Well, that's the end of the game! Hope you found it entertaining.
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The second half began with Ryan's team in the ascendancy. The new system was still working; they carved Les Sources open again and again. But a disease of wastefulness infected them, a side-effect of their newfound dominance.
The striker blazed over from close range. The left winger took an extra touch when a shot was on, allowing a last-ditch block. With each missed chance, a collective groan rose from their sideline, while the players' frustration began to boil over. The chances came, and the chances went.
A moment of pure class offered a brief respite. Ryan dropped deep to receive a pass, his back to goal. With a defender tight on him, he didn't turn. Instead, he delivered a delicate, back-heel pass that nutmegged his marker and rolled perfectly into the path of Karim's overlapping run.
Karim, now fully synced with Ryan, didn't hesitate. He played a first-time return pass into Ryan's path. Ryan, already on the move, took the ball in stride with one touch, looked up, and whipped a devastating, early cross into the penalty area.
It curved away from the goalkeeper and landed perfectly on the head of their unmarked striker. It was a sitter. A guaranteed goal.
The striker connected cleanly... and sent the ball soaring wildly over the crossbar and into the trees behind the pitch.
Each time they lost the ball in attack like that, Les Sources would look to launch an immediate counter. Ryan, reading the danger, became a frantic conductor of defense.
"Karim," he called out, his voice tight with controlled urgency. "Go back to your position, man. This rhythm ain't it. We're too open."
Karim nodded, understanding, and dropped deeper. But old habits died hard. On the very next attack, a midfielder unleashed a tame shot straight into the goalkeeper's hands.
With Karim again caught high up the pitch, a huge, empty corridor of space opened up in Ryan's half.
Seeing the vast, undefended territory ahead, the Les Sources goalkeeper acted instantly. He launched a devastating, long pass downfield, bypassing the entire midfield. The ball sailed towards his lone striker, who was already on the move and bullying his way past the other central defender, not giving Amir a chance to recover to double him.
The striker muscled his way through, now one-on-one with the goal. Ryan's goalkeeper, who had also crept off his line, sensed the danger too late. He was a few crucial yards out of position, It was all the space the striker needed.
He didn't take another touch. He just met the dropping ball on the half-volley, lashing a looping shot over the keeper's desperate, scrambling reach and into the back of the net.
1-1.
The silence from Ryan's sideline was deafening. It was a gift, a catastrophic, self-inflicted wound.
Ryan watched as Amir started yelling at Karim and the goalkeeper for their catastrophic errors.
He walked over calmly, cutting through the captain's fury.
He looked directly at a shell-shocked Karim. "Told you," he said, his voice flat.
Then he turned to Amir. "Man, I have a reputation to hold." He nodded toward the sideline where Samir and his usual crew were watching. "I usually don't care. But the first match? I have to show them how lucky they were to have me."
Amir stopped yelling. He looked at Ryan, then gave a single, sharp nod. He turned to Karim. "No more running. You are attached to my hip now. Understand?"
"Yo, big guy," Ryan said to Amir, a slow, calculating grin spreading across his face. "I noticed you have a beautiful head, you know."
Amir stared, confused. "Huh?"
"Let's get some corners," Ryan said, already walking back to his position for the restart.
"I'm sure the ball will kiss you... passionately."
The game was locked in a tense, nervous stalemate. Then, Ryan found a pocket of space on the right. He received the ball and drove straight at the byline, forcing the defender to commit. Instead of trying a hopeless cross from a tight angle, he shaped to shoot, then cleverly nudged the ball directly into the defender's planted leg.
It ricocheted off the defender's shin and spun out for a clear corner kick.
Ryan placed the ball for the corner. He looked across the crowded penalty area, his eyes finding Amir's. He gave one sharp, deliberate nod.
This is for you.
He took a short run-up and sent a curling, dangerous cross right to the spot where he knew Amir would be. The captain rose above everyone, meeting the ball cleanly with his forehead.
But the connection wasn't perfect. He got his head to it, but the ball lacked the thunderous power needed, floating gently into the goalkeeper's waiting hands instead of rippling the net.
A collective groan of "OOOHHHH!" swept through the spectators. The chance was there. The plan was right. But the final, decisive touch had eluded them.
As they trudged back to their half, Ryan fell into stride with Amir.
"You are such a sloppy kisser, my man," he said, shaking his head in mock disappointment.
"Fuck off," Amir grunted, but there was no heat in it.
"Don't worry," Ryan said with a grin. "Maybe the ball will give you another chance."
Amir nodded, then as he broke into a jog to take his defensive position, he called back over his shoulder, "That was cute. Didn't see it coming from you."
Ryan shook his head, a slow, satisfied smirk spreading across his face.
"Oh, he's reacting. I guess being with me makes people smarter."
The goal seemed to have sealed Les Sources' fate. They threw everyone forward in a last, desperate surge, but the attack fizzled out. Now, with seconds left, they had ten players packed deep inside their own half, forming a wall of bodies in the penalty area, killing all the space. A goal seemed impossible.
It was then that they won a final, fleeting corner.
Ryan jogged over to take it. The box was a chaotic mass of bodies. He didn't need to search for Amir this time; he knew exactly where he was. A shorter, sharper, charged nod passed between them, a connection forged in the heat of the battle.
Ryan delivered another perfect, insistent cross, somehow finding a path through the forest of players.
Amir rose like a thundercloud above the packed defense. The thwack of his forehead connecting with the ball was a sound of pure, furious finality. It bulleted through the crowd, past the goalkeeper's desperate dive, and slammed into the roof of the net.
2-1.
The roar from their sideline was seismic. Amir was immediately swarmed by his teammates in a chaotic, jubilant pile. After a few seconds of pure elation, he pushed them back, his face transforming from ecstatic to deadly serious. He pointed a finger, sweeping it across the entire team.
"NO MORE ERRORS!" he roared, his voice cutting through the celebration. "I SWEAR IF THEY SCORE, I WILL HUNT YOU ALL!"
As the cheers continued, Ryan didn't join the fray. He simply turned and dropped deep, positioning himself between his defenders and the midfield. When Les Sources kicked off, they launched one last, desperate attack, but the ball was cleared directly to Ryan.
He didn't try anything fancy. He killed the ball dead, shielded it from a frantic opponent, and played a simple, safe square pass to Karim.
They recycled possession, passing it calmly among the defense and midfield, eating up the final, precious seconds.
The referee's whistle blew, sharp and final, sealing the 2-1 victory.
As the cheers and back-slapping began, Ryan walked over to where Karim and Amir stood catching their breath.
He gestured down at his boots, scuffed and dusty, and to a red mark on his shin from a late tackle. "Nah," he announced, his voice flat.
"I'm not playing with you again. Too much work for a new hire." A lazy wave. "Goodbye."
He started walking off the pitch.
Amir didn't even look concerned. He just called after Ryan's retreating back, his voice full of knowing amusement. "Yo, Trouble! See you next match."