A first-time strike—low, powerful, arrowing toward goal.
Theate reacted heroically, throwing his body across Schmid's shooting lane and getting his back onto the ball.
"Good block! But—oh—wait…"
The deflection was cruel.
Theate's block sent the ball spinning the opposite direction, the contact turning it into a looping, awkward arc that drifted away from Kaua—who had already dived the other way, fully committed to the original trajectory.
Kaua twisted in mid-air, helpless.
The ball bounced once…
…and rolled into the net.
2–2.
"And Bremen have EQUALIZED! A lucky bounce, a horrible deflection, but they all count! Schmid levels the score in the eighty-seventh minute, and the Weserstadion ERUPTS!"
The stadium exploded — roars, fists pumping, scarves waving wildly. Stage sprinted toward the corner flag, Schmid was mobbed by teammates, and even Zetterer ran up to halfway to celebrate.
Brown put his hands on top of his head, eyes squeezed shut.
