Chapter 27: Edge of Winter

Chapter 27 - Edge of Winter Chapter 27: Edge of Winter Friday, 26 December 2009 Matchday 20: Crawley Town vs. Bradford City (Home) Boxing Day carried a chill that cut straight to the bone, slipping through jackets and scarves like they were nothing. Frost clung to the Broadfield Stadium pitch, defiant even after the players' warm-up had torn into it. Every breath hung in the air, heavy and fleeting, like smoke from a fire struggling to spark. Yet the stands hummed with a quiet, stubborn life. Families bundled in thick coats, kids gripping hot chocolate with both hands, noses red but eyes alight with excitement. This was football at Christmas, a ritual as certain as the year's end, weaving everyone in the freezing stands into its steady pulse of tradition. Niels stood in the tunnel, hands buried in his coat pockets, his breath clouding before him. His eyes swept the pitch, watching his players finish their drills. They weren't just warming up today; they were dialed in. Max jogged by, his face set in that quiet intensity he carried like a shield. Luka tapped his studs along the touchline, eyes locked on the far goal, already plotting his moves. Nate moved with a sharp precision that belied his quiet demeanor, each step light but deliberate, like he knew exactly where he was going. In the dressing room, Niels kept his speech short, his voice steady but edged with purpose, slicing through the rustle of boots and tape. "Today's not about Christmas. Or the crowd. Or who had turkey yesterday." He paused, his gaze sweeping the room players with arms folded, some tying laces, others meeting his eyes, waiting. "It's about proving our previous win wasn't a fluke. We're not chasing miracles. Just consistency. Win this, and people start seeing us differently." He gave a single nod and stepped back. "Let's go." The whistle blew, and Crawley started cautiously, almost too carefully. The ball moved between them, crisp but safe, like they were testing the ground beneath their feet. No risks, no flair, just control. Bradford City, though, came out with fire. They pressed hard from the opening minute, their hulking frontman throwing his weight around like a challenge, their wingers cutting inside with sharp, relentless runs. They weren't pretty, but they were effective. In the 17th minute, Crawley stumbled. Reece, usually rock-solid, got caught too far up the pitch. Bradford seized the moment a quick turnover, a through ball knifing behind him. One touch, and the ball was in the net, low past Luka's outstretched leg. Bradford 1–0 Crawley. The away fans let out a cheer, not wild but smug, as if they'd seen it coming. Reece didn't waver. He jogged to the net, grabbed the ball, and tucked it under his arm. "Let's go," he said, striding back to the center circle. No sulking, no heads dropped. That was the change in this team, no panic, only purpose. Crawley found their footing after the goal. Passes grew sharper, touches cleaner. Luka dropped deeper, pulling strings with a calmness that steadied the side. Korey, given a rare start, was electric down the right, chasing every loose ball with a hunger that refused to wane. In the 38th minute, it clicked. Luka spun past his marker with a deft turn, then threaded a pass so precise it carved Bradford's center-backs apart. Nate was already moving, his run perfectly timed. He didn't blast the ball, just guided it, a smooth side-footed finish into the far corner. 1–1. With this they were back in the game. No wild celebration, just a nod to Luka, who pointed back in silent understanding. They knew what it meant. Halftime arrived quietly, no more goals, no drama. In the dressing room, the mood wasn't about satisfaction, it was hunger. Niels leaned on the tactics board, his voice low but heavy with intent. "They want to slow it down. So we don't let them. Keep the pace. Make them chase." He turned to Korey, whose chest still heaved from his relentless first half. "You've got the legs today. Use them." Korey nodded, wiping sweat from his brow, ready to run through walls. The second half saw Bradford turn scrappier, leaning into the dark arts. Fouls disrupted the rhythm, tactical stops sapped momentum. Corners lingered, throw-ins dragged on. But Crawley didn't bite. Luka kept the tempo high, dictating play with calm authority. Max began to drift, pulling defenders out of position, opening gaps where none had been. The crowd sensed it a shift in the air, like the first rumble of a storm. In the 76th minute, the moment arrived. Dev charged down the left, overlapping with purpose, and whipped a low, venomous cross across the box. Nate made a clever run to the near post, dragging defenders with him. And there was Korey, slipping in unmarked at the back post. It was just one clean touch. Goal. 2–1 Crawley. Korey didn't play the hero. He turned, pointed straight at Niels on the bench, and jogged back. Niels gave a small nod, but it held everything trust, pride, belief. The final ten minutes were brutal. Bradford threw everything forward long balls, elbows flying, bodies flooding the box. Luka made two heart-stopping blocks, diving into challenges like they were his last. Reece cleared one off the line with his head, the crowd roaring as the ball sailed clear. Nate won a smart foul in Bradford's half, burning precious seconds. Then, the final whistle. Crawley Town 2–1 Bradford City. There was no wild celebrations just a shared breath of relief, and something more: a quiet sense of progress. The dressing room hummed with quiet life. A few laughs, some claps on the back, the soft pulse of belief taking root. Max sprawled on the bench, shirt off, boots untied, a smirk tugging at his lips. Nate nudged him, grinning. "That's a game we used to lose." Max stretched, his voice low. "We're not the same team. We're stronger than better than before." Niels lingered by the door, arms crossed, watching his players. He stepped forward, his voice cutting through the chatter. "Enjoy the night. You earned it. But we're not done. Two more this year. Let's make sure they both count." Later, the stadium stood empty, frost creeping back over the pitch, glinting under the floodlights. Niels lingered by the dugout, hands in his pockets, hood up against the cold. His phone buzzed. A message from Elise. "Saw the score. Mum says the seat's still open. Even if it stays empty. She made pie." He stared at the screen, the words blurring for a moment. A tug of something warmth, guilt, maybe both, settled in his chest. His fingers moved slowly as he typed back: "I'll try to make it home next time." He pocketed the phone and walked the touchline, steps deliberate, the silence swallowing him. The season wasn't halfway done. But this wasn't about surviving anymore. They were building something, brick by brick, game by game. And for the first time in a long time, Niels felt it too: the sharp, real weight of possibility, cutting through the winter's edge. If you enjoyed the Chapter, please consider dropping a Power Stone! Your support means a lot and really motivates me to keep writing. Thank you! ????⚽