Chapter 17: Road to Wrexham
The sun hadn't risen yet, but Niels was already wide awake.
Inside the small, quiet tactics room at the stadium, the hum of the heating unit filled the silence. A mug of coffee sat beside him, half-drunk, going cold and the whiteboard was already packed with lines, arrows, and overlapping scribbles. His handwriting, quick and slightly crooked, mapped out everything he'd studied from Wrexham's last few matches.
High pressing line. Aggressive overlaps from fullbacks. Diagonal balls fired into the half-spaces with precision.
Niels stepped back, arms folded across his chest, eyes scanning the board. He wasn't just looking at tactics, he was looking for the space between the patterns. The gaps. The story behind the numbers.
He almost reached for the whiteboard marker again, instinctively, but stopped himself. Sometimes the answers weren't in adding more. Sometimes it was in trusting what you already had.
No assistant coach hovered nearby. No seasoned mentor to question his logic or nudge his thinking in another direction. It was just him and his ideas, his instinct, and the faint, familiar ache at the back of his head from one too many late nights and mediocre coffee.
But this time, he didn't feel overwhelmed.
The weight of responsibility hadn't vanished, but it had changed. It no longer felt like a burden he was borrowing, it was starting to feel like something that fit. Not perfectly, not yet, but enough. Like a jacket a size too big that was beginning to mold to his shape.
A quiet ping from his tablet pulled his attention. On the screen, Wrexham's midfield triangle lit up—a trio of red dots shifting and sliding across a heat map, forming patterns of movement and pressure.
Niels leaned in closer, eyes narrowing as he analyzed the shapes. He could already see the gaps forming, the spaces where their pressing game was vulnerable.
"That's where we hit them," he murmured to himself, tracing a line through the patterns with his finger.
He began writing in the margins of his notes:
Nate: inverted run behind LB
Reece: hold deeper to shield against counters
Dev: early pass through their midfield line
Then his eyes paused on Nate's name. His pen hovered.
Two quick taps on the screen brought up the Insight feed:
[Fragile confidence still present]
[Thrives with early touches]
[Better second-half player – trust arc]
Niels exhaled slowly, reading the words again. He didn't see data, he saw a young man standing at the edge of self-belief.
"Alright, kid," he whispered, just to himself. "Let's give you the stage."
Training that morning was brisk, cold, and relentless.
No speeches. No dramatic coaching moments. Just sharp drills, tight transitions, and an insistence on tempo.
The frost made the turf slick and unpredictable, and the wind stung their fingers and cheeks. Passes skidded or stopped dead. Shots sliced wide. But the intent was there. Focused. Determined. Tense.
Niels saw it in every movement, the way players stretched a little too hard, touched the ball a beat too long. They weren't just preparing. They were trying to prove something.
"Fast transitions!" he shouted over the whistle and wind. "I don't care if it's perfect but move. Make them chase you. Make them uncomfortable."
Dev missed a pass and muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
Niels walked over calmly, his voice even.
"You're playing like you're afraid to mess up. That's not how this works. Mistake can be done. Move on. Next pass, that's what counts."
Dev nodded quickly. "Yeah. Got it."
Nate, meanwhile, looked sharper. His footwork was crisp, his positioning clever. But Niels saw what most wouldn't—the hesitation just before the shot. That subtle moment of doubt. That pause that screams: Am I really supposed to be here?
"Nate!" Niels called across the pitch.
The young winger jogged over, panting, eyes searching his face.
"You've got the skill. You've got the vision. But you're still waiting for permission."
Nate frowned. "I'm trying."
"No," Niels said quietly but firmly. "Don't try. Trust yourself. There's a big difference."
For a second, Nate didn't say anything. Then, slowly, he nodded. It wasn't a dramatic moment, no rallying soundtrack playing in the background. But it was real. A flicker of belief catching flame.
The team bus left Crawley just after lunch.
Three and a half hours to Wrexham if they were lucky with traffic. But the sky outside the windows was heavy and grey, like it had unfinished business.
Most of the squad drifted into sleep or silence. Some leaned back with headphones in. A few hunched over phones, flicking through footage or messaging family. It was the calm before the storm, nervous energy folded in on itself.
Niels sat near the front, flipping between his printed notes and digital diagrams. The paper comforted him tangible, slower, grounding. The tablet gave him speed and precision. He needed both now.
He paused on a page he'd written late the night before:
Plan B – If we go down early:
Reece drops into double pivot
Liam slides inside for vertical passing options
Nate switches to right flank to run behind
Luka moves into shadow 10 role
Again, the Cheat Insight stirred to life:
[Luka – plays better in chaos]
[Dev – reacts fastest to broken play]
[Reece – stabilizer, but struggles when chasing]
He leaned back and let it settle. It wasn't just a formation. It was personality management. It was momentum. Trust.
This wasn't just a tactical puzzle. It was a living thing. Each player a heartbeat in a shared rhythm.
The Wrexham stadium emerged like a weathered monument compact, unyielding, etched with grit and history.
Its rusted gates and close-packed stands looked like they hadn't changed in decades. This was a football ground built for noise, not comfort. The kind of place where the crowd was so close you could hear every insult and every cheer.
As the players filed off the bus, the wind bit harder. The sky hung low. The cold hit different here, it was sharper, cooler. Somewhere beyond the walls, drums were already thudding.
Niels zipped his jacket up to the neck and walked the pitch alone.
The grass was short, the surface clean. It was fast, perfect for their style. But it wasn't about the grass. It was about feeling the space. Seeing the angles. Letting the atmosphere soak in.
He looked to the stands again. His breath puffed in clouds.
He wasn't here as a fill-in. Not anymore.
This was his team. His first match as official coach.
The away dressing room was tight and worn with low ceiling, peeling walls, that familiar scent of old sweat and menthol.
Niels stood in front of his squad, hands relaxed in his jacket pockets.
There was no need for theatrics, no whiteboard. Just a voice, steady and calm.
"You know the plan," he said. "We've trained for this. You've all seen the footage. We've covered every angle."
He paused, letting the silence fill the room.
"But none of that matters if you don't believe in it. Or in yourselves. We didn't come here to defend a scoreline. We came here to show who we are. And what we're building."
A stillness settled over the group not nervous, but they were ready.
Niels locked eyes with Nate one last time. "Trust in yourself."
Then a quiet nod.
"Let's go."
The tunnel was narrow and alive with sound.
The crowd roared outside. Drums pounded in the distance, rhythm deep and primal. The concrete walls vibrated with noise and pressure. It didn't feel like an entrance. It felt like stepping into a storm.
Niels took his place in the dugout, jacket zipped up to the chin. The wind whipped through the rafters, sneaking into every fold of his coat. He could feel it on his face, his ears.
Behind him, the players bounced in place, hearts beating fast, minds locked in.
And for a long second, he stood still.
Not out of fear.
Not out of hesitation.
But because something inside had settled.
He wasn't in anyone else's shadow. He wasn't just the guy holding the clipboard while they looked for someone else.
This was his moment. His place.
And deep down, he finally felt it:
He belonged here.
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