Chapter 7: Under Pressure
The electric hum of Crawley Town's FA Cup triumph had faded, overtaken by the relentless grind of League Two. Each week sharpened the stakes, the pressure cutting like a winter gust through the squad's fragile hope. Promotion wasn't just a faint dream anymore, it was a demand, echoing in the stands, etched in the players' furrowed brows. But with that ambition came a brutal reality, every opponent now saw Crawley as a prize, a chance to topple the gritty underdogs who'd dared to rise.
Tuesday's training session burned with intensity. The air hung cold, the sky a heavy slate, the sharp crack of boots on the ball ricocheting off the rusted metal stands. Niels stood beside Milan, arms crossed, eyes darting across the pitch as the squad tore through passing drills, their breath puffing in the November chill, their laughter mixing with the thud of leather. Luka Radev weaved through cones, his quick feet a blur, while Jamal Osei barked orders, steadying the chaos.
"Move it, guys! Snap those passes!" Milan's voice sliced through, fierce as ever, but Niels caught the tremor in his hand as he tugged his jacket, a flicker of pain crossing his weathered face, gone in a blink.
A pivotal match against Aldershot Town loomed, a mid-table side suddenly finding their groove. Crawley couldn't stumble, not with the league table closing like a vise, a few bad results enough to plunge them back into the relegation fight.
"Luka, hold it, pull them in, then break through!" Niels shouted, his voice ringing clear, stepping up as Milan's commands grew quieter, his strength visibly waning. Niels' confidence had grown, but so had his dread, Milan's faltering health a shadow he couldn't shake.
Milan met his gaze as Luka threaded a pinpoint pass, his flair sparking cheers from the squad. A small nod passed between them, silent but heavy, a quiet handoff of trust. Niels felt it settle in his chest, the weight of leading, even if just for moments, a duty he hadn't sought but couldn't dodge.
Thursday's session grew heavy when Milan sank onto the bench, face pale as frost, sweat beading despite the cold. Niels rushed over, heart hammering, but Milan waved him off, jaw locked, eyes fierce with stubborn pride. "Keep going," he growled, his whistle's sharp cry jolting the players back to drills. The session fizzled out early, Milan's team talk brief, voice cracking, his quick exit leaving worried glances in his wake.
Matchday dawned, Broadfield Stadium pulsing with red and white, the air thick with hope and nerves. In the tunnel, players' boots clacked on concrete, their faces tight, eyes burning with focus. Niels and Milan took their spots on the touchline, the crowd's chants rolling over them like a wave. Niels glanced at Milan, his mentor looked older, worn, like the season's toll had carved itself into his bones. Yet he stood tall, defiant, refusing to break, though his hand lingered on his ribs, breath uneven.
Kickoff:
The whistle blew, and Crawley surged, pressing high. Luka Radev wove magic in midfield, flicking passes through gaps, switching play with a swagger that lit the stands. Max Simons and Dev Patel tore down the flanks, stretching Aldershot's defense, their boots chewing the turf. For ten glorious minutes, Crawley dominated, the crowd roaring, scarves waving, a kid in the front row hoisting a Red Devils banner, his grin wide as the pitch.
But football's cruel. In the 14th minute, Liam McCulloch's clearance went awry, spinning into danger. Aldershot's striker pounced, one touch, then a low rocket past Adam Fletcher.
0-1.
The stadium fell silent, save for the away fans' taunts, their jeers cutting through the cold.
"Damn it," Niels muttered, pacing, heart sinking. He glanced at Milan, who stood frozen, face blank, hand pressed to his ribs, breath shallow, pain etched in his tight lips.
Niels pulled Luka over at a throw-in. "Drop deeper, let them push, then hit them fast. Simons and Dev, stay wide. Pull their defense apart."
Luka nodded, sprinting back. The tweak worked, Crawley sank back, soaking pressure, lethal on the counter. In the 36th minute, Tom Whitehall's crunching tackle sparked a break. Luka's perfect pass found Dev, who outran his marker and crossed the ball. Simons arrived in time, slotting a cool finish into the far corner.
1-1. Crawley equalized.
The crowd erupted, Niels pumping a fist, turning to Milan, who managed a faint smile, one slow clap. "Smart call," he rasped, voice barely a whisper, his hand trembling as he leaned on the dugout.
The second half was a brutal scrap. Aldershot stormed back, winning midfield duels, forcing errors. Crawley's defense held, McCulloch and Harry Thompson clearing headers, Jamal a shield in front. Niels grew louder, shouting orders, shifting players, urging them on, while Milan stayed quiet, grimacing, hand on his side, each wince a stab to Niels' heart.
In the 72nd minute, a mix-up between Callum Haines and Fletcher nearly gifted Aldershot a goal, but Osei's desperate slide blocked the shot, the crowd roaring gratitude. In the 81st minute, Luka fed Simons, whose low drive was tipped wide by the keeper, the stands groaning in unison.
In the 89th minute, Reece Darby's long throw was flicked on by Leo Morley. Simons struck it clean, but Aldershot's keeper pulled off a stunning save, diving full stretch. The crowd gasped, hope flickering.
Four minutes of added time. Aldershot's No. 10 curled a shot toward the top corner, but Jamal threw himself in front, the block sending him sprawling, pain etched on his face. The whistle blew seconds later.
Fulltime Crawley Town 1-1 Aldershot.
A point, not the win they needed, but earned in sweat and grit.
As players shook hands, fans trickling out, Niels turned to Milan. His mentor's face was pale, drawn, hand shaking as he zipped his jacket, his breath uneven.
"You alright?" Niels asked, voice low, dread twisting in his gut like a knot.
Milan stared at the pitch, breathing slow, deliberate, eyes distant. "I'm fine," he said, voice flat, hollow. "Doctor's handling it."
But as Milan shuffled to the tunnel, steps faltering, shoulders sagging under an unseen weight, Niels knew it was a lie. Whatever was wrong was clawing at him, and with another match looming, Crawley's dreams were shifting to Niels' shoulders. He stood alone on the touchline, the empty stands looming, heart heavy with the fear of carrying the team if Milan couldn't. He thought of Milan's faith in him, the chance he'd been given, and wondered if he was ready to step up, to lead, to keep Crawley's fire burning through the storm ahead.
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