Chapter 260: Pressure and Possibility

Chapter 260: Pressure and Possibility

The mood at Broadfield on Wednesday morning was noticeably lighter.

A 2-0 away win on a heavy, freezing pitch will do that to a squad, but it was how they won that brought a fresh wave of energy to the training ground.

The guys who usually spent their Saturdays shivering on the bench in thick coats had stepped up and delivered.

Down in the boot room, Benji Cook was taking the brunt of the banter. The twenty-year-old keeper was just trying to quietly lace up his boots, but Harry Thompson wasn’t going to let him hide.

"I’m just saying," Harry announced to the whole room, leaning back against the lockers. "If I hadn’t walked over and specifically told him to breathe in the first half, the kid would’ve passed out. I essentially made that low save for him in the second half. Psychologically speaking, anyway."

A few of the lads laughed. Benji just shook his head with a sheepish smile. "Thanks, Harry. Couldn’t have done it without your soothing voice."

Adam Fletcher walked past and clapped a heavy, gloved hand on Benji’s shoulder.

"Good hands yesterday, kid. Seriously," the veteran keeper said, giving a genuine nod of approval. Then, a slight smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. "Just don’t get too comfortable. That’s still my net on Saturday."

Benji nodded, taking the reality check in stride. "I know, Adam."

Upstairs in his office, Niels was staring at his tactical whiteboard, dealing with the exact same dynamic Fletcher had just pointed out.

Niels tapped a dry-erase marker against his chin. For the first five months of the season, his job had been about surviving injuries and scraping together a functional starting eleven.

Now, looking at the names on the board, the script had completely flipped.

The rotation had worked perfectly. Korey Henry was explosive, proving he could be a starter and not just an impact sub. Nate Sutton and Callum Berg controlled the midfield, and Ilyas Kader ran his socks off.

"We actually have a bench now," Niels muttered to Gary, who was sipping his coffee on the sofa.

"We have genuine competition," Gary corrected. "Korey is going to want to start. So is Berg. It’s a great problem to have, boss, but you’re going to have some very unhappy players knocking on this door by Friday."

Niels knew it. The first test of that new reality came out on the training pitch an hour later.

When Gary started handing out the orange bibs for the starting eleven’s main tactical drill, Dev Patel stepped forward naturally expecting to slot right back into his usual spot on the right wing next to Max and Thiago.

Niels caught Gary’s eye and gave a slight shake of his head. Gary walked right past Dev and tossed the orange bib to Korey Henry instead.

Dev froze for a split second. His hand, halfway up to catch the bib, slowly dropped back down. He didn’t throw a fit. He didn’t complain. He just grabbed a blue bib from the pile and jogged over to the second group, hiding his frustration behind a tight, blank expression.

But Niels saw it.

During a water break halfway through the session, Niels made sure to catch Dev alone near the edge of the pitch, away from the rest of the squad.

"You look surprised," Niels said, keeping his tone casual but direct.

Dev took a sip from his water bottle, staring out at the grass. "Just trying to get back into the rhythm, boss. Thought I was starting on Saturday."

"Korey was brilliant yesterday," Niels told him flatly. "He scored, he tracked back, and he didn’t overcomplicate the game. Right now, he has the shirt. If you want it back, you have to earn it in training."

Dev’s jaw tightened. "I understand."

Niels softened his tone. "Look, Dev. I know what’s going on. I know the noise from Valencia is loud. It’s hard to ignore twenty-seven million pounds and La Liga even for the board members. It’s constantly on your mind, whether you admit it or not."

Dev looked down at his boots, finally dropping the defensive wall he usually threw up whenever the transfer was mentioned.

"We’ve already talked about this," Niels reminded him quietly. "I told you I needed you focused. I’m hoping you stay with us until the end of the season, because we’re chasing something real here. We have a genuine shot at promotion."

Dev looked back up at his manager. He wanted to promise that he was staying. He wanted to say the right thing. But the truth was, his head was a complete mess.

"I’ll keep doing my part, boss," Dev said carefully, avoiding any long-term promises. "I’ll fight for the shirt."

Niels accepted the answer with a short nod and blew his whistle to restart the session.

But the reality of Dev’s situation hit home an hour later. Sitting in the quiet of the dressing room after his shower, Dev unlocked his phone to find a new message from his agent.

’Valencia wants to move now. They’re drafting the formal paperwork. We need a decision by the weekend.’

Dev stared at the glowing screen. For weeks, it had just been noise. Newspapers, rumors, background chatter. But reading that text, the possibility of actually leaving suddenly felt terrifyingly real.

He looked around the dressing room. He looked at Kieron, who was laughing with Reece Darby. He looked at Max Simons, who was quietly taping up his ankles.

He was torn right down the middle, caught halfway between a childhood dream in Spain and the gritty, hard-fought promotion push right here in Crawley.

And that promotion push was becoming impossible to ignore. With the latest round of midweek results, Crawley had closed the gap. They were sitting firmly in third place, breathing right down Southampton’s neck for the second automatic promotion spot.

In the canteen, the players were already doing the math. Guys were hunched over their phones, checking the upcoming fixtures for Brighton and Southampton, realizing that automatic promotion wasn’t just some motivational speech anymore. It was a tangible, mathematical reality.

"Do not look at the table," Niels warned loudly as he walked through to grab a coffee. "The table doesn’t matter until May. Focus on the pitch."

But even Niels couldn’t completely ignore the big picture.

That afternoon, he sat in the boardroom with Emma Hayes and Richard Langley to discuss the final stretch of the January transfer window.

"The board is willing to release some funds if you need reinforcements," Richard offered, folding his hands on the sleek oak table. "Given our league position, Mr. Hargreaves wants to make sure we don’t fall short because of squad depth."

"I don’t want to bring in bodies just for the sake of having bodies," Niels replied, leaning forward. "The squad chemistry is finally balancing out. If we bring someone in, they have to raise the floor immediately."

"What are you looking for, then?" Emma asked, her pen hovering over her notepad.

"One specific profile," Niels said. "A versatile defender. Someone who can cover the center and step out to the right if Reece goes down. I don’t want to disrupt the midfield or the attack."

Niels paused, exchanging a heavy look with Emma.

"Unless, of course, the Valencia situation develops," he added grimly. "If Dev really leaves, that changes everything. We’ll need an immediate replacement with genuine pace. We need a contingency plan ready to go, Emma."

"I have a shortlist," Emma confirmed quietly. "But let’s hope we don’t have to use it."

Niels said nothing.

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting toward the window as he thought.

For a few moments, the room was silent.

His mind wandered somewhere Emma couldn’t follow to memories from another life, another timeline. Names, matches, careers that had once seemed like distant pieces of football history.

He remembered players before they had become the stars everyone knew, remembered the flashes of talent that had made people take notice long before the rest of the world caught up.

Then two names surfaced.

Young, technically gifted and still developing.

Niels slowly turned back toward Emma.

"There are two midfielders I want you to keep an eye on," he said.

Emma raised an eyebrow. "Midfielders?"

"Christian Eriksen and Miralem Pjanić."

Emma immediately wrote the names down.

"Eriksen," she repeated. "And Pjanić."

"Yes." Niels nodded. "They’re young, but there’s something about both of them. Intelligence, technique, the ability to control a game without needing to dominate physically. They’re the sort of players who could become very valuable."

"Are you thinking about bringing one of them in?"

"Not yet." Niels shook his head. "I’m thinking about knowing exactly where they are before everyone else starts asking the same questions."

Emma looked down at her notes, then back at him.

"And if Dev stays?"

A faint smile appeared on Niels’s face.

"Then that’s exactly what I want."

He leaned forward again, his expression becoming more serious.

"I hope Dev stays, Emma. I really do. He’s part of what we’re building, and I don’t want to replace him."

He tapped the table once. "But football doesn’t always give you what you want. So we prepare for both possibilities."

Emma nodded, closing her notebook. "Understood. I’ll keep an eye on them."

By late afternoon, the heavy, serious talk about transfers and league tables vanished, replaced by a completely different kind of tension.

It was time for the FA Cup fourth-round draw.

The whole squad was crammed into the players’ lounge. The big TV on the wall was tuned to the BBC, and that familiar dramatic theme music filled the room.

The players were completely split on what they wanted.

"Give me a League Two side," Tom Whitehall muttered, leaning on the back of a sofa. "Someone we can comfortably put three past. I want a clean easy route to the fifth round."

"No way," Harry Thompson countered, crossing his massive arms. "Give me Old Trafford. Give me Anfield. We survived the third round. I want a massive away day. Let’s go kick some Premier League teams."

Niels stood quietly at the back of the room, holding a cup of tea. He didn’t really care either way. An easy draw meant a better chance of advancing, but a big draw brought massive TV money into the club.

Both had their perks, and both demanded absolute focus. Whoever came out of that bowl was going to be taken seriously.

On the screen, the TV host smiled at the camera as a former football legend reached into the glass bowl, swirling the numbered plastic balls around.

The room went dead silent. Kieron leaned forward in his chair. Dev temporarily forgot all about the text message sitting on his phone.

The legend pulled out the first ball, unscrewed it and held up the slip of paper.

The draw was about to be revealed.