Chapter 125: Fault Lines Begin to Show

Chapter 125: Fault Lines Begin to Show Chapter 125: Fault Lines Begin to Show Monday, August 9 2010 A day had passed since the hard-fought draw at Charlton, and there was a tense energy around Broadfield Stadium. The training pitches baked under the harsh August sun, and the heavy, humid air made everything feel just a bit harder. Niels pulled into the training ground at dawn, his old pickup rumbling to a stop near the chain-link fence. The smell of burnt grass and distant coffee hung in the warm morning air. He felt a knot of determination in his chest, the upcoming match against Sheffield United could either pull the team together or show just how shaky they really were. The headlines that week pulled no punches. Monday’s papers were brutal. One read, "FA Cup Heroics Won’t Save Crawley, They Look Ordinary Now." Another read, "Is Niels’ Project Already Falling Apart?" The words hit hard, stirring doubt after the Charlton draw. Niels could feel it in the squad, the sting had sunk in, and their confidence was starting to wobble. Niels held his worn-out clipboard, its edges frayed and packed with notes on Sheffield’s physical style and on how much they’d need from Pogba and Freeman to hold the midfield together. He glanced out at the training ground, watching the first few players arrive. Each one carried something different, Max Simons’s relentless drive, Thiago’s raw pace, Dev Patel’s creativity in tight spaces. They weren’t perfect, but they had fight. And that, Niels told himself, was something he could still build on. Niels stepped into the analysis room a cramped, familiar corner above the main stand where he did his best thinking. The hum of the old monitor filled the silence as he queued up the Charlton match again. He watched with purpose, scanning for patterns. The midfield wasn’t connecting. Pogba was slow to react on second balls. Nate Sutton wasn’t adjusting his positioning. Freeman wasn’t offering options in tight spaces. Niels paused the video, reached for a marker, and wrote on the whiteboard in firm, deliberate strokes: ’Midfield verticality is missing’. They weren’t moving forward together, and against Sheffield’s pressure, that would be a problem. He paused the footage on a key moment, Pogba trailing as a Charlton runner slipped through, with Freeman too slow to close the gap. Niels muttered, frustration tightening his voice. The talent was there, but the rhythm was off. And with Sheffield’s physical style on the horizon, the margin for error was shrinking. He leaned back, rubbed his temples, and stared at the screen. Fixing this wasn’t optional, it was urgent. Saturday was coming fast, and every second felt like part of the challenge. By Tuesday, the training ground felt like a pressure cooker. The squad was quiet, still weighed down by the Charlton draw. Drills were sloppy passes sailed off target, calls went unanswered, and an unspoken tension hung in the air. Thiago tried to lift spirits, juggling the ball with a grin. "Let’s light it up, yeah?" But even his energy seemed forced, like trying to start a fire in wet wood. After a sloppy passing drill, Niels pulled Pogba aside, his voice calm but firm. "You’re the anchor, Paul. Move off the ball, make yourself available, set the tempo. We need you to lead." Pogba nodded, eyes down, his reply quiet. "Yeah, Coach. I’m on it." But his silence spoke volumes. The team missed meeting on Monday after oversleeping from a late night still hung over him, along with the media’s criticism and his own doubts. Kieron Marsh, still on the bench, threw himself into drills with a fierce, almost reckless energy. During a loose ball challenge, he slammed into Nate Sutton, his shoulder hitting Nate’s chest and knocking him down. The whole squad froze, the air thick with tension. Thomas, the fitness coach, walked over, his Dutch accent sharp. "Easy, Kieron. It’s training, not a fight." Kieron clenched his jaw, voice low but intense. "Then give me minutes in the real game." Thomas met his gaze and nodded slightly. "You’re close. Just don’t force it." Kieron stepped back, but his eyes burned with hunger. Max stood on the sidelines, clapping his hands, trying to get the team focused. "Come on, lads, heads in the game!" But the rhythm was off, like a band out of sync. Dev moved quickly through a drill, showing his skill, but a misread pass from Freeman broke the flow. Thiago’s runs lost their spark when Pogba’s pass arrived too late. The cracks were small but they were there, and Niels couldn’t ignore them. He scribbled down a simple reminder to himself: ’Communication. Timing. Trust’. By Wednesday, Niels gathered the team in the small, bare meeting room at the training complex. Faded posters clung to the walls, and a single window let in dull, gray light. The players Max, Pogba, Freeman, Thiago, Dev, Nate, and the rest slouched in mismatched chairs, their faces showing a mix of frustration, focus, and uncertainty. The projector hummed softly as clips of Charlton’s goal and Crawley’s missed chances played on the cracked screen. Niels stood at the front, his voice steady but sharp. "This isn’t just about working hard. It’s about focus. Control. Reaction. We’re giving away space and losing battles we should win." He paused the clip, pointing to a moment where Pogba and Freeman let a runner slip through, leaving Nate out on his own. "Midfield, you’re not acting as one. You have to trust each other, talk more, and read the game together." Dev raised his hand, speaking calmly but with purpose. "We’re leaving gaps when we push forward, Coach. It feels like the midfield doesn’t trust each other." The room fell silent, the words hanging in the air like a spark over dry grass. Pogba’s shoulders tightened, his eyes narrowing, but he said nothing. Nate stared at his boots, jaw clenched. Freeman’s usual calm flickered, his eyes shifting between the two. Niels nodded, his voice calm but firm. "That’s exactly what we need to fix. Communication. Timing. You’re not just individuals, you’re a team. Sheffield will break us apart if we don’t come together." Max leaned in, his voice quiet but strong. "Let’s get this right, lads. We’re better than what we’ve shown." The squad nodded, but the tension stayed like a quiet crack running through the room, subtle but real. Thiago broke the silence with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Oi, Nate, you gonna start shouting or what? My nan’s louder than you." A few laughs bubbled up, easing some of the tension in the room. But Pogba stayed quiet, and Freeman’s tight expression said plenty on its own. Niels wrapped up the meeting with one last clip, a missed chance where Max’s run went unnoticed. "See that? It’s about intent. We need it. Every single second." Emma noticed Niels’s growing distance, his late nights in the analysis room, his pacing a constant rhythm. On Thursday, she found him in his office, the desk buried under notes, coffee cups, and a laptop glowing with Charlton footage. His eyes were tired, his jaw set, a man wrestling with the weight of the season. She set a steaming mug of tea beside him, her voice soft but steady. "Don’t let fear of losing control make you grip the wheel too tight. They’re with you, Niels. Let them breathe." Niels looked up, a faint smile breaking through the strain. "Thanks, Emma. Just... can’t let them down." She nodded, her presence a quiet anchor. "You won’t. They’re tougher than you think." She left him to his thoughts, the tea’s steam curling in the dim light, a small gesture against the storm. Emma made her way to the training ground, keeping an eye on the squad. She spotted Pogba stretching, his ankle still taped, and tossed him a water bottle. "Stay hydrated, Paul. And try to talk more out there, alright?" He gave a small nod, a flicker of thanks in his eyes. Then she caught Kieron, still simmering after the drills, and said softly, "Use that fire, Kieron. It’ll take you far." Her words were a steadying presence, quietly holding the team together. Friday’s press conference felt like a battle. The cramped media room was full of reporters, their questions sharp and direct. "Niels, your tactics, using young midfielders like Pogba and Freeman in key roles, are they too inexperienced for League One?" one asked. Another pushed harder, "Is it time to bring in some seasoned players? The Charlton draw didn’t exactly inspire confidence." Niels leaned into the mic, his voice calm but edged with defiance. "We didn’t get here by playing safe. We grow by facing the storm. Pogba and Freeman are the future, and they’ll prove it on the pitch." His eyes held the reporters’, unyielding, a line drawn in the sand. Some scribbled furiously, others raised skeptical brows, but Niels’s words were a vow to his squad, to Crawley, to himself. Friday’s last training session ended with a heavy silence. The team’s rhythm was still off, and their voices were quiet as they left the pitch. Niels walked away, clutching his clipboard, his mind racing over Sheffield’s tough style and how to fix the midfield’s weak spots. Above, dark clouds rolled in, the coming rain matching the mood hanging over the squad. Kieron stayed behind, alone on the pitch, sending ball after ball into the empty net. Sweat dripped down his face, his lips pressed tight with determination. Every shot was a promise, proof of the fire burning inside him as the dusk settled in. The rain started to fall, soft against the floodlights, echoing Crawley’s restless heartbeat.