Chapter 134: Lines Between Discipline

Chapter 134: Lines Between Discipline Chapter 134: Lines Between Discipline Monday, September 6, 2010 Broadfield Stadium Training Ground Monday morning was cold and tense after the tough win over Swindon. At Broadfield Stadium’s training ground, the wet pitches glistened under cloudy skies. Niels pulled into the lot, his pickup’s engine sputtering to a stop. He felt a mix of relief and urgency. The 2-1 win had moved Crawley to mid-table with eight points from five games: two win, two draws, one loss, but the late goal they conceded still bothered him. It felt like a warning, a sign that one mistake could undo their progress. Plymouth’s fast counterattacks were up next, a real test of whether the team could stay consistent or buckle under the pressure of League One. Media reaction was mixed. One paper said, "Crawley’s spark returns, but defensive frailty persists." Reddit showed cautious hope, "Freeman’s clicking, Kieron’s a live wire" but some fans called mid-table form a fluke. The squad filed into the cramped meeting room, lit by flickering fluorescents and marked by years of wear. The projector hummed, showing grainy footage of Swindon’s late goal. Niels stood at the front, all focus, no sign of celebration. He froze the moment Reece lost his marker and the ball slipped past Fletcher. "This isn’t about effort," he said quietly but firmly. "It’s discipline. Reece, you drifted half a step. That’s the difference." Reece sat tense, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the screen, taking the critique like a bruise. Niels moved to a clip of Pogba breaking Swindon’s press with ease, his passes opening space. "Paul, that’s the benchmark. You owned the middle, build on it." Pogba gave a rare nod, pride flickering in his eyes, fingers tapping with quiet energy. Max, up front, met Niels’s glance, a silent nod for his goal and leadership, the captain’s armband burning like a badge of intent. Kieron’s clip played, slow to track back, leaving space on the right. "Kieron, you’re quick, but late here," Niels said, firm but fair. "Match their runs. Every second counts." Kieron’s jaw tightened, hunger in his eyes, nodding as he took the lesson in. Around him, the rest of the squad, sat in tense silence, the weight of discipline settling like a cold stone. Thiago broke the silence, his voice low but full of fire. "If we can fix this, no one touches us." Niels held his gaze. "Discipline’s not optional, Thiago. It’s what holds us together." The room felt charged. The Swindon win had lit a spark, but that late goal lingered, a reminder they had work to do, and no room to drift. The training pitch buzzed with focus, the slick grass and cool air adding edge to every movement. Niels drilled the new 4-2-3-1 setup: Pogba and Freeman holding the double pivot, Nate pushed higher. Cones marked narrow channels, and his whistle cut through the mist. The trio responded, passes sharp, movement building rhythm—fluid, not perfect, but getting there. Pogba shouted, "Nate, move! Freeman, link up!" He passed to Thiago, who sprinted right, slipping but steady. Nate pushed forward, connected with Dev, and shot at the keeper. Doubt flickered in his eyes as he was still adjusting. Freeman stayed calm, controlling the midfield with precise passes. Max urged, "Work harder! Break them down!" The team’s rhythm grew, but their chemistry was still fragile. A surprise arrived: Zach Morley, a reserve center-back, joined the first-team training. Tall and calm, with dark hair, he moved confidently, reading plays and winning headers. In a scrimmage, he stopped Thiago with a clean tackle, earning a nod from Max. Thomas, watching nearby, said in his Dutch accent, "Zach’s got steel. Ready for Plymouth’s pace." Niels made a note: Zach, composed under pressure. "We can test him in a full match," he said, eyes sharp sensing a new piece for the team. Niels pulled Dev aside during a water break. Dev’s shirt was soaked, breath heavy. "You might start against Plymouth," Niels said quietly but firmly. "Cover the left flank, track their wingers and hit them on the break. Can you do both?" Dev’s eyes brightened, nerves hidden beneath confidence. "I’m ready, Coach. I’ll shut them down and make them pay." Niels clapped his shoulder, rare and serious. "Prove it. Show me you’re more than flair." Dev nodded, hunger burning quietly, imagining the game ahead. In the locker room, the team joked after the Swindon win. Thiago teased Nate about his new role. Liam smirked at Kieron, calling him a "crowd player." Kieron snapped back, "Better than standing still while the ball goes in." The jab hit Liam hard, wiping his grin away. He stepped forward, fists clenched. "Say that again." The room went silent, tension rising. Max stepped in, calm but firm. "Easy, lads. We’re on the same side. Save it for Plymouth." Niels entered, clipboard in hand, and added, "Enough. No tearing each other down. Use that fire on the pitch." Kieron let out a slow breath, jaw tight but his focus clear, giving Max a small nod. Liam grumbled, "Fair enough," and grabbed his bag without looking back. The squad quieted down, tension still there, but holding. Freeman caught Kieron’s eye and offered a quick, reassuring nod. Thiago nudged Dev with a grin, "Next time, we all track back. No drama, just goals." A few laughs broke out, nervous but genuine and their fragile bond started to grow. Emma caught Niels outside the training ground under a heavy, rain-threatened sky. Holding a stack of papers, her face was serious but steady as she watched the players stretch. "The board’s quarterly review is coming," she said quietly. "A few wins won’t cut it if the results don’t hold. They want consistent performance." Niels nodded, jaw tight, feeling the weight of her words. "We’re building, Emma. Discipline takes time." She smiled softly, her faith steady. "I know. Keep the squad focused. The town’s behind you but the board’s running out of patience." Emma walked the pitch later, a steady presence. She stopped by Nate, who was stretching alone. "You’re finding your place, Nate. That advanced role, make it yours." Nate nodded, uncertainty easing, her words sparking confidence. Nearby, she told Zach Morley, "Good work today. Stay ready, you’re closer than you think." Zach’s calm eyes brightened with pride, his quiet resolve growing with the first-team call-up. She grinned at Thiago, "Keep tearing up that wing. You’re giving them nightmares." Her words quietly held the squad together, a steady force amid rising pressure. At the local pub, fans gathered, voices full of hope and grit. "Freeman’s goal was pure class," one said, raising a pint. "But that late goal? We can’t keep that up," another grumbled, his red scarf slung over a shoulder. An older fan, voice worn but steady, said, "Niels has them fighting. They’ll get there." The town’s spirit was strong, faith tested but unbroken, a quiet force behind the squad. Between drills, small moments showed the squad’s shifting dynamics. Thiago, usually grinning, stayed after wing drills, practicing crosses with Dev. Their laughter rang out as they tried to outdo each other. "Mate, my ball’s sharper," Thiago teased, sending a cross curling just wide. Dev smirked, firing one back that clipped the bar. "Keep dreaming, bro." Their playful banter hid fierce effort, a sign their teamwork was improving. Freeman sat alone during a break, quietly sketching passing patterns, his mind on Swindon’s goal. Nate approached, hesitant. "You good? That goal was class." Freeman smiled faintly. "Thanks, mate. Just want us to be tighter next time." Nate nodded, their shared drive forming a quiet bond, Nate’s new role pushing him to match Freeman’s precision. Max, the heart of the squad, led the cool-down with a rough, determined voice. "We’re getting better, lads. Two wins, two draws, we’re building something here. Plymouth’s next, let’s make it count." Heads nodded around him, the fire sparking back to life. The team’s resolve felt stronger, their unity burning brighter. Monday night, Niels sat alone in the analysis room, the laptop’s soft glow lighting his face as he studied Plymouth’s quick transitions. Their wingers were fast, their striker sharp but he saw Thiago keeping up, Dev adding flair, Zach ready if needed, and Pogba and Freeman controlling midfield. "We’re close," he whispered, steady but thoughtful. The week ended with a stronger resolve as the squad’s discipline grew, despite the noise outside. Niels walked off the pitch, clipboard in hand, his mind focused on Plymouth’s threats and building on Swindon’s spark. The clouds hung low, but the air buzzed with possibility, the town’s heartbeat beating in time with the team. The locker room was nearly empty when Niels paused at the doorway, the muffled hum of distant voices fading behind him. He took a deep breath, knowing upcoming match could define everything they’d worked for. The weight of expectation settled on his shoulders, but so did a flicker of hope. Niels shut his laptop but couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. The team’s progress felt fragile, like the calm before a storm. The match against Plymouth wasn’t just another game, it could change everything. He stepped into the night, the weight of what was to come pressing down harder than ever.