The whistle pierced the dome again.
Second half.
The ball rolled out from the center circle, pushed forward by Percy's boot. Every player surged into motion at once, the noise of the crowd rising like a wave.
B-7 didn't rush. Not this time. The ball shifted sideways to Callen, who held it for one heartbeat—long enough for Bram to scan the pitch. A-3 pressed fast, their forward closing in, arms pumping, teeth bared.
Here they come again.
Callen tapped it back. Felix swept it wide to Percy.
The midfielder trapped, his shoulders loose, eyes flicking left, right, then forward. An A-3 defender was already there, crouched low, weight on his toes. The duel snapped to life instantly. Percy feinted one way, dragged the ball the other, his hips rolling like water. The defender lunged—too sharp. Percy spun, slipped free, the crowd roaring.
Daren bellowed from the middle, arm raised. "Cross!"
Percy whipped his leg—ball soaring in a curling arc.
Bram sprinted with it, lungs burning. The ball cut toward Daren, who leapt, head swinging like a hammer. But the A-3 keeper read it, gloves snatching the ball mid-air with a brutal smack.
Groans burst from the B-7 section. Cheers rose from the opposite stands.
The keeper wasted no time—boot swung, ball booming the other way.
"Back!" Felix barked.
They scrambled into shape.
The A-3 winger caught it in stride, chesting it down. He darted inside, cutting across Bram's path. Bram pivoted, his body lowering, shadowing the run. Boots clashed—tap, tap, tap—the ball still glued to the winger's feet.
He wants the overlap. Don't bite. Don't—
The winger shifted, disguised pass. The fullback stormed up the line, collecting it clean. Percy shouted, chasing.
Cross incoming.
Felix roared, charging across the box. He smashed it clear with his head again, but the rebound spun right back into midfield.
A-3 recycled instantly.
Pass. Switch. Run.
Their rhythm never broke.
The crowd's chanting grew louder, a drumbeat pulsing with every touch.
Bram's eyes narrowed. His legs ached from the sprint, but his mind locked on the pattern. They're not faster. They're not stronger. They're just… certain. Every step, every pass, like they've seen this game already.
The System hummed in his head,
[ Mmm… déjà vu, isn't it, Host? They draw the map, and you just walk their path. How long until you step off it? ]
Bram gritted his teeth, sliding closer to his man. Soon.
The ball zipped back inside.
And the storm began again.
Boots struck turf in a steady drum.
The ball zipped across midfield—A-3 dictating, one touch at a time. Their center midfielder barely looked, just flicked the ball sideways with the outside of his foot. Another touch, another pass. Always smooth. Always certain.
Bram slid into the space, eyes locked on the ball. He didn't chase blindly—he shadowed, timing the gaps.
The midfielder checked his shoulder once, then shaped to pass forward.
Bram lunged.
Boot smacked leather—thunk! The ball skipped off course.
The crowd gasped.
But the A-3 player didn't falter. In the same motion, he twisted his body, toe tapping the loose ball back into space. Another A-3 shirt was already there, swooping in to collect it.
Bram clenched his jaw. They recover before they even lose it.
Daren was next to crash forward, arms pumping, sweat flying. He slammed into the A-3 midfielder shoulder-first. The impact rattled the boy, but he twisted mid-hit, spinning free with a roll of his hip. The ball never left his foot.
"Damn it!" Daren roared, stumbling back.
Felix's voice cut through, sharp as steel. "Hold shape! Don't dive!"
The midfield clash raged. Callen charged from the side, boots clattering, trying to intercept. He got a toe in—ball ricocheted. For half a heartbeat, loose.
"Mine!" Bram barked.
He dove in, body stretching, leg stabbing forward. His studs kissed the ball, dragging it back. He snapped upright, chest heaving, arms out to shield.
A-3 swarmed instantly. Two players. No time.
Bram twisted his hips, shoved the ball out with the side of his boot, pivoting to escape the first.
The second came crashing in.
Bram ducked, rolled his shoulder through the contact, and shoved the ball wide with his instep. Percy darted into the channel, collecting it.
The stands erupted—B-7 possession at last.
Percy spun, legs pumping, eyes on the open space ahead. The crowd rose with him. He carried, carried—then slammed into a double-team.
The ball popped loose again.
Groans.
An A-3 midfielder pounced.
"Back!" Felix barked again.
They reset.
Bram chased, lungs burning. His mind was sharp, but his legs screamed. He locked onto the A-3 rhythm once more, tracking every pass.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Always one step ahead.
Another pass came in. Another duel. Another clash.
The war in midfield never stopped.
Minute by grinding minute, the storm went on.
The ball zipped across the pitch—fast, sharp, precise.
A-3 moved like a machine. Every pass cut space, every run pulled threads out of B-7's shape.
"Left! Left!" Felix shouted, dragging the line.
Callen lunged for a tackle, studs scraping grass. Too slow. A-3's winger skipped past, dragging the ball with him.
"Cover!" Jory screamed, voice breaking.
The winger slashed inside, boot snapping. A low shot screamed toward the bottom corner.
Time slowed.
Bram was there—legs burning, lungs tearing, but there. He slid in front, foot stabbing out.
Thwack!
The ball deflected, skidding just wide of the post.
Gasps rippled through the stands.
The A-3 section roared, fists pumping. Their coach clapped once, calm, like he'd expected the chance all along.
Bram pushed himself back up, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes. His teammates swarmed him—Daren slapped his back hard, Percy grabbed his shoulder.
"You saved us again!" Jory gasped.
Bram shook his head. "Not enough. They'll keep coming."
Bram spat onto the grass, eyes sharp. Not yet.
A-3 restarted, hammering forward again.
Pass. Pass. Drag. Switch.
But this time, Percy bit down, refusing to yield. He shadowed the winger stride for stride, then darted in—boot flicking, stealing the ball clean.
The stands erupted.
Percy surged forward, eyes flashing. One man beaten. Then another. His hair flew behind him as the pitch opened ahead.
"Go, Percy!" Daren roared, sprinting to join him.
The roar of the crowd surged, hope flickering alive.
Percy cut inside, slipped a pass toward Daren—intercepted.
Groans crashed back down like waves.
A-3 reset instantly, choking the spark.
Bram bit his lip, frustrated, but his chest swelled with a strange heat.
They weren't breaking completely. Not yet. Sparks still lived.
Felix barked once more, voice steady despite the storm: "Again! Reset! Hold together!"
And B-7 obeyed.
Step by step, duel by duel, they fought the tide.
The scoreboard still read: B-7: 0 — A-3: 1.
But for the first time since the whistle, it didn't feel hopeless.
It felt like fire, stubborn and raw, still refused to go out.
The clock ticked. Forty-five minutes.
Every breath was harder now. Boots heavier. Jerseys clung like wet cloth.
"Switch it! Switch it!" Felix barked, voice hoarse.
But A-3 were merciless. Their wingers kept running like wolves, biting at B-7's flanks. Every pass they strung together carved more space, more pressure.
Jory staggered after another sprint, hands on his knees. His face was pale, gasping. "Coach! I—" He couldn't finish. His lungs burned too much.
The referee's whistle cut sharp. Substitution.
The crowd buzzed.
B-7's coach waved, signaling. "Jory, off! Collins, on!"
The bench erupted. Collins—a wiry defender with eager eyes—tore off his jacket, sprinting to the touchline.
Jory stumbled out, drenched, muttering curses under his breath. Daren slapped his shoulder. "Rest, idiot. You gave everything."
Bram glanced at him as Collins jogged past, raising a hand. Good. Fresh legs. We need it.
The game restarted.
A-3 wasted no time. Pass, drag, switch. Their rhythm was relentless, a drumbeat that didn't tire.
Collins lunged in hard, trying to stamp his presence. The crowd cheered—then gasped. The winger danced past him like smoke, cross whipping in before he could recover.
The striker rose—Felix slammed into him mid-air. The clash echoed, bodies tumbling, but the ball spun loose, rolling just outside the box.
Another A-3 midfielder pounced—boot pulled back.
"Block!" Bram screamed, legs already moving.
But he was a step late.
The shot came. Low. Fast.
The keeper dived—fingers brushing it.
The ball deflected, spinning… toward the far post.
The crowd roared, half-standing, waiting for the net to bulge—
—and the whistle blew.
Offside.
Gasps. Groans. Cheers.
Relief tore through B-7 like air to drowning men.
Bram bent over, hands on his knees, chest heaving. His eyes burned, but his lips curled faintly.
Not yet.
The scoreboard still glared: 0–1.
The clock read: 52 minutes.
Eight left.
The storm wasn't over.
**
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