Chapter 35: Hearts on the Line
Friday, January 15, 2010
Frost glittered on Broadfield Stadium's training pitch, catching the weak January sun as Niels watched his Crawley Town squad drill for tomorrow's League Two clash against Lincoln City. The 2–0 win over Grimsby four days ago, Matchday 24 had kept their fire burning, but it was the 2–1 FA Cup Third Round win against Leyton Orient that set the town ablaze, a League Two underdog toppling a League One giant to earn a Fourth Round tie against Barnsley. Doubt clawed at Niels, his post-2025 life as a FIFA gamer a fractured haze. Fleeting memories of Cup runs Portsmouth's 2008 triumph, was it? slipped like water through his fingers, leaving him adrift in this 2010 world.
Could he, a stranger out of time, sustain this improbable dream, or would his lost future unravel it all?
The week began with a tense boardroom meeting, Claire's voice sharp against the cold. "Thiago's signed £200k to São Paulo, papers done yesterday. Baxter's loan from Everton is finalized." Niels' pulse quickened, Thiago's flair and Baxter's vision flickering like ghosts from a 2025 screen.
Mr. Hargreaves, the chairman, leaned forward, his stare like a blade. "You've bled our budget dry, Niels. Leyton Orient's TV money won't cover a misstep." Claire recounted the grueling process: São Paulo's relentless demands, weeks of late-night calls across time zones, a loan-to-buy offer scrapped when Grimsby's gate receipts secured the £200k transfer. Everton's loan for Baxter was smoother, their faith in Crawley's run easing the path, with wages split evenly. "This better work," Hargreaves warned, signing off with a grimace. Niels nodded, the pressure a knot in his chest, his gamer instincts urging him to trust these signings, though fear of failure loomed like a shadow.
On January 14, Niels met his new signings in his cramped office, the radiator's hum a faint shield against the chill. Thiago, wiry and bright-eyed, shook his hand, his English halting but fierce. "Coach, I come for big fight. Cup, we win, yes?" Niels smiled, a flash of Thiago's FIFA prowess dribbling through defenses, clinical strikes igniting hope. "You can be our spark, Thiago. Set the pitch alight." Thiago's nod was firm. "I give all for Crawley." José Baxter, Scouse accent thick, lounged in the chair, smirking. "This Cup run's proper mad, boss. I'm here to tear it up." Niels clapped his shoulder, Baxter's FIFA traits vision, precise passes echoing faintly. "Create chaos, José. Break their lines." Baxter's nod was sharp, his ambition mirroring Niels' own, a tether to the gamer he'd been in a 2025 world he couldn't grasp. Thiago's language struggles and Baxter's youth were risks, but their hunger felt like fate.
Training was intense, tailored to counter Lincoln's pace for next match: short passing drills to evade their press, wing-back tracking to neutralize their speed, set-piece battles to match their grit. Thiago's first touch, a silky twist past Nate Sutton, drew gasps from the squad, but his limited English caused a misstep, a pass to Luka Radev veering into touch. "Foco, Thiago!" Luka called, mixing words and gestures to bridge the gap. Drama flared when Kieron Marsh misfired a pass [Unstable confidence], Reece Darby snapping, "Kieron, come on, wake up!" Kieron's retort "Back off, Reece!" hung heavy, the squad pausing, frost crunching under shifting boots. Niels stepped in, voice steady but firm. "Enough, both of you. Kieron, trust your game. Reece, lift him up." Reece nodded, clapping Kieron's shoulder, the tension easing but lingering like a bruise.
Korey Henry nudged Luka, grinning. "Thiago's a cheat code, mate." Luka smirked. "He's gotta earn my spot, Korey." Max Simons approached Baxter, their quiet talk about Everton's youth days grounding the newcomer, Max's calm a steady anchor. Niels' Instinct Lens hummed: Thiago's [Silky technique], Baxter's [Creative spark], Luka's [One-touch intelligence].
Niels rallied the squad, his voice cutting through the frost. "Thiago, José, you're a player of Crawley now. Show Lincoln our game." Korey whooped, fist pumping. "New boys, let's roll!" Thiago grinned "I learn fast" sparked laughter, Baxter's quip "Hope you lot keep up" drawing more. Max's nod, silent but resolute, bound them tighter.
Fans beyond the fence waved red scarves, their chant rising: "Red De-vils!" Their hope warmed Niels' chest, a flame against his fear of failing this squad.
Post-training, Thiago lingered, his English faltering. "Coach, I… nervous. New country, big game." Niels gripped his shoulder, voice warm. "You're ready, Thiago. Just play your game." Baxter joined, smirking. "He'll be fine, boss. I'll set him up." Their raw bond eased Niels' worries, but Kieron's slump lingered, his head down as he left the pitch. Niels resolved to talk to him before the match, knowing confidence could tip the scales.
January 15 brought Matchday 25 against Lincoln City
Broadfield stadium alive with 10,000 fans roaring for Lincoln City, a gritty mid-table side known for their pace and physicality. Crawley's squad Max Simons, Luka Radev, Korey Henry, Dev Patel, Nate Burgess, Jamal Osei, Tom Whitehall, Reece Darby, Adam Fletcher in goal lined up, Thiago and Baxter on the bench, their paperwork still tangled in bureaucracy.
Kickoff:
"And we're off!" the imagined commentary echoed in Niels' head, a remnant of his gamer days. Reece's early tackle on Lincoln's winger, a lightning-fast number 11, drew a roar from the stands, "Darby's a rock!" Dev's free-kick curled inches wide, the crowd groaning, scarves waving like a red tide.
Luka's darting run down the left sparked hope, his cross just missing Max's run. Lincoln hit back, their striker's snapshot forcing Fletcher's diving save, the ball tipped over the bar, the crowd gasping, then chanting, "Fletch-er! Fletch-er!"
The first half was a bruising stalemate, Lincoln's pace stretching Crawley's defense. Nate Burgess took a knock in the 28th minute, limping off, and Kieron subbed on, his eyes nervous. A pass from Kieron was intercepted, Lincoln breaking forward, Reece's glare sharp as he sprinted back to cover. "Focus, Kieron!" Niels signaled calm from the touchline, catching Kieron's eye, his heart aching for the lad's struggle.
In the 41st minute, the breakthrough came. Luka, weaving past a midfielder, delivered a pinpoint cross to Max. Max then timed his run perfectly, his foot meeting the ball with a thunderous volley that rocketed past Lincoln's towering center-back and into the net. "Simons, GOAL! what a volley… One-nil!"
Crawely 1-0 Lincoln
The stands erupted, red scarves aloft, a kid in the front row waving a sign: Crawley to the Cup! Niels pumped a fist, shouting, "Stay organized! Keep the lead!"
Halftime:
The second half saw Lincoln press harder, their midfielder's long-range shot skimming the bar, the crowd holding its breath. Jamal's interception in the 55th minute steadied Crawley, his calm pass to Tom Whitehall sparking a counter. Tom's hold-up play drew cheers, his strength pinning Lincoln's defense, earning a free-kick. Dev's delivery was punched clear by their keeper, but Kieron, spurred by Niels' pre-match talk "You're good, lad" made a crucial tackle in the 70th minute, dispossessing Lincoln's winger. Reece clapped him, their earlier tension fading, Kieron's chest puffing with pride. Lincoln's late push tested Crawley's resolve, their striker's header in the 88th minute forcing Fletcher's fingertip save, the ball grazing the post as the crowd roared, "Nice save!"
Crawley countered, Korey's run down the right drawing a foul, the fans' chants shaking the stands. The final whistle blew.
Fulltime: Crawley Town 1-0 Lincoln City.
Broadfield trembling as 10,000 voices roared, "We're the Red De-vils!" Max hugged Kieron, Korey's grin wide, Luka tossing a scarf into the stands, the squad's bond forged anew in the fire of victory.
In the dressing room, Niels' voice cracked with pride. "That's our fight, lads. Kieron, Reece you came through. Rochdale's next, then Barnsley in the Cup, stay focused, we got this." The players roared, Dev's fist raised, Tom's laugh booming. By the tunnel, Niels lingered, the crowd's song fading into the frosty night.
A young fan, scarf draped over his shoulders, darted forward, thrusting a crumpled program at Niels. "Please Sign it, coach! You're taking us to Wembley!" Niels scrawled his name, smiling. "We'll try, kid. Keep supporting us." The boy's smile lit up the dark, his dad nodding proudly behind him and said "Good luck for the next match, we'll be there cheering you on!"
Niels smiled warmly, meeting the boy's eyes. "That's the spirit we need. With your support, we're going all the way. We'll see you at the next match together, we'll make it happen."
Back in his office, Niels sat, the stadium's hum quiet now. He flipped through his notebook Rochdale's tactics, Barnsley's threats, Thiago and Baxter's potential. His fractured 2025 memories stirred Thiago's stepovers, Baxter's pinpoint passes, ghosts of a digital life. A knock broke his thoughts. Max poked his head in, still in his kit. "Boss, Kieron's buzzing now. You got him through today." Niels nodded, warmth spreading. "He's got heart, Max just like you." Max grinned, ducking out.
Rochdale loomed, then Barnsley's FA Cup clash, Thiago and Baxter poised to debut. Niels' hope burned, his lost 2025 life fading against Crawley's relentless spirit, a fire ready for the next war.
[Match played: 24, Point: 46, 7th in the league table]
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