Chapter 28: Between the Years

Chapter 28 - Between the Years Chapter 28: Between the Years Sunday, 28 December The days between Christmas and New Year felt like a strange, suspended moment, a quiet limbo where time seemed to blur. The streets of Crawley still sparkled with string lights, their glow softened by the fading cheer of the holidays. The magic of Christmas had slipped away, leaving behind something gentler, more introspective, like the town was holding its breath, waiting for the new year to exhale. At the Crawley training ground, the air hung heavy and damp, not quite freezing but the kind of cold that seeped into your bones, sticking to you no matter how many layers you piled on. The crunch of boots on the pitch echoed from fifty yards away, sharp in the stillness. Most of the players arrived early, not because they were told to, but because being there, moving, working, felt better than sitting at home with the weight of the season pressing down. The dressing room was quiet, not heavy, but subdued. No banter today, just tired smiles and the occasional pat on the shoulder. The players were running on fumes, digging deep into whatever reserves they had left. No one complained, they just got on with it. Max moved through the corridor with a slight limp, his ankle still stiff from a knock he'd taken on Boxing Day. Luka sat on a bench, socks rolled low, wrapping tape around both ankles with the kind of practiced ease that came from years of routine. Reece was already outside, gloved hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, staring into the fog curling over the far end of the training pitch like it might tell him something. Niels stood in the meeting room, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a black pen tucked between his fingers. The projector was off no video clips today, just a whiteboard scrawled with notes and the soft hum of a space heater in the corner. His voice stayed low, steady, but it carried the weight of expectation. "This one's a trap if you let it be. The space between holidays makes it easy to drift. You think you've got time. You think they're just as tired as you. Maybe they are. But that doesn't matter if they start sharper than us." He paused, letting the words settle. "There's no room for cruise control. Not now. Not after the work we've done." The players nodded, not in unison but enough to show they felt it. Out on the grass, the warm-up was deliberate, no music, just the rhythm of cleats and breath. Korey, still riding the high from his Boxing Day goal, threw himself into every drill, a grin breaking through when his touches came off clean. Nate moved with a quiet intensity, like something was weighing on him, but his feet stayed sharp. Dev and Qazi ran patterns with a precision that felt almost choreographed. Then there was Ellis, he was quiet, often in the background finding his voice. During a pattern drill, he barked out a correction, sharp and clear. When no one reacted, he said it again, louder. No one laughed. They listened. The belief in this team wasn't loud anymore; it didn't need to be. It was woven into them now, steady and unshakable, their new baseline. Monday, 29 December The second day back was slower, not lazy, just lighter. No weights, no grueling circuits, just ball work. Touches, patterns, movements drilled until they felt like second nature. Niels stayed on the sidelines for most of it, letting the session breathe on its own. When players had questions, he answered, but his corrections came in small gestures a nod, a pointed finger. No grand speeches, just quiet guidance. During a break, Dev and Reece wandered to the far end of the pitch, talking through a pressing sequence from the Bradford match that had left them exposed. They walked it out step-by-step, then ran it at half-speed, then again, cleaner. One more time, this time with bite, like they were proving something to themselves. In the physio room, Luka sat with ice wrapped around his right ankle, texting with one hand. Max was beside him, tilting his phone so they could both watch a clip from the last game. "They pressed high against Bradford," Max said, rewinding the footage. "Left a lot of space in behind." Luka didn't reply at first, just nodded, eyes glued to the screen. "You thinking what I'm thinking?" Max asked, a glint in his voice. Luka glanced over, a slow grin forming. "Run it once more." Evening settled over Crawley, the town glowing softly, not with celebration but with habit. Leftover Christmas lights blinked in windows, and a few early fireworks popped in the distance, too soon to carry any real meaning. Niels stayed in, his flat dim except for the glow of his laptop on the coffee table. A cooling cup of tea sat untouched beside it. He wasn't watching the goals from the last match, never the goals. Instead, he studied transitions, gaps, the small mistakes that could've cost them. He paused on a frame of Reece misjudging a press by half a second, then again on Luka turning into pressure instead of away. Little things. Fixable things. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, letting his thoughts settle. His phone buzzed. A message from his sister Elise: "Coming up on the new year. Just letting you know they're lighting lanterns in the garden like they used to." He stared at the words longer than he meant to, a flicker of memory stirring warmth, laughter, the sharp scent of lantern smoke. He typed back, fingers slow: "Still remember how the smoke made Dad sneeze. Every time." Her reply came fast: "He still does." A small, soft smile tugged at his lips. He closed the laptop without another word, the room falling quiet. Tuesday, 30 December By matchday eve, the energy at the training ground had shifted again. Warmer now, not in temperature but in spirit, it was charged and alive. Boots thudded against firmer ground, balls zipped through passing triangles with a crispness that hadn't been there earlier in the week. First touches were sharp, passes carried weight. Jokes slipped back into the warm-up lines, not silly, but the kind that meant nerves were being tucked away, confidence taking their place. Niels kept them a little longer after the final drill, no clipboard, no tactics board, just a huddle on the far pitch. Breath fogged the air as they gathered, eyes on him. "Last game of the year," he said, his voice calm but firm. "That's not a finish line. It's a bookmark. The difference between being remembered and being forgotten? It's in how you end a Chapter." He looked at each of them, his gaze steady. "You've earned this. Every minute of it. Now don't waste it on tired excuses. Let's close the year like we mean to start the next." No cheers, no claps, just quiet nods, shoulder taps, gloves brushing together. That was enough. That night, Crawley breathed gently under a sky heavy with low clouds and the promise of fireworks. In other homes, people were counting down to parties, resolutions, champagne in plastic flutes. But at Crawley's camp, the countdown was different. One more match. One more challenge. One more step forward. The new year could wait. There was still work to finish. 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! ????⚽