⏱️ Minute 90
The fourth official held up his board: four minutes of added time. Charlotte were throwing everything forward, desperate to avoid the embarrassment of dropping points to local opponent.
But desperation made them sloppy. A long ball forward was easily dealt with by Leighton's defense, and suddenly Dylan found himself in possession in the center circle.
Ryker was wide open to his left, screaming for the ball. The safe pass. The captain's pass. The pass that would keep possession but do nothing to win the game.
Dylan looked up and saw something else entirely. A gap in Charlotte's defense that had opened up as their players poured forward. A space that existed for maybe three seconds before it would close forever.
[Oh, you're not seriously thinking about... you are, aren't you? From thirty yards? With the game on the line? You magnificent, deluded fool.]
Dylan's first touch was perfect, taking the ball away from the Charlotte midfielder who was closing him down. His second touch set himself up, the ball sitting up beautifully on the edge of the center circle.
The crowd seemed to sense what was coming. The noise level dropped to a murmur, 20,000 people holding their breath.
Dylan struck it with the outside of his right foot, the ball flying off his boot with a satisfying crack that echoed around the stadium. It was a technique he'd perfected years ago, a way of generating power while maintaining accuracy.
The ball curled through the air like it was following a predetermined path. The Charlotte keeper, who had been well off his line, could only watch as it soared over his head and dropped into the top corner of the net.
The connection between boot and ball had been perfect. The flight was perfect. The finish was perfect.
3-2 to Leighton.
"You said, my shooting stat was..?"
The system remained quiet.
For a moment, there was silence. Then the stadium erupted in a way that Dylan had never experienced before. It wasn't just the away fans now, even some of the Charlotte supporters were on their feet, applauding reluctantly.
Dylan didn't celebrate immediately. He stood there, watching the ball nestle in the net, feeling the weight of the moment. Then, slowly, he began to run toward the away end.
As he reached the touchline, he pulled off his shirt. Written across his chest in black marker were two words:
"STILL HERE."
The crowd's reaction was immediate and explosive. Half were booing, half were cheering, all were making noise. Flares appeared in the away end, creating a wall of orange smoke. Flags waved. Grown men hugged strangers.
Dylan stood there, arms outstretched, drinking it all in. This was what he'd missed. This was what he'd been searching for in every bottle, every pill, every moment of despair.
Pure, unadulterated football ecstasy.
***
🥳 Full Time
The final whistle blew thirty seconds later, but those thirty seconds felt like an eternity. Charlotte threw everything forward, but Leighton held firm. When the referee finally ended their misery, the away fans invaded the pitch. Their team was struggling to beat their local rivals.
Dylan was mobbed by his teammates, but also by fans who had jumped the barriers. Security tried to restore order, but it was hopeless. This was bigger than football now, it was a moment of pure catharsis for everyone involved.
[Well, well, well. Look who's gone and done it. The prodigal son returns with a vengeance. I'm almost impressed.]
Dylan laughed, still shirtless, still surrounded by chaos. "Almost?"
[Don't let it go to your head. You've won one derby, not the World Cup. But... fine. That was pretty spectacular.]
As the celebrations continued around him, Dylan caught sight of Captain Ryker near the tunnel. The older player was watching the scenes with a mixture of anger and grudging respect. Their eyes met across the pitch, and for a moment, neither man looked away.
Then Ryker shook his head and disappeared into the tunnel. Dylan would deal with that later. Right now, he had other things to worry about.
Like the fact that Taz was hopping toward him on one leg, his face split by an enormous grin.
"Dylan! DYLAN! That was mental! Absolutely mental!" the kid shouted over the noise.
[Aw, look at you two. It's like a football fairy tale. If fairy tales involved 30-year-old has-beens traumatizing teenagers with their emotional baggage.]
"Shut up," Dylan muttered, but he was still smiling.
***
As the chaos finally began to die down and the players made their way toward the tunnel, Dylan felt the familiar sensation of the system updating his stats.
[Match Complete: You absolutely carried that team. Like a sherpa climbing Everest, but with more swearing and better hair.]
[Man of the Match Bonus Applied]
[Legacy Points: +65]
[Level Up: 5 → 6]
[*New Passive Skill Unlocked: "Threadmaster" – 15% boost to passing accuracy during buildup plays*]
Updated Stats:
Level: 6
Legacy Points: 101
Physical Stats:
- Stamina: 72 (+3)
- Speed: 75 (+4)
- Passing: 82 (+8)
- Shooting: 73 (+5)
- Defending: 45 (unchanged)
Mental Stats:
- Confidence: 64 (+12)
- Discipline: 73 (+2)
- Leadership: 45 (+7)
Reputation: 105 (+15)
Active Skills:
- Crowd Igniter (+10% when fans are loud)
- Threadmaster (+15% pass accuracy in pressure buildup)
[Alright, alright... fine. That was genuinely impressive. You made me proud for once, you cocky fossil. Don't let it go to your head, though. You've got a long way to go before you're anything more than a third-tier hero.]
Dylan laughed to himself as he finally made it to the tunnel. The system was right, of course. This was just the beginning.
But what a beginning it was.
***
The Leighton changing room was carnage. Players were singing, dancing, and spraying each other with bottles of water (the club couldn't afford champagne). The music was deafening, some generic dance track that someone had found on their phone.
Dylan sat in the corner, finally putting his shirt back on, watching his teammates celebrate. He'd been in dressing rooms like this before, but never as the hero. Usually, he was the one who'd made the crucial mistake or missed the vital chance.
Manager Webb appeared beside him, looking like he'd aged ten years in the last two hours.
"That was..." Webb began, then stopped. "I don't have words, Dylan. That was the kind of performance that wins promotions."
"Listen," Webb continued, "I know things have been... difficult. Between you and some of the lads. But after today, after what you just did..."
"One game doesn't change everything," Dylan said quietly.
"No, but it's a start. You've got their attention now. Use it."
As if summoned by the mention of difficult relationships, Captain Ryker appeared in the doorway. The changing room gradually quieted as the other players noticed the tension.
Ryker walked over slowly, his face unreadable. For a moment, Dylan thought he might start another argument. Instead, the captain extended his hand.
"That was... that was something special," Ryker said grudgingly. "I've been playing at this level for five years, and I've never seen anything like that second goal."
Dylan shook his hand, surprised by the gesture. "Thanks, Skip."
"Don't make me regret this," Ryker added, but there was no venom in it. Just the warning of a man who'd been burned before.
As Ryker walked away, Taz hopped over on his crutches, unable to contain his excitement any longer.
"Dylan! Dylan! The reporters want to talk to you! They're calling it the goal of the season already!"
[Ooh, media attention. Your favorite thing. Try not to have another public meltdown, yeah?]
Dylan sighed. He'd forgotten about the media obligations. After a performance like that, there was no avoiding them.
"Alright, kid. Let's get this over with."
The media room at Charlotte's ground was packed. Dylan had seen bigger press conferences, but for a Division 3 derby, this was impressive. Cloud Sports were there, along with local radio and several national newspapers.
Dylan sat behind the microphone, still wearing his grass-stained shirt, trying to process what had just happened. The Man of the Match award sat on the table beside him, a small crystal trophy that probably cost about twenty pounds, but meant everything to him right now.
The first question came from a middle-aged reporter from the local paper.
"Dylan, that second goal, can you talk us through what you were thinking in that moment?"
Dylan leaned toward the microphone. "Honestly? I wasn't thinking much. I saw the space, I felt the ball come to me cleanly, and I just trusted my instincts. Sometimes football is about overthinking, but sometimes it's about just... doing."
[Very zen, master. Next you'll be telling them about your spiritual journey.]
"You've been out of the professional game for a while now," another reporter continued. "How does it feel to be back, and with such a spectacular performance?"
Dylan paused, considering his words carefully. "It feels... right. I won't lie, there have been times when I thought this day would never come. But I never stopped believing in my ability. I just needed the right opportunity."
A young woman from Cloud Sports raised her hand. "Dylan, there's been a lot of talk on social media about your... controversial status. Some fans clearly love you, others seem to hate you. How do you handle that kind of polarized reaction?"
This was the question Dylan had been dreading. The one that would define how this story was told.
[Careful now. This is where you either become a hero or confirm everyone's worst opinions. No pressure.]
Dylan looked directly into the camera, his voice steady and clear.
"You know what? I think football needs more villains. Everyone's so worried about being liked these days, about having the perfect image. But passion, real passion, isn't always pretty. If people want to boo me, if they want to hate me, that's fine. It means they care. It means what I do on the pitch matters to them."
The room was silent. Dylan could feel every eye on him.
"I'm not here to win a popularity contest. I'm here to win football matches. And if that makes me the villain in some people's story, then so be it. I'll be the best villain they've ever seen."
[Oh, you absolute attention-seeking drama queen. You're really going to lean into this, aren't you?]
Dylan smiled slightly. "But I'll tell you what—love me or hate me, you're going to remember my name. And in a few years, when people talk about this league, about this season, they're going to remember the day Dylan Allen reminded everyone why he was worth watching."
The press conference erupted. Reporters were shouting questions, cameras were flashing, and Dylan could already imagine the headlines: "Allen Promises Comeback."
[You magnificent, narcissistic disaster. You've just guaranteed that every team will be gunning for you twice as hard. You realize that, right?]
"I'm counting on it," Dylan whispered.
As he stood to leave, the Sky Sports reporter asked one final question.
"Dylan, what's next for you? Where do you see yourself in a year's time?"
Dylan picked up his Man of the Match trophy and looked at it for a moment. Such a small thing, but it represented everything he'd been fighting for.
"Next year? I will be competing against top players back in the top flight" he said while going away.
He paused at the door, looking back at the assembled media.
"But if you want a prediction? This is just the beginning. You ain't seen nothing yet."
[And there it is. The return of Dylan Allen, professional villain and part-time megalomaniac. This should be interesting.]
As Dylan walked out of the press conference, he could hear the reporters already calling their editors, already writing their stories. Tomorrow's headlines would write themselves.
But for now, he had a team to celebrate with, a reputation to rebuild, and a career to resurrect.
And Dylan Allen had never felt more alive.