Chapter 135: Unfinished Business

Chapter 135: Unfinished Business Chapter 135: Unfinished Business Saturday, September 10, 2010 Broadfield Stadium, Crawley Matchday 6: Crawley Town vs. Plymouth Argyle Saturday morning had a nervous energy to it. After a week of hard training, Broadfield Stadium was already alive, sunlight catching the fresh-cut grass, the smell of coffee drifting from a van near the gates, the whole place humming with quiet anticipation. Niels stepped off the team bus, his boots crunching on the damp gravel, a tight mix of focus and nerves settling in his chest. The 2–1 win over Swindon had bumped Crawley into mid-table with seven points, but that late goal they gave up still hung in the back of his mind. Plymouth Argyle, quick on the break and tough at the back were the kind of test that could either prove their discipline or start to show the cracks in the grind of League One. The media couldn’t quite make up its mind. A local paper praised Crawley’s grit but warned, "Consistency remains the question." Online, Reddit threads buzzed with cautious optimism "Freeman’s spark, Kieron’s hunger, Max’s leadership" but there were still plenty of doubters: "Seven points from five? Lucky, not convincing." The BBC’s "fluke" comment still rang in Niels’s ears. He could feel the fire building in the squad driven by Max’s leadership, Freeman’s precision, Thiago’s flair but turning that into something steady and lasting was the real challenge. He held his worn clipboard tightly, its pages packed with notes on Plymouth’s deep defensive shape and their shuffled midfield. Dev was starting in place of Kieron, linking up with Pogba and Freeman, a more attacking setup but a riskier one. Friday night, Niels sat in his cramped office, the glow of his laptop flickering over stacks of notes and half-empty coffee mugs. He was deep into rewatching Plymouth’s last few games, their tight defensive shape still looked like a puzzle, and their wingers on the break were trouble. His pen tapped the desk as he mapped it all out in his head: Dev on the left, Pogba and Freeman holding the middle, Max and Luka moving up front. The Swindon win was a spark, sure. But the spark hadn’t turned into anything real yet. In the locker room, the tension was real, everyone felt what was on the line. Thiago juggled a ball, his grin sharp. "Plymouth sitting deep? We’ll rip ’em open." Pogba, wrapping tape around his wrists. Freeman was silent, lacing his boots with a calm focus that steadied the room. Dev, starting, paced near his locker, eyes flicking across the floor like he could already see the pitch. Max pulled his captain’s armband tight, then clapped his hands. "This is ours, boys. Let’s go take it." Kieron, now on the bench, leaned against a locker jaw clenched, focus sharp. He met Niels’s eyes and gave a quiet nod, a silent promise: he’d be ready when the chance came. Nearby, Zach Morley, the unexpected center-back call-up sat calmly, his presence already beginning to thread into the fabric of the squad. Emma moved through the room, pausing by Dev. "You’ve got this, Dev. Go light it up."Her words landed like a spark. Dev’s grin flickered, nerves still buzzing, but now lit with fire. Niels stood in front of the squad in the meeting room, the soft hum of the projector filling the silence as clips of Plymouth’s low block played behind him. His tone was calm but firm, slicing through the tension. "They’re going to sit deep and make us chase," he said. "But we set the tempo, not them. Dev, stretch the left and pull their shape apart. Pogba, Freeman, lock down the middle. Don’t give them an inch. Max, Nate, be smart, find the gaps. Discipline wins this." He paused, scanning the room Max, Pogba, Freeman, Thiago, Dev, Nate, Thiago, Liam McCulloch, Reece Darby, Zach Morley, Adam Fletcher. Then came the closer. "Give the fans something to shout about. No excuses." Max nodded, voice hoarse. "Let’s bury ’em, lads." Dev clenched his fists. "I’m ready, Coach." Pogba added, "We’ve got each other, no mistakes out there." The stands at Broadfield were packed and restless, red scarves waving under a heavy gray sky. "Red Devils!" echoed through the air, a steady, pulsing heartbeat. The pitch glistened, the atmosphere thick with expectation. On the touchline, Niels stood still, rain dotting his jacket, clipboard tucked away. Crawley lined up in their red kits, set in a 4-2-3-1: Adam Fletcher in goal; Liam and Zach at the back; Reece holding the line; Pogba and Freeman in the pivot; Nate central; Thiago and Dev wide; Max leading the line. Kickoff: The whistle blew, and Crawley came out sharp crisp passing, aggressive pressing. Plymouth dropped deep, just as expected, their low block tight, their counters ready to strike. Crawley won three corners in the first 15 minutes, but none broke through, Max’s header was tipped over, Freeman’s cross cleared, Thiago’s went long. From the touchline, Niels called out, "Don’t rush it, stretch them out!" The players responded, Dev and Thiago kept pushing the flanks but Plymouth held their shape, and frustration started to creep into the crowd’s chants. In the 39th minute, the breakthrough came. Dev, electric down the left, found space and shrugged off his marker with a quick step-over. He curled a low cross toward the near post, where Max made a clever run and flicked the ball goalward. The keeper stretched to parry it, sprawling but Thiago was there, quick to pounce on the rebound and slot it into the open net. 1–0. Broadfield exploded as fans leapt, scarves twirled, the roar shaking the stands. Thiago wheeled away, fist raised, as Max and Dev joined the celebration and the bench erupted. Niels clapped, eyes sharp, relief flickering beneath his calm. In the second half, Plymouth grew into the game, their counters sharper and more dangerous. At the 63rd minute, a scare Plymouth’s winger broke free, curling a shot that rattled the bar, with Fletcher stranded. The crowd gasped, their chants faltering. At the back, Reece and Zach rallied the defense, barking orders. "Hold tight!" Reece shouted, steady and firm, while Zach stayed calm under pressure, heading away a dangerous cross. Niels nodded from the touchline and quickly scribbled a note: Zach, calm under pressure. Late in the game, Pogba took control of the midfield, his long strides breaking Plymouth’s press and his passes opening up space. In the 75th minute, he fed Nate, who slipped a ball to Thiago, whose shot was tipped wide. The crowd roared, sensing a second goal, but Plymouth’s keeper held firm. At the 80th minute, Niels brought Kieron on for Dev, his fresh energy stretching Plymouth’s tiring defense. The final 10 minutes were tense. Plymouth threw on two attackers, sending crosses flooding in. Fletcher clawed away a header, Zach blocked a shot, and Reece’s last-ditch tackle in stoppage time sealed the win. The whistle blew, 1–0. Broadfield exploded, the chants deafening, red scarves waving like flags of defiance. Max clapped the fans, his face grim but proud. Thiago, quiet but lethal, nodded to the crowd. Freeman and Pogba embraced, their pivot a rock. Dev, subbed off, high-fived kids along the barriers, his cross the spark. Niels’s jaw was tight, the clean sheet a relief, but the narrow margin a reminder of work to do. At the press conference, Niels faced the microphones, his voice steady but firm. "Let them talk about luck. The league table only listens to results." He paused, eyes sharp. "We’re building something, but we need to be sharper every moment, every play." Reporters scribbled as whispers spread: "Crawley lucky again?" and "No convincing performances, just results." The skepticism stung, but those three points were a shield. Crawley now sat on 10 points from six games. In the locker room, the squad was buzzing, happy but still focused. Max’s voice was rough but fired up. "That’s us, lads! Clean sheet, three points, keep it going!" Pogba fist-bumped Thiago, grinning. "That finish, mate... ice cold." Thiago smiled, rare but genuine, his confidence shining through. He nudged Dev with a laugh. "That cross, dude? Pure magic." Dev grinned back, confidence soaring—this was just the beginning. At the local pub, fans spilled out, buzzing with excitement. "Thiago’s finish was proper class," one shouted, raising his pint. "And Zach kept it steady, new lad’s got some heart," said another, a red scarf hanging loose over his shoulder. An older guy nodded along. "Niels is building something here. Just give them time." The town’s faith felt real, their heartbeat in sync with the team’s. After the match, the squad’s chemistry was clear. Thiago and Dev stayed behind on the pitch, swapping crosses and laughing as they tried to outdo each other. "Mine’s got more magic," Thiago joked, curling one just wide. Dev grinned, launching a shot that clipped the post. "Keep up, mate." Their easy banter and hard work showed just how tight they were getting. Freeman, quieter, sat in the locker room, sketching passing patterns, his mind on the next step. Nate approached, his new role still settling. "You and Pogba locked it down today, Free." Freeman’s faint smile broke through. "Cheers, mate. Let’s keep it tight." Their shared ambition was a quiet thread, Nate’s advanced role pushing him to match Freeman’s precision. Saturday night, Niels sat alone in the analysis room, the laptop’s glow soft on his face as he rewound the Plymouth game. Thiago’s finish, Zach’s calm under pressure, Pogba bossing the midfield, the pieces were clicking, but that tight scoreline still weighed on him. "We’re almost there," he said quietly, steady but searching. He paused the footage on a Plymouth counterattack, picturing Thiago’s pace, Dev’s creativity, and Reece’s grit, knowing they’d need every bit of it next time. Niels closed the laptop and leaned back, rubbing his temples. The road ahead was tough, League One didn’t forgive mistakes, and every point came hard. But tonight, he saw something more than a win. He saw progress. The way the team moved, the way they fought, even the moments they slipped, all signs of a squad growing into itself. Down the hall, the faint sound of laughter and voices reminded him that this was more than tactics and training. It was about belief about building trust on and off the pitch. Tomorrow would bring fresh challenges, fresh doubts, but for now, there was a spark. A quiet fire waiting to be stoked. Niels stood, stretching, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. They weren’t there yet. But they were closer than before. And that, he thought, was enough to keep pushing forward.