Chapter 17: New Skin, Old Bones
Chapter 17: New Skin, Old Bones
The sky above Crawley's training ground was the color of wet cement. A low mist clung to the grass, muffling the usual morning chatter. For once, the players weren't joking or snapping towels at each other. They waited in small groups—some stretching, some silent—throwing the occasional glance toward the changing room door.
Then it opened.
Niels stepped out in his black tracksuit, his boots crunching over the gravel. His posture was calm, but his stomach twisted like a knotted shoelace. He wasn't the assistant today. Not anymore. Today, the air around him felt heavier.
He gave a nod to Simons. A small, firm gesture. "Let's warm up."
The drills were slightly different—sharper, tighter, more deliberate. Rondos with a tighter grid. Press-and-react patterns in waves. Short passing under time pressure. It wasn't revolutionary, but it was unfamiliar. And footballers, even good ones, didn't always like unfamiliar.
He caught the flicker of uncertainty on McCulloch's face. Jamal groaned audibly when a drill was reset for sloppiness. Luka snapped at a misplaced pass.
[McCulloch – Morale: Uneasy. Feels pressure to impress.]
Niels watched, adjusting nothing for the moment. He let them breathe inside the discomfort. Let them fumble through the new rhythm. Not because he wanted to prove a point, but because he needed them to find the beat themselves.
Then, near the final round, Joel shifted the entire drill's tempo. One disguised pass, a spin, and a perfectly timed one-two with Luka. Smooth. Sharp. Like old habits waking up inside new boots.
It turned heads. Luka raised his eyebrows. Jamal nodded, grudging but impressed.