Chapter 1: Whistle of Rebirth
Nicholas Marjan had always been obsessed with football.
Not in the flashy, stadium-hopping, Instagram-influencer kind of way—but in the quiet, slightly worrying way that made his friends (the few he had) wonder if he was okay. To them, he was just "Niels"—a nickname born from his mix of Asian heritage and deep love for European football.
He didn't play. He didn't coach. He didn't even ref.
He was the guy who stayed up all night grinding FIFA Career Mode, watched tactical breakdowns in three different languages, and could name the top youth talents in second-tier Serbian clubs like it was nothing.
Football wasn't just something he liked. It was the only thing that ever made sense.
Then, one rainy night, he died.
No big scene. No slow fade-out. Just a wet pavement, a late-night snack run, one slip, a sharp crack—
And then, nothing.
When he opened his eyes, it wasn't to hospital lights or the ceiling of his flat.
It was sky. Pale blue, scattered clouds. Grass beneath him. A football pitch.
His body ached. No—screamed. His right knee pulsed with hot, sharp pain.
That kind of pain. ACL pain. He knew it too well, even if he'd never felt it before now.
He sat up, groaning, and looked around. The field was bumpy, fenced in by old rusted wire. A few weathered banners hung on the far side, flapping in the breeze.
2008? Maybe 2009?
Everything looked... old.
He limped toward a small building nearby. Inside, in the dim light of a musty locker room, he found a cracked mirror.
The face staring back wasn't his.
This wasn't a dream.
This wasn't his world anymore.
Somehow, he was still Nicholas Marjan—just not the version who used to watch tactical YouTube videos at 3 a.m. He was this Nicholas Marjan, a name he'd seen years ago on an old Football Manager forum. A rising talent from Eastern Europe whose career had been cut short by an ACL tear before he ever made it big.
Niels's mind spun. He wasn't here to play. That part was already over.
And then the memories started coming back—slow and heavy, like cold syrup being poured.
Years of rehab. Trying to push through. Failing. Isolating himself. Watching everything slip away.
Until one phone call changed everything.
Rain tapped gently on the window. His knee throbbed—worse than usual.
He stared at his phone for almost an hour before finally dialing.
It rang. Once. Twice.
Then—
"Niels?"
Coach Milan. That voice—gravelly, calm. Familiar.
Niels's throat tightened. "Coach… I—I don't think I can do it anymore."
A pause.
"What about your rehab?"
"It's not working. It's been years." He took a shaky breath. "I've tried everything. Physio, surgeries... I still can't move right. I can't even jog without it feeling like my knee's going to snap."
Silence on the line.
"I've given up," Niels said. "And if I can't play… I don't know who I am."
He barely whispered it, but Milan heard.
"I know, lad," the coach finally said, his voice soft. "I know football's everything to you. But maybe... maybe there's another way."
Niels blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You may never play again," Milan said, "but that doesn't mean your journey in football's over."
For the first time in a long time, something stirred inside Niels. Just a flicker.
"What are you saying?"
"Come coach with me," Milan said. "Be my assistant. Learn the ropes. You already see the game better than most people I've worked with. You just need some structure."
Niels let out a dry laugh. "I've never coached anyone before. I wouldn't even know where to start."
"That's the point. You'll start with me."
"…You really think I could do it?"
"I wouldn't ask if I didn't."
There was a pause. But this one didn't feel empty. It felt full of something.
"…Alright," Niels said. "I'm in."
Now, in whatever version of reality this was, Niels stood on the sideline of a worn-down training ground—assistant coach of Crawley Town, a League Two club just trying to keep its head above water.
The grass was uneven. The nets were ripped. The changing rooms smelled like sweat and disappointment.
But it was real.
Coach Milan greeted him like nothing had changed. Same smirk, same half-annoyed, half-proud look in his eyes.
"You look like you've had a rough start," Coach Milan said with a smile, scanning him up and down. "Remember, coaching isn't the same as playing. You'll be dealing with moody teenagers all day, managing personalities, egos... it's won't be easy."
Niels gave a light smile. "Better than being gone, I guess."
He didn't mention the flashes. The weird moments during training when something inside him clicked. Like a scouting database had been uploaded straight into his head.
It started with Luka, a skinny 17-year-old winger with fast feet and good instincts. As the kid jogged by, something flickered in Niels's vision:
[Luka Radev
Age: 17
Potential: 87
Trait: Clutch Finisher
Weakness: Poor defensive work rate]
Then another player. Another flash.
[Marko Simic – CB
Potential: 71
Weakness: Lacks tactical discipline]
No sound. No menu. Just... insight.
Niels didn't question it. He just acted on it.
Luka got more minutes. Marko sat out the key drills. No big changes—but something shifted. The energy in training picked up. Luka started scoring.
Then one afternoon, Milan tossed him the whistle.
"Your turn. Run the next drill. Let's see what that brain of yours has learned."
The whistle felt heavy in his hand.
Not with nerves—with purpose.
"Alright, lads. Two lines. We're doing something different today."
Because Niels knew where football was heading: high presses, inverted fullbacks, false nines. He knew how the game would evolve. And he knew which players could thrive in that future.
Crawley Town was just the beginning.
He wasn't going to fade into football trivia this time.
Crawley Town was just the beginning. One day, he'd rise to the top. But first—step by step—he had to rebuild this team from the ground up.