
"I get it," he said quietly. "But belief has to co from within the team now. Not from soone standing behind it."
He clapped Luka gently on the shoulder.
"Thanks for telling ."
That afternoon, Wallace caught Niels just as he stepped out of the club offices.
"You know a guy nad Marcus Quinn?"
Niels blinked. "No. Why?"
"He was here. Claid he knew Joel. Asked about his 'contract situation.' Said he had a project lined up—so overseas trial or youth program. Didn't feel right."
"Agent?"
"Maybe. But it was too smooth—too polished. Didn't feel like soone just dropping by casually."
Niels felt his jaw tense. "Did Joel speak to him?"
"Didn't get the chance. I sent him packing. But soone's sniffing. And it's not just him. Couple of calls ca in from journos outside Sussex."
Niels exhaled slowly.
"They're watching us now."
"Exactly. You win one big cup match, change the lineup, upset the balance? Buzz builds. Then Milan steps down and you step up—now everyone wants to know who the hell Crawley Town think they are."
Niels said nothing for a while. Then:
"Let them watch."
Wallace smirked. "I'll hold the doors. You hold the squad."
That night, rain tapped softly against the windows of Niels' flat. A muted chill sat in the corners.
He sat alone, laptop open, fra paused mid-match. Joel's disguised through ball glowed on the screen—still brilliant. Still underappreciated. But even Joel hadn't smiled after the assist. No fist pump. No grin. Just calm. Like he wasn't ready to trust what he felt.
Niels leaned back, rubbing his temples.
His phone buzzed—Milan's na flashed.
"Pressure reveals. Don't let it shape you—let it show you what's real."
He stared at the ssage.
Then scribbled a line into his notebook:
"Not everyone will believe. That's okay. I just need the right ones to."
Outside, the rain kept falling. But inside, sothing quiet began to settle.
Not confidence. Not yet.
But resolve.
The road ahead wasn't about proving doubters wrong.
It was about proving the believers right.
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