Chapter 261: FA Cup Fourth Round Draw

Chapter 261: FA Cup Fourth Round Draw

The TV host smiled into the camera as the former football legend unscrewed the plastic ball, pulled out the small slip of paper, and held it up to the screen.

"Number twenty-two. Crawley Town. Defending FA Cup Champions."

A collective murmur rippled through the players’ lounge. Tom Whitehall leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Kieron stopped tapping his foot. Every eye in the room was glued to the glass bowl as the legend reached back in to swirl the remaining balls.

"Will play..." the host prompted.

The legend pulled out the second ball, popped it open, and read the name.

"Number fourteen. Notts County."

The reaction in the room was a mixed bag. It wasn’t the glamorous, money-spinning trip to Old Trafford or Anfield that Harry Thompson had been loud about wanting.

But it also wasn’t the easy, lower-league walkover that Tom Whitehall had hoped for.

It was Notts County. A tough, familiar League One rival. A team that knew exactly how Crawley played, knew the dimensions of the Broadfield pitch and wouldn’t be intimidated by the occasion for a second.

"Well," Harry muttered, crossing his massive arms and leaning back against the wall. "That’s a proper scrap, then."

Niels stood quietly at the back of the room, taking a slow sip of his tea. While the players started buzzing about the fixture, his mind was already pulling up mental files.

He knew Notts County well and they also knew about Crawley Town well. They were physical, well-organized, and incredibly stubborn.

By the time Niels walked back into his office ten minutes later, Gary was already loading up scouting footage on the main monitor.

"They’ve won three of their last five," Gary noted, tapping his pen against his notebook. "They play a tight 4-4-2. Nothing flashy, but they don’t give you an inch of space in the middle. It’s going to be a grind, boss."

"I know," Niels replied, pulling up a chair. "They know us too well. There won’t be any surprises. It’s just going to come down to who executes better on the day. Being the defending cup champions means absolutely nothing once that whistle blows."

Unfortunately for Niels, cup reputation was the only thing the media wanted to talk about.

Sitting in the press room on Thursday afternoon, the questions barely touched on Notts County’s tactics or Crawley’s league form.

The local reporters were completely fixated on nostalgia.

"Niels, given the magical cup run this club went on last season, is there an expectation to repeat those heroics?" a local journalist asked, holding out a recorder. "Do the fans expect another trip to Wembley?"

Niels leaned into the microphone, his face completely flat.

"Last season is in the museum," he said bluntly. "It was a fantastic achievement, but it has absolutely nothing to do with Saturday. We have a different squad, a different system, and we’re fighting for a completely different objective in the league. I’m not interested in comparing this team to a past. We’re focused entirely on beating Notts County."

He kept his answers short and clinical, killing the narrative before it could seep into the dressing room. He didn’t want his players chasing a fairytale. He wanted them executing a game plan.

Out on the training pitch on Friday morning, that plan started to take shape.

Niels kept the session sharp and intense, but he deliberately gave a few of the regular starters a lighter load. Max Simons, Paul Pogba, and Jamal Osei were pulled out of the high-intensity transition drills early and sent over to the fitness coaches for light recovery work.

Niels was rotating his squad, but not out of arrogance. He was doing it because the guys stepping in had genuinely earned the right to play.

Down by the goalposts, Benji Cook was having an incredible morning. The young keeper was flying through the freezing mud, tipping heavy shots around the post and organizing his defense with a newfound volume.

That low save against Dagenham had clearly unlocked something in his head. The nervous hesitation was gone, replaced by a puffed-out chest and a sharp, commanding presence.

Adam Fletcher stood near the post in a heavy winter coat, occasionally shouting a pointer, but mostly, the veteran keeper was just nodding in quiet approval.

Further up the pitch, the rotated attackers were absolutely flying. Korey Henry was a blur of pace down the right flank, while Nate Sutton glided effortlessly past defenders in the small-sided games.

In the box, Leo Morley was throwing his massive frame around, winning every aerial duel that came his way.

On the touchline, Niels felt a deep sense of satisfaction. A month ago, facing a strong League One side in the cup, he would have felt forced to play his absolute best eleven just to survive.

Now, looking at his secondary group, he saw a team completely capable of winning on their own merit.

"Kieron looks sharp," Gary noted, watching the young midfielder crunch into a heavy tackle on Thiago to break up an attack.

"He does," Niels agreed. "He starts tomorrow. Jamal gets a rest. I want Kieron’s energy in the middle. Notts County will try to turn it into a physical fight, and Kieron won’t back down from it."

Niels tapped his pen against his clipboard, finalizing his choices. Rotating the squad was necessary to keep everyone fresh for the brutal promotion push in the league, but it was also a crucial piece of man-management.

If you tell players they have to earn their minutes, you actually have to reward them when they do.

Saturday afternoon brought a cold that seemed to sink right into the concrete at Broadfield Stadium.

Despite the freeze, the atmosphere around the ground was buzzing.

It was the FA Cup.

Inside the home dressing room, the mood was completely focused. The heavy bass of a pre-match playlist vibrated through the small room, but the players were mostly quiet, locked into their individual routines.

Niels walked in holding a single sheet of paper. Without a word, he stepped up to the tactical board and pinned the starting eleven to the cork.

The players naturally drifted over to look.

Benji Cook stared at the sheet. His name was right at the top. He’d secretly hoped for it, but seeing it in ink confirming that the manager actually trusted him in a massive fourth-round cup tie against a league rival made his heart pound against his ribs. He gave a definitive nod and turned back to his locker to tape his wrists.

The rest of the rotated names were there, exactly as Niels had planned. Harry Thompson and Darnell Prince anchored the defense. Kieron Marsh sat at the base of the midfield, ready to act as the destroyer. 𝑓𝑟ℯℴ𝓂

And up top, the attacking trio of Nate Sutton, Leo Morley, and Korey Henry was unleashed.

Niels stood in the center of the room, waiting for the players to finish lacing their boots.

"Listen to me," Niels said, his voice easily cutting through the noise in the room. "The media wants to talk about last year. The fans want to talk about Wembley. But the only thing that matters is the game out there today."

He looked around the room, making a point to catch the eyes of the guys he’d rotated into the squad. He looked at Benji, at Nate, at Korey.

"Some of you have been waiting for this spot," Niels told them, his tone firm. "You earned it at Dagenham. You earned it in training this week. But earning the shirt and keeping it are two very different things. Notts County isn’t going to roll over. They’re going to hit you hard, and they’re going to test exactly how much you want to be on this pitch."

He paused, letting the weight of the moment settle over the room.

"Play your game. Trust the system. And show me why you deserve to stay in this eleven."

Two sharp knocks hit the heavy wooden door followed by the referee’s assistant shouting for them to line up.

The dressing room instantly erupted into a final, chaotic burst of noise. Liam McCulloch and Harry Thompson were shouting, slapping backs, and hyping up the younger lads.

Kieron took a deep breath, his face a mask of absolute focus, and followed his captain out the door.

Niels stood by the exit, giving each player a firm pat on the back as they filed out into the narrow tunnel.

The roar of the Broadfield crowd was already echoing down the corridor, a massive wall of sound waiting to meet them.

Niels took one last look at his team sheet, folded it and slipped it into his coat pocket.

The Fourth Round was about to begin.