Chapter 2: Signs of Life
The Monday after that first drill, training was tighter. Snappier. There was a bit more purpose in how the players moved—less going through the motions, more spark in the routine. Niels could feel it. Not because anyone had suddenly turned into a world-beater overnight, but because, for once, soone had actually been paying attention.
Luka Radev, especially.
The teenager's pace and hunger were raw, almost reckless at tis. But under Niels's quiet guidance, he was beginning to harness it. His cuts from the right wing were crisper. His shots had more venom. The cheat flickered in Niels's mind like a half-loaded screen, offering glimpses—not just of Luka's potential, but also his flaws. Still didn't track back. Still drifted when out of possession. But that was coachable.
"Kid's got fire," Milan said one afternoon, arms crossed, watching Luka drive past a defender. "Just hope he doesn't burn out."
Niels smirked. "He won't. We'll manage the spark."
Milan gave him a long look. "You're seeing sothing in him?"
"I'm seeing sothing in all of them," Niels replied, more to himself than anyone else.
Marko Simic was a different case. The lanky center-back looked like he'd been built for the role—tall, strong, brave—but his feet hadn't gotten the mo. During one defensive drill, he got turned twice in five minutes by a striker who'd probably peaked four years ago.
Milan started yelling. Niels raised a hand.
"Let ."
He stepped in, walked Marko through the drill again, breaking it down into simple movents.
"You can't rely on instinct if your instinct's off," he said. "Play smart. Not brave."
Marko nodded, barely. But the next ti through? Cleaner.
Small wins. One at a ti.
By Thursday, players who'd barely made eye contact were now giving Niels nods during water breaks. A few lingered after training, asking questions. He didn't throw lectures at them—just shared what mattered. Positioning. Timing. When to press. When to pass.
He started jotting everything down in an old spiral notebook he found buried in the back office. Player nas. Strengths. Flaws. Sketches of drills. It wasn't a full-blown database, but it was enough to keep him grounded. The cheat didn't always trigger—he still didn't fully understand its rules—but paired with his football brain, it was like having a sixth sense.
Wednesday evening rolled around with the sky in Crawley painted in that soft, burnt orange of late autumn. Niels sat alone in the video room, hoodie pulled over his head, clicking through Grimsby Town's last three matches. He paused and rewound constantly—noting their long balls, predictable throw-ins, how their left back always drifted too high.
"Thinking ahead?" Milan's voice cut in as he walked in, carrying two mugs of lukewarm instant coffee.
"Always," Niels said, eyes still on the screen.
"Good. Tactics are all yours this weekend."
Niels looked up. That fast?
"You sure?"
Milan shrugged. "You said you're ready. Ti to show it."
Friday's internal match was the usual—first team versus second string—but this ti Milan handed over the clipboard.
"Your call," he said. "Line 'em up."
Niels didn't flinch. Luka started. Marko sat. He dropped a roaming midfielder into a holding role and pushed the wingers higher. Nothing wild. Just practical.
The match was scrappy. Ugly at tis. A few loose touches, a couple of bad tackles. But there was a shape. A rhythm. With five minutes left, Luka lit it up—beat two n on the wing and bent a shot off the far post. 1–0. Job done.
When the final whistle blew, a few claps echoed around the pitch. Not for the goal. For the structure. The grind.
Milan clapped once. "Not bad."
Later, in the staff room, Milan leaned back in his chair, boots kicked up on the desk, a scouting report balanced on his chest like a napkin.
"You want more responsibility?" he asked.
Niels didn't hesitate. "Yeah."
"Good. Next matchday. You're running the show."
That night, Niels sat at his desk, the dim light of his old lamp casting shadows across the cluttered pages of his notebook. He scribbled ideas, arrows, formations. His mind ran through transitions like a trono. Even in sleep, he dread in pressing patterns.
Crawley Town sat 21st in the table. Three points from the drop. Next ga? Away at 17th. No caras. No crowds. But it mattered.
Because this—this was how it started.
His second life had just kicked off.
And this ti, he wasn't going to sit on the sidelines—not like before, watching from behind a screen, buried in FIFA saves and YouTube tactics.
He was here to change the ga.
Reviews
All reviews (0)