Chapter 30: A Quiet New Year

Words : 1371 Updated : Sep 25th, 2025

Chapter 30 of "Touchline Rebirth: From Game To Glory" begins revealing: Chapter 30 - A Quiet New Year Chapter 30: A Quiet New Year Thursday, 1 January 2010 Niels... Continue the adventure!

Chapter 30 - A Quiet New Year Chapter 30: A Quiet New Year Thursday, 1 January 2010 Niels woke late, the first morning in months where no alarm yanked him from sleep. It wasn't a wild New Year's Eve that kept him in bed past nine, just the rare chance to let time drift, to exist without a clipboard or a whistle or the weight of a season on his shoulders. The curtains in his flat hung half-open, letting in a soft, grey light that spilled across the room. He lay there, eyes tracing the unfamiliar cracks in the ceiling, his mind slipping to the life he'd left behind. A few months ago, he wasn't here, not in this flat, not in this body, not in this era. He was hunched over a keyboard, eyes locked on a screen, fingers flying through virtual worlds, lost in the adrenaline of late-night matches, callouts, and clutch moments. A hardcore gamer, living for the grind of leaderboards and the rush of a well-timed play. Had he not been torn from that life reincarnated, transmigrated, whatever it was, he'd still be there, headset on, chasing victories in digital arenas, not coaching a football team thrust upon him when the head coach's health collapsed few months ago. The thought hit him, sharp, kind of bittersweet. If he was still his old self, he'd probably be grinding FIFA right now. Maybe streaming to a small group of regulars, laughing with mates on Discord, chasing that next rank. Not drawing up training drills for a League Two squad. He missed it sometimes, the quiet hum of his PC, the glow of the screen, how easy it was to lose hours in a match. That pressure felt different. He knew that world inside out. If you lost, you just hit restart. No team talks. No press conferences. No one's career riding on your call. Coaching wasn't like that. Every decision carried weight. Real people. Real consequences. But even with all that the stress, the noise, the doubt, this was starting to feel right. He looked around. Match notes scattered on the table. One old controller sitting by itself, like a reminder of a past life. Crawley was his now. Their wins were his wins. Their fight was his fight. And even if he still missed the old days sometimes... he was beginning to like the man he was becoming. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, pulling him from the haze of memory. A message from his mother, his new mother, a title that still felt like borrowed clothes: "Happy New Year, love. Lit the lanterns last night. Pie's waiting when you're ready." A photo followed, her garden glowing with soft orange lanterns, smoke curling into the dusk. It stirred something deep, a warmth laced with guilt for a family he was still learning to call his own. He typed back, fingers deliberate: "Happy New Year, Mum. I'll try to come soon, promise. Just not today." He hit send, imagining her reading it, setting an extra plate anyway, her quiet hope as stubborn as the resolve he was building here. He got up, the floor cold against his bare feet, and pulled on a sweater. The flat was bare with unpacked boxes in the corner, a single photo of him and Elise as kids tacked to the fridge, a fragment of this body's past he was still piecing together. He made tea, the kettle's hum cutting the silence, and stood by the window. Life in Crawley stirred slowly, streets cloaked in mist, Christmas lights blinking faintly from shopfronts. Milan, the man who'd changed everything. Without Milan's encouragement, his insistence that Niels could lead, he'd never have taken this job. On impulse, he dialed. "Niels, you brat," Milan's voice rasped, warm despite the few weeks since they'd last spoken. "Happy New Year." "Happy New Year, coach," Niels said with a gentle smile. "You holding up okay?" "Better than before, I guess and you still keeping my team alive?" They laughed, talking about Crawley, Milan's recovery, the way he missed the touchline but not the stress. For a moment, Niels felt the weight of Milan's belief in him, the push that had landed him here. When they hung up, he felt steadier, like he'd reclaimed a piece of why he was doing this. By afternoon, the flat felt stifling. He grabbed his coat and walked to a café off the high street, the one with the creaky door and mismatched chairs. The bell jingled as he stepped inside, the air thick with coffee and fresh bread. He nodded to the barista, her smile tired but familiar. "Coffee, black," he said, "and whatever's warm." She slid a scone across, and he took a seat by the window, the glass fogging from the heat inside. A few locals dotted the place, an old man with a newspaper, a couple giggling over a phone. "We watched the game," the old man said, glancing up. "Your lot pulled it off." Niels smiled, a flicker of pride. "They fought hard." "Keep that up, you guys are doing better than we expected," the man said, chuckling. They chatted about the town, the damp cold, anything but the season's weight. It felt good, normal, like he was just Niels, not a coach or a man haunted by a life where he'd been a gamer, not a tactician. He scrolled through Facebook, the feed a blur of New Year's posts friends with champagne, families by trees. Then he saw his players: Korey grinning in a club, lights flashing; Max laughing in a crowded bar, drink in hand. Niels paused, thumb hovering. He envied them their freedom to let loose, to live without the echo of a past life trailing them. If he hadn't been pulled here, he'd be gaming now, maybe streaming, trash-talking opponents, not worrying about players or budgets. But he also felt a pang of concern. Were they overdoing it? Would they be sharp for the next game? The mix of jealousy and worry twisted in his chest, unresolved. He set the phone down, letting the thought fade into the café's hum. Evening fell, the sky a deep bruise over Crawley. Back in his flat, Niels flicked on the TV, a news ticker catching his eye: a young midfielder moving to a Championship side for a seven-figure fee. The transfer window was open. His mind ticked over how much could Crawley spend? A defender to solidify the back? A winger to stretch the pitch? And a midfielder to control the pace. The budget was a mystery, locked in boardroom talks, but the possibilities gnawed at him. One signing could change everything, for better or worse. So he started thinking who was the hidden gems with potential during his time playing FIFA, His phone buzzed a call from Max, the quiet one who'd scored against Crewe. "Boss," he said, voice tentative. "My agent's pushing me to talk to some clubs. Bigger ones. What do you think?" Niels leaned forward, the question grounding him. "You're better than you realize, Max. A move's tempting, but you're building something here. Think about what you want, not just now, but in a year, two years. You've got more to give, wherever you are. Keep pushing. But I'm fine with whatever decision you take." Max was quiet, then said, "Thanks, boss. Means a lot." They hung up, and Niels stared at the TV, the transfer news still scrolling. He thought of the photo on the fridge, him and Elise, kids in a life he was still claiming. He'd get home soon, not today, but soon. For now, he let the new year's quiet hold him, a pause before the world spun forward, carrying its strange, stubborn hope. If you're having fun reading, please consider voting with Power Stones! It really helps boost the novel's visibility on the Webnovel app and gives me tons of motivation to keep writing. Thank you for your support! ????

Chapter 30: A Quiet New Year

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