Toppmöller's hands went to his head immediately, the universal signal of a coach watching the worst possible outcome unfold in slow motion. Amorim, on the other side, threw both hands into the air, urging Amad on like he could push him faster.
Trapp came out, charging, trying to make himself big, trying to turn a one-on-one into an act of intimidation.
Amad didn't blink.
He took it around him.
"AMADDDDD—"
One touch, calm, cruel, and suddenly Trapp was behind the play, spinning, helpless, and Amad was rolling the ball into an empty net.
4–2.
The stadium didn't roar this time. It didn't even boo properly. It simply fell into shock, the kind of stunned quiet that makes you hear your own breathing. The away end was the only sound, shrieking, limbs flying, bodies bouncing.
