Maddox's breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening as Kai approached the edge of the final third.
"Go on, kid… trust yourself…" and he murmured under his breath, his voice a silent prayer carried on the wind.
A Crestford midfielder lunged desperately but he was too slow, too late with the tackle. Moreno sidestepped the challenge with a neat touch off the outside of his boot, the ball dancing away from the tackle as if mocking the defender's effort.
Up ahead, Bradley Gorran, the lanky substitute striker who had been less impactful but much better than Nathan Keene for much of the game, sensed his moment.
He'd been relentless, pressing, shifting defenders, and holding his line with a tenacity that belied his limited chances. And now, for the first time, he broke free from his marker, cutting diagonally into the left channel of the 18-yard box with the grace of a predator stalking its prey.
Moreno saw it instantly, his vision honed by hours of extra practice. His right foot planted firmly, his body twisting with the elegance of a dancer, and then he released it—a through pass that split two defenders like a razor through the finest silk.
The ball was struck perfectly, neither too strong nor too short, a thing of breathtaking beauty that seemed to defy the tension of the moment.
Bradley Gorran pounced on it like a hawk diving for its target, letting the ball roll just ahead of him before caressing it with the outside of his boot inside the penalty area.
The Crestford goalkeeper rushed forward, his arms flailing in a frantic bid to close the gap, but Gorran remained composed.
'Not this time.' He thought.
With a predator's focus, he drew back his right leg and hammered the shot low and hard across goal.
The ball skimmed the dew-kissed grass, a blur of motion that smashed into the bottom corner with a resounding—thwack—. The net bulged violently, the sound, a crescendo that ignited the stadium.
The crowd exploded with cheers, Silvergate's sparse faithful unleashing a roar that shook the stands, while the Crestford supporters fell into a stunned hush, their earlier confidence shattered.
[> "OH MY! It's three for Silvergate!" <] Dave's voice thundered through the speakers, his excitement a wildfire.
[> "Bradley Gorran with the finish—and it's Kai Moreno this time around, the midfield maestro with the assist!" <] Paul chimed in, his tone brimming with reverence.
[> "From 6-0 to 6-3. Maddox's boys have found something magical here—something unstoppable!" <] Dave added, his words a testament to the unfolding miracle.
Gorran turned and sprinted toward the bench, his fist pumping the air, his face twisted in pure, adrenaline-fueled joy that lit up the night.
His teammates caught him halfway in a tidal wave of celebration as they piled on, their shouts and laughter bellying their opponent's complaint for a possible offside.
On the sideline, Maddox couldn't suppress the grin spreading across his face, a rare crack in his stoic facade that revealed the pride swelling in his chest. The system interface chimed with updates.
[Kai Moreno – Confidence +5 | Decision-Making Rating Progressing…
Bradley Gorran – Bond Level: Initiated → "Warming Up"
Team Morale: 58% → 64%]
The transformation was undeniable. Silvergate had clawed back from the abyss, their spirit reborn in the crucible of this match.
Beside Maddox, Crowther stood motionless, his arms folded stiffly, his nostrils flaring like a bull sizing up a rival. "Crowther's not surprised, Bradley's been showing glimpses of exceptional talent ever since he brought him to the academy." he mumbled in his flat, grating monotone. "He always knew that boy had a goal in him… eventually."
The remark hung in the air, a thinly veiled attempt to claim credit while subtly undermining Maddox, his habit of picking at his nose during key moments adding to the irritation.
Maddox didn't respond, his eyes were fixed on Gorran as the striker rejoined the fray, then shifting to Moreno, who jogged back with a quiet confidence. His gaze swept over the pitch, taking in the team that had refused to die quietly—the team he was shaping, one heartbeat at a time.
The scoreboard blinked ominously—
### Crestford Colts 6 – 3 Silvergate Youth Sailors
## 83:09
—but the numbers no longer told the full story. This was more than a game; it was a resurrection, a testament to the fire Maddox had kindled and the potential he was beginning to unlock.
The Crestford coach paced furiously, his earlier smugness replaced by a scowl as he barked orders to his rattled squad.
The Colts were no longer the dominant force they'd been at halftime; their shield was cracking under the relentless pressure of Silvergate's resurgence.
Maddox felt the momentum shifting, a tidal wave building that threatened to wash away the remaining minutes of the match. His mind raced with possibilities of another goal, another chance to turn this already crumbling nightmare into every coach's dream.
As the game resumed, the stadium pulsed with a new energy, the air thick with the scent of sweat and grass.
Maddox's grin faded into a focused stare, his body coiled like a spring, ready to guide his Sailors toward the next strike. This wasn't just about catching up on the scoreboard—it was about defending their honour.
The tide wasn't merely turning—it had turned. Crestford looked shellshocked, their midfield disjointed, their back four rigid like statues frozen in fear. Hands rested on hips, sideways glances darted toward their bench, and the confidence that had carried them to a 6-0 lead had evaporated.
Maddox's boys, on the other hand, were buzzing with their heads high, passes crisp, movements fluid. The energy was electric, a current running through the team that promised more to come.
At the 89th minute, that promise materialized. A reckless challenge from a Crestford defensive midfielder caught Eli Fortis with a late tackle on the ankle, earning Silvergate a free kick twenty-three yards from goal, slightly to the right of center—a dangerous spot that sent a ripple of anticipation through the crowd.
The Crestford coach glanced at the time and a slight wave of relief washed over him. "We're seconds away from injury time, a comeback is logically impossible..., right?" He muttered, reassuring himself while nibbling on his fingernails.