"Go! Go!" Bram shouted, his voice breaking.
Percy carried forward, two touches, then slipped it left to Callen.
Callen sprinted down the line, his hair whipping, the crowd screaming. One defender closed. He cut inside, ball still at his feet, then stabbed it toward Daren.
But—C-9's captain slid, clean and sharp. Ball gone.
C-9 turned defense to attack in a heartbeat. Three passes. Four. The field tilted.
Their winger broke through again, crossing fast and flat. The ball whipped across the box—danger.
Mhed read it. He threw himself sideways, arms stretched. Fingers brushed leather. The ball deflected, just enough, skimming past the far post.
"Keeper!" Felix roared, pumping his fist.
The B-7 stands erupted in chants, Mhed's name echoing.
Corner kick.
The stadium leaned forward, noise swelling. The ball curled in, spinning like a blade.
Bodies clashed in the air. Shoulders slammed. Elbows scraped.
Felix rose highest. His forehead met the ball with a thud, clearing it high, far.
It dropped near midfield—straight to Bram.
The ball bounced once. Twice. Bram steadied, his chest burning, his mind screaming.
One opponent closed fast. Then another.
He had seconds.
Bram shifted left, rolled the ball with his sole, then darted right, letting the second defender overstep. Gasps from the crowd.
He pushed forward, boots slapping, heart pounding. Daren sprinted ahead, screaming for the ball—
And Bram lifted his head, weighing the pass.
The ball rolled in front of Bram. His chest lifted, lungs on fire. The grass was slick under his boots, sweat already running into his eyes. Then it happened, Replay Vision Tier 1 flickered for the first time since the gauntlet, glowing threads carving options across the field. A perfect chance.
He looked once to his left — nothing but white shirts. Looked right — Callen waving, too far. Ahead — Daren, sprinting, his arms chopping the air.
The crowd was already rising, the sound climbing higher, higher.
The first defender came at him. Fast. Low steps. Eyes sharp.
Bram dragged the ball back with his sole, let the defender lunge. The boot missed by a breath. Bram spun, shoulders twisting, ball glued to his foot.
"Go, Bram!" Percy's voice cracked from behind. Feine kept shouting on the sideline.
He didn't look back. He pushed forward, the ball tapping in rhythm — touch, touch, touch.
Another defender slid across. He was taller, wider. He stretched a leg long, trying to poke it away.
Bram flicked the ball sideways with the outside of his boot. Too far. His heart stopped.
No—he chased, body leaning, arm swinging for balance. The defender lunged—studs scraping, hand tugging Bram's shoulder. His hidden trait, Survivor's will always active, kept him going.
Bram gritted his teeth, shoved forward with his chest. The ball rolled just ahead. He caught it again. Barely.
The crowd screamed at the contact — half shouting "Foul!" half shouting "Play on!"
But the ref's whistle stayed silent.
49th minute.
Bram's strides grew heavier, but he didn't stop. Daren was still running, fighting shoulder to shoulder with the last center-back.
"Ball! Ball!" Daren roared, voice breaking.
Bram sucked air into his lungs. His boots thudded against the turf. The last defender in front of him spread wide, waiting, crouched like a wall.
Bram slowed. The ball rested at his feet.
The defender's eyes fixed on the ball. His knees bent, arms stretched.
Bram let one breath out.
He tapped the ball forward with his left boot. A feint.
The defender bit. He lunged left.
Bram snapped the ball to his right, cut sharp, shoulder brushing past. The defender's arm scraped his jersey but Bram was already gone.
Gasps tore out of the stands.
He saw it now—golden space, leading to goal, and green space also to Daren. The box. The keeper. Daren still screaming.
Bram raised his head, foot winding—Bram's chest heaved. His breath felt hot in his throat. The ball sat in front of him, rolling slow, begging.
The keeper moved out, arms wide like a shadow growing bigger and bigger.
"Shoot!" someone roared from the stands.
Bram's right foot drew back. His leg trembled, but he swung with everything.
Boot met ball.
Thud.
The sound cracked through the pitch. The ball spun, cutting low, slicing past the defender's outstretched boot.
The keeper dropped. Both gloves stretching, body stretched flat like a board.
The ball kept rolling—fast, straight—sliding under his arm.
The net shook.
For one breath, the whole dome went silent.
Then it exploded.
GOOAAAAL!
Cheers, screams, flags whipping in the air. The noise crashed down like thunder.
Bram stood frozen, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his chin. He blinked once, twice. The ball was really there, inside the goal.
He had scored.
Daren's arms slammed around him from the side, nearly knocking him down. "YES! YESSS! BRAM!"
Callen came next, grabbing his head and shaking him like a brother. Jory leapt onto his back. Percy jogged in slower, smiling calm, Collis on the bench celebrating on the sideline even Feine. "Mhed the keeper couldn't help but join in the jubilation." Jory clapped Bram's shoulder with pride.
Felix just pointed a finger at him from the backline and shouted, Again. We keep going."On the scoreboard above, the glow shifted:
C-9 – 0 | B-7 – 1
The match was alive now.
52 minutes played.
C-9 didn't waste time. The moment the game restarted, they moved like water poured from a jug—fast, flowing, everywhere at once.
Their passes cut left, then right. Players overlapped, white shirts darting into every gap.
Felix shouted, "Hold! Hold your line!"
B-7 dropped back, shoulders pressed tight, but C-9 kept pushing. Their midfield triangle spun sharp, pulling Bram out, dragging Percy deeper.
53'
One pass slipped through.
A striker in white turned quick, chesting the ball down. Jory lunged, but missed by a step. The striker rolled it sideways.
Another player was already there, swinging his boot.
Crack!
The ball flew hard, low, skidding over the turf.
Mhed dove. His gloves smacked it once—deflecting—but the ball spun loose, rolling back into the box.
Gasps ripped from the crowd.
54'
Chaos.
C-9's winger stormed in. Felix slammed into him shoulder first, both of them stumbling. The ball wobbled free again.
Bram sprinted, heart pounding, sweat blurring his eyes. His boot stretched, but another white jersey reached first.
Tap.
The ball flicked sideways.
And the striker was free.
One step. Two. He lifted his foot and swung.
Boom.
The net rippled.
For a second, it felt like the air left the dome. Then the roar came, half the crowd exploding with cheers, the other half groaning in despair.
GOOAALLLL!
The crowd can't believe it- the equalizer hits like a bolt of lightning. Fans are on the edge of their seats, faces painted in the team's colors, their eyes glued to the pitch.
" What a match! This game's on fire! The energy in here is unreal!" one student in class C shouted, clutching the person next to them in anticipation.
Another student in class C added, "I swear this is the most intense match, since the league started. This could go either way!"
The mood shifts slightly as class B slump, but the energy doesn't die down completely. Everyone's still standing but you can hear a few murmurs of concern.
The scoreboard shifted above:
C-9 – 1 | B-7 – 1
55'
Bram bent over, hands on his knees, chest burning.
Bram lifted his head, jaw tight, eyes burning with stubborn fire.
The match wasn't over.
56 minutes played and it's a draw.
The ball rolled back into play. The noise in the dome was heavy, like a storm that would not stop.
C-9 pushed again, their passes fast and clean. Their striker kept drifting between Felix and Jory, looking for one mistake. Every step he took made B-7's line tense.
Bram's shirt clung to him, sweat dripping from his jaw. His chest rose and fell, but his eyes stayed sharp.
57'
The ball dropped near midfield. Bram lunged, his boot stretching just enough to tip it away from his marker. He stumbled but kept balance, twisting his body.
He looked left. Nothing.
He turned right. A defender closing.
He dropped his shoulder, letting the ball roll past his foot, then snapped it forward.
It bumped ahead of Percy, who caught it in stride. The crowd roared at the break.
Percy carried, then sliced a pass out wide to Callen. Callen lifted his chin, hair plastered to his forehead, and whipped a low cross inside.
Daren crashed forward, shoulder to shoulder with a defender—he swung his boot—
But the keeper dived, fists punching the ball clear.
Groans spilled from the stands.
The cleared ball didn't travel far. Jory picked it, chesting it down near the halfway line. He shoved it quickly toward Bram.
Two C-9 players closed, fast as wolves. Bram felt their shadows, but he didn't panic. His first touch killed the ball, his second pushed it just out of reach, his third slid it across to Percy again.
Small steps. Small escapes.
Percy shifted, sent it right back. The ball rolled smooth across the grass. Bram met it, body turning, heart hammering.
One look up—Daren was sprinting, hand raised.
Bram didn't think. He swung. A long ball curved high, slicing through the air, dropping perfectly into space.
Daren threw his body at it, beating the defender by a breath. The ball bounced, and this time, his boot met it clean.
Thump.
It skimmed under the keeper's arm, grazing his glove—
And rolled over the line.
GOAL.
The dome exploded. The underdog section went wild, students screaming, drums beating, feet stomping like thunder.
But— far end of the corner line, Flag up suggesting offside.
60'
C-9 rushed the restart, desperate, but Felix was a wall. He threw his body into every block, Jory snapping at ankles, Percy chasing every pass.
The seconds drained. The whistle was in the referee's mouth.
One last long ball dropped into the box—Mhed rose, gloves snapping around it. He clutched it to his chest, falling to the turf as the final shrill whistle cut through.
Match over.
C-9 – 1 | B-7 – 1
The players dropped where they stood, lungs burning, hearts racing. Some cheered, some only bent double, gasping.
It wasn't victory. But it wasn't defeat either.
Against a team that moved like one mind, B-7 had stood, had fought, had scored.
And when Bram lifted his head, the chants from the stands weren't mocking anymore. They were louder. Wilder. His name was in them.
Bram Ashcroft.
The spark still burned.
**
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