Chapter 22: Beneath the Surface
Sunday, 7 December
The morning after the Morecambe win felt different.
The weather hadn't changed. It was still freezing, frost covered the cars and everyone's breath showed in the air.
But around the club, things felt lighter.
Something had changed.
The staff arrived early, even though it was only a recovery session. The dressing room had some life in it again. Most of the talk was about Max's goal, the clean sheet and how well the team was starting to play.
Coffee was being passed around and someone was laughing in the physio room. Even the smell of Deep Heat didn't seem as bad as usual.
Max arrived last, as he normally did.
He was wearing the same old jacket, with the collar starting to wear out. He walked in like nothing had changed.
Reece held the door open for him.
"Hero's welcome?"
Max gave him a tired smile.
"One goal doesn't make me a legend."
He paused.
"But it's a good start."
Everyone laughed, including Luka and Dev.
In the video room, the players sat back in their chairs. Some had ice on their knees, while others were resting their shoulders.
Nobody was talking much.
There was no music either. Just the sound of the projector starting up.
Niels stood at the front with the remote in his hand.
"Watch this."
The screen came on.
It showed the 93rd minute from the Morecambe game. Luka switched the ball to the right. The fullback sent it into the box, but the cross was slightly behind Max.
Max took a step back, adjusted himself and struck the ball cleanly.
It flew into the bottom corner.
Niels paused the video with the ball sitting in the net.
"That wasn't luck," he said with a small smile. "That was composure. That's belief."
He looked around the room.
Nobody said a word.
Even Nate was sitting completely still.
"You earned that."
Niels let the silence sit for a moment before pressing the remote again.
The screen changed.
A black background appeared with large white text in the middle.
FA Cup Third Round
Crawley Town vs Leyton Orient (A)
Saturday, January 3rd
A few players shifted in their seats.
Luka leaned forward while Nate tapped his fingers against his knee. Reece simply nodded.
Leyton Orient were a strong League One side. They were organised, compact and good at punishing mistakes. They didn't give opponents much space.
But they could be beaten.
They just had to play the right way.
"Big stage," Luka said quietly, looking at the empty stands on the screen.
Reece didn't react.
"Good. That's where people notice you. Let's give them something to talk about."
Nate said nothing. He just smiled.
Max looked at the screen.
"I've played them before," he said. "They don't like losing at home."
He paused.
"Let's get them."
That afternoon, Crawley was talking about the club again.
Local radio stations discussed their recent run. Highlights from the Morecambe game were being shown on Sky's League Two coverage, and clips from the match were spreading across social media.
The same headline kept appearing:
"Veteran Simons snatches last-minute winner."
Max's goal was being replayed everywhere.
"Max Simons... oh my word! He's done it! Crawley have stolen it at the death!"
Fans were watching the clip again in pubs and at home.
It wasn't just the goal that had caught people's attention. It was what the win seemed to mean.
Crawley weren't just hoping for good results anymore.
They were starting to expect them.
At training on Monday, the difference was obvious.
Reece led the warm-up and made sure nobody was taking it easy. Luka and Dev were already moving the ball quickly in tight spaces before the main session had even started.
Nate looked a little stiff, but he kept going. He even ran a few extra laps before joining the group.
The players who hadn't been getting many minutes were working harder too. Korey, Ellis and Qazi all looked sharper. They wanted their chance.
The confidence around the club was growing.
By the middle of the week, Niels was back in his office watching Leyton Orient games.
They usually played with three at the back, pushed their wing-backs forward and used a number ten who liked to find space. Up front, they had a target man who didn't need many chances.
They pressed hard during the first fifteen minutes before dropping deeper.
"Score early, then make you suffer," Niels muttered.
But he could see weaknesses too.
There was space to attack out wide when they lost the ball. Their midfield didn't always recover quickly, and their left centre-back looked uncomfortable when put under pressure.
Niels wrote down a few notes and moved some magnets around the whiteboard.
Then he picked up his phone.
He hadn't spoken to Milan in a few weeks.
Milan answered on the third ring.
"Cup draw," Niels said. "Leyton Orient."
Milan gave a quiet laugh.
"I've lost there twice. It's not a nice place when they're winning."
"They're a good side," Niels said.
"So are you."
There was a short silence.
"I've got a squad," Niels said. "I still need a team."
Friday's session was short and controlled. They worked through a few things before the players were given two days off.
But there was a different feeling around the group.
Everyone knew what was coming.
Reece was louder than usual during training.
Dev and Luka moved the ball quickly between them, barely needing to look up before passing.
Nate beat two players during a small-sided game. He didn't celebrate. He just turned and got back into position.
And Max did it again.
Near the end of the session, when everyone was starting to slow down, Max lost his marker and called for the ball.
The pass came in.
One touch.
One shot.
Bottom corner.
A few of the younger players looked over.
Max said nothing. He simply brushed the dirt from his gloves.
"Same boots. Different pitch."
On Saturday, the local paper had a headline across the back page:
"Orient Awaits: Crawley Town Head Into Cup Round 3 With Wind in Their Sails."
The page was dominated by a photo of Max celebrating with his arms out, the ball sitting in the net behind him.
Later that morning, Niels stopped at the corner café near his flat.
The same barista who usually served him his coffee finally spoke.
"You lot made me scream last night."
Niels looked at her.
"Was it the goal or the whole game?"
"Both," she said with a grin. "Mostly Max."
Niels smiled.
"Yeah. He's not finished yet."
Later that night, Niels was back at his flat.
He opened the same document he'd been writing since August.
What comes after survival?
He scrolled through the old entries. The one from Wrexham. The one from Morecambe.
Then he added a new line:
The climb becomes a run. And the run becomes belief.
Before the weekend was over, Max returned to the training ground.
There was no big reason for it. He wasn't wearing his boots. Just a coat and a hoodie, with his knees still sore from the game.
He told the physio he wanted some ice before dinner.
Instead of leaving straight away, he walked out towards the pitch.
The floodlights were off. The stands were empty.
Max stopped near the edge of the box and looked towards the goal.
This was where he'd scored.
For a moment, he stood there quietly, thinking about the goal. The pass. The touch. The shot. Then the noise that followed.
He stayed for a while before turning around.
He walked back towards the building, his shoes crunching over the frozen gravel.
His face was calm.
There would be another chance.
Maybe in East London.
Maybe when Crawley needed him again.