Prrrtttt!
The whistle split through the stadium's roar.
The battle was over.
One hundred fifty minutes.
A war that stretched through sweat, grit, and sheer will.
Lincoln High had dragged themselves to the very edge—past exhaustion, past pain—into the crucible of extra time.
…
Julian exhaled softly, eyes fixed on the screen. Even thirty thousand feet above the earth, his heart was pounding.
From the very first half, Lincoln had burned everything.
They'd pressed like madmen—wave after wave, no hesitation, no retreat.
Every run, every tackle, every pass carved from pure resolve.
The stadium had shaken with their rhythm. The bleachers quivered under stomping feet, chants clashing against each other like war drums.
Lincoln wasn't just playing a game—they were imposing will. Even the neutrals in the crowd leaned forward, unable to tear their eyes away from this storm of red jerseys.
