Networks of clubs, economies of scale, are all the rage in global soccer these days. Manchester City, which already owns teams in New York, Melbourne and Montevideo, has been alerted to Lyngby’s willingness to talk. Byder does not rule anything out: He noted, with a smile, that David Beckham’s Miami franchise might be an interesting prospect.

More immediately, though, there is another battle looming. Lyngby finds itself in a protracted relegation battle, thanks to Denmark’s complex system of playoffs. It has struggled on the field since that nightmarish week in February, not simply because of the players who left — though that hardly helped — but because of the psychological damage it did.

When players talk about Lyngby, they almost always mention family. “We care about each other, we understand each other,” Tauber said. That had always been the club’s strength: its familiarity, its warmth. “You can’t ask a Danish guy to explain the word hygge,” Sorensen said. “It is hard to put it into words, but it is where you feel you belong.”

During that perilous week, though, that bond was sorely tested. Players were forced to think not about the collective, but about themselves: their futures, their fears, their needs. Training sessions lacked intensity because players feared injury more than usual: A bad tackle at the wrong time might have meant months without pay, without a new club.

“I was worried that spirit might break,” Tauber said. “It did not, but we are challenged right now.”

It has taken time to restore that spirit. It may take more yet. Relegation would be the unhappiest of codas to what should be a heartwarming story, but perhaps even that has had its sting drawn by what Lyngby went through. Clubs go up and down, but they always remain, as long as there are people ready to rescue them, people with big blue hearts.