57th Minute
The pressure was layered now—not frantic, not urgent. Just heavy. Like weight pressing in from all sides. Burnley had dropped ten men behind the ball, retreating not in fear but in fatigue. Bradford, meanwhile, squeezed them like a vice.
Taylor stepped past the halfway line again, boots soaked, kit clinging to his frame. Rojas darted forward on the overlap, forcing Burnley's winger to chase back—legs already half-dead. On the inside channel, Rin drifted into the half-space, tugging defenders with him like a puppeteer without strings.
Every touch had intent. No one played safe.
The ball pinged between Roney and Lowe, one-two, then chipped across to Chapman who stood—unmarked, somehow—twenty-five yards out, right of center. Burnley's defenders were too deep. Too narrow. Too late.
Jake felt the moment bloom before the strike.
Chapman didn't pause.
One touch to settle.
The next—everything.
Weight behind the hips. Plant foot firm. Shoulders square.
