Chapter 82: Sparks of Glory

Chapter 82: Sparks of Glory Chapter 82: Sparks of Glory Friday, May 7, 2010 A Day Off in Crawley Crawley Town were on fire. Their wild 4-3 win over champions Notts County sealed by Luka’s last-minute rocket locked in 2nd place in League Two with 91 points. Promotion was theirs. Medals shone like a battle cry for the FA Cup final against Chelsea on May 15, 2010. The noise at Meadow Lane faded, but Crawley’s pride only grew louder. The town was buzzing, burning with joy and belief. The league table was settled but Crawley had set the script on fire. Titles and stats faded behind them as the town turned into a sea of celebration, where every step home felt like a parade and every red scarf a banner of belief. Today, Niels gave the players a rare break no football, no training. Just a chance to soak in the town’s love and energy before the biggest match of their lives. Could this day filled with family, laughter, and hope light the fire they’d need to shock Chelsea at Wembley? Or would the weight of the giants crush their dream? May 7 broke with a dawn that set Crawley ablaze, sunlight spilling over High Street, where red banners whipped in the spring breeze like battle standards caught in a storm. The mural near the station Max and Thiago mid-roar, "Believe" scrawled in crimson flame pulled crowds like a magnet, phones flashing, a boy, barely 8, pressing his palm to Luka’s painted strike, whispering, "You’re our legend." The pubs shook with noise not with talk of Messi or Ronaldo, but with cheers for Max’s fight and Luka’s last-minute magic, the air thick with Friday’s fever. Niels scrolled through his buzzing phone: a photo of the mural with candles in front like a shrine, a cake shaped like Wembley with tiny sugar players, and a message that read, "Town’s lost it but in the best way. We’re ready for Chelsea." He laughed, but his eyes stung. Crawley wasn’t just celebrating. They held on to every bit of hope. Shopfronts glowed with "Reds to Wembley!" signs, kids darting through alleys, mimicking Thiago’s curls with battered balls, old-timers slamming pint glasses, recounting Notts County’s fall with eyes like bonfires. A girl’s shout, "Craw-ley, kings!" ripped through the market, her red scarf a comet streaking the sky, sparking cheers that shook the cobblestones. Thirteen-year-old Ollie stood beneath the mural, clutching his "Reds to Wembley!" banner like a prized trophy. His red scarf fluttered in the breeze, bright against the morning light. With a big smile, he called out, "Max’s our captain!" and the crowd around him cheered back, their voices rising like a wave. Ollie’s eyes sparkled with belief as he shouted, "We beat Notts! Max, Luka, Thiago they’ll light up Wembley!" The High Street buzzed with energy. Pubs opened their doors, spilling laughter and cheers onto the sidewalks. Fans flooded ticket offices, desperate for a chance to be at Wembley. A younger boy darted past, waving a worn Crawley flag and shouting, "Thiago’s our hero!" His voice cracked but carried on like wildfire. Every shop window was decked out in red, every cheer a spark fueling the town’s fiery dream. The FA Cup final wasn’t just a game it was Crawley’s heartbeat, burning brighter than ever. [Max’s POV] I woke up to the smell of bacon and sunlight coming through the window. My promotion medal was still hanging on the mirror it caught the light like it was trying to remind me it really happened. Ninety-one points, second place. We’d done it. I ran my thumb along the medal’s edge. For Crawley, I said under my breath. My phone buzzed with messages fans cheering us on, the lads sending stupid jokes and goal gifs. One message said, "Captain, bring it home at Wembley." That one stuck with me. But what I really wanted was to see Mum. I threw on a hoodie and walked to her place, just outside town. Her garden was full of flowers already blooming. She was out there with her gloves on, pruning like always. She looked up and saw me, her eyes shining. "There’s my captain," she said softly, pulling me into a hug like she never wanted to let go. I held on tight, not trusting myself to speak. We sat in the kitchen over tea and biscuits, like we always did. She brought out the scrapbook again with old match photos, school team cutouts, and the latest paper with my goal against Notts County. "You’ve made this town so proud," she said gently. "But we’ve always been right here with you." I smiled, a little choked up. "I know, Mum. That’s why I’ll give it my all. For you. For Crawley." After tea with Mum, I walked into town. The streets were alive with scarves in windows, "Wembley or bust" signs on buses, even cupcakes iced with Come on Crawley!. I stopped by the café. A few regulars clapped when I walked in. "It’s the captain!" someone cheered. Two kids ran up, one handed me a drawing of me holding the FA Cup, scarf flying. "For Wembley," she whispered. I signed it and smiled. "We’ll give it everything." I stayed a bit, chatted, soaked it all in. It didn’t feel like pressure. It felt like home. On the way back, I passed the mural me mid-roar, Believe shining above in bold red. People stood around taking photos. I stood too, quiet, just watching. Chelsea was next. But whatever came, we had something bigger. [Thiago’s POV] I went for a run through Tilgate Park. The air was fresh, grass wet under my shoes. Some kids spotted me. "Thiago!" they shouted. They had a ball, so I joined them. We passed it around, laughing. One boy yelled, "Show us the Notts goal!" So I curled it like I did that night, imaginary net and all. They went wild. A girl in a red scarf shouted, "For Crawley!" I tossed her my cap. "We dance there, yeah?" I said, and she grinned like it was everything. Later, I passed through the market. A vendor handed me a bag of oranges. "No charge, Thiago. You’re our fire." I smiled and signed the bag. "Thankyou" At the community center, they’d made a little shrine scarves, match photos, even a blurry shot of me celebrating. Ollie was there with his banner. "Thi-a-go, king!" he called. I laughed, ruffled his hair. "You’ve got the beat, kid." Someone yelled, "Reds to Chelsea!" and I started dancing right there. Kids joined in, clapping and spinning. The whole room felt alive. I texted Niels: "Boss, town’s alive. We shall dance at Wembley." On my way home, I paused by the mural me, mid-roar, Believe painted loud above. A few people were taking photos. A little boy pointed at it and quietly said my name. I didn’t say anything just stood there, smiling. Whatever happened at Wembley, Crawley stood right there with me and that was everything. [Luka’s POV] I sat alone in my flat, sunlight slicing through the blinds, my promotion medal catching the light like a silent promise. I wasn’t always this player. Just a kid from the academy, grinding through training sessions, unsure if I’d ever break through. But Niels saw something in me a spark. Without him, none of this would’ve happened. That stoppage-time goal? I can’t stop seeing it the ball hitting the net, the roar of the crowd echoing in my mind. Messages kept coming in, but I stayed quiet, letting the moment sink in. Later, at the café, a kid handed me a shaky drawing of that goal scarves flying, hope blazing. She whispered, "You were amazing." I signed it, my voice low but fierce: "Thankyou, we fight for you." I walked the streets, feeling the energy pulsing through the town. Kids shouting my name, eyes burning with belief. The Chelsea final is looming, giants ready to crush us. But Crawley’s fire that quiet, fierce faith that’s what fuels me. Whatever comes next, I’m ready. We’re ready. [Niels POV] I woke in my cluttered flat, staring at the promotion medal shining faintly on the shelf a quiet reminder of how far we’ve come, and how far we still have to go. My head throbbed from the weight of it all the noise of Meadow Lane, the endless pressure building toward Wembley. I couldn’t sleep. The doubts crept in. Could we really face Chelsea’s giants? Could we protect the dreams of this town? I forced myself out of bed and walked to Broadfield’s empty pitch. The grass lay still beneath a gray sky, but in my mind, I heard it all Ollie’s hopeful cheers, Max’s fierce determination, Thiago’s joyous energy, Luka’s calm focus. They believed in me. and I had to believe too. Milan’s voice cut through the noise, steady and calm. "Niels, remember—giants have fallen before. You’ve made it happen once. You can do it again." I clenched my jaw, heart pounding. "We fight with everything. For them. For Crawley." Later, when I pushed open the pub door, a wave of sound hit me "Niels! Our coach!" The roar wrapped around me like a fierce, protective fire, their voices lifting me even as the weight of their expectations settled deep in my chest. I gripped my pint tight, feeling its cool glass steady my shaking hands. "To Crawley. To Wembley." I called out, my words slicing through the thunder of cheers. The walls seemed to pulse with every shout, every clap a heartbeat of hope and belief. Inside, the pressure twisted like iron bands, tightening around me, but beneath it all, a fierce determination burned bright, ready to carry us through. Back home, I stared at the blank whiteboard, names swirling Terry, Lampard, Drogba they’re the legends we have to stop. We’re underdogs, a small town against giants. But it’s more than just a game now. It’s every shout from the stands, every scarlet scarf, every hope pinned on us. Wembley was no longer just a dream in the distance it was real, rising fast like a tide we couldn’t outrun. And Crawley’s fire? It wasn’t flickering, it was raging. Hot, loud, unstoppable. The noise, the hope, the pressure all of it building toward one final test. Now, it begins. The biggest fight of our lives.