Chapter 4: Ripples
Chapter 4: Ripples
The bus ride home was quiet—but not in a heavy, defeated way.
After the 1–0 win, the players were spent in that satisfying way where your legs ache but your spirit feels full. A few of the lads had already dozed off, earbuds still in. Others scrolled through their phones, their faces lit up by mentions and praise from fans online.
Niels sat by the window, hoodie pulled low, watching the countryside melt into the night. His reflection stared back—drawn, a little pale, but... calm. At 25, he wasn't the golden boy anymore. The world had moved on. But tonight, for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel like someone who'd missed his shot. He felt... present.
Across the aisle, Milan caught his eye. Gave him a small nod—no fuss, no speech. Just a quiet recognition.
"You held your nerve," Milan said, voice low and steady.
Niels gave a half-shrug. "Did my best."
Monday rolled in grey and cold, with a drizzle that made everything feel soggy before noon.
But Crawley's training ground felt different. Lighter. The usual tension had thinned out. The players moved with a little more ease. The coaching staff cracked jokes without forcing them. Someone dropped off donuts in the physio room—no one asked who, but they were gone by ten.
Niels arrived with a warm paper cup in hand, steam rising as he stepped into the analysis room. Milan was already there, hunched over his old laptop, eyes fixed on the match replay.
"Smart call on that free kick," Milan said, eyes still on the screen. "That bounce threw their line off. Caught them flat-footed."