Beyer Marcel strode back onto the pitch, his heartbeat thundering louder than the crowd itself.
The sting of Lourenço's words still echoed in his mind — "useless striker." It churned something inside him, a quiet rage that began to twist into resolve.
His eyes sharpened, scanning the pitch with renewed focus.
The match pressed on. Maraford, desperate for a goal, surged forward with renewed urgency.
Their midfield line, led by Hray and Ramírez, began threading swift, tight passes, breaking through Ness with sharp footwork as they dashed forward.
Gray received the ball, weaving past his marker before sending a clever pass toward Zhilin.
Zhilin took the chance and launched the ball toward the Devertary United post but Lucius reacted swiftly, deflecting it away with a punch.
The loose ball rolled out to Vega, who seized the moment. With effortless control, he dribbled past Leon, Ronoa, and Night down the left flank, leaving a trail of desperate tackles behind.
He slipped a pass toward Gray, who tried to flick it goalward but Devertary's defense held firm, Shawn Lucius once again stepping up with a crucial block.
The ball spilled back into play, landing at Ness's feet. Reading the field with precision, he cut off Maraford's regrouping attempts and sent a quick pass toward Ronoa.
Esteban Vega anticipated it, lunging to intercept but the ball whisked cleanly past him.
Just before it could connect with Ronoa, another figure burst forward, Ramírez. The Maraford captain darted in, snatching the ball and spinning around with renewed vigor. He dashed upfield, sending a pass wide to Zhilin.
Zhilin lifted his head and whipped in a dangerous cross from the right flank, aiming squarely for Marcel but Leon leapt above everyone, meeting it mid-air and clearing the danger with a powerful header that sent the ball spiraling back toward midfield.
Ness collected the rebound. Devertary United launched a counterattack instantly lightning-fast and lethal.
Ness tore forward, slicing through Gary, Lothar, and Vega with a dazzling display of control. His mere presence sent Maraford's defenders scrambling.
As he neared the box, he split the last two defenders with a sudden feint, leaving them flat-footed. With calm precision, he slid the ball across to Axel, who was now charging in from the right.
The crowd roared as Axel approached the box, the goal looming ahead. He steadied himself, took two quick strides, and unleashed a fierce low drive toward the bottom corner
But Mat Akersson was ready. With lightning reflexes, the Maraford goalkeeper dived to his right, stretching full length to tip the ball wide with his fingertips.
The stadium erupted gasps and cheers colliding in a storm of noise as Akersson leapt up, shouting to his defenders to regain their shape.
The clock ticked mercilessly into the final minute of regular time with seven minutes of additional play to come.
Maraford pressed again, one final push to salvage pride. Ramírez, despite his earlier doubts, began to move with that familiar calm authority that once made him the soul of the team.
Gathering the ball near midfield, he pivoted past a sliding Leon and surged forward.
He found Gray on the right, and Gray responded with pace dashing forward before lofting a long return pass back to Ramírez, who had continued his run.
Marcel, meanwhile, slipped silently between the Devertary United center-backs, his eyes locked on Ramírez.
For a brief heartbeat, their gazes met a wordless understanding between captain and striker.
Ramírez threaded a perfectly timed through ball between Poker and Chris. The ball skimmed across the grass, curling perfectly into Marcel's path.
Marcel didn't hesitate. Poker and Chris closed in instantly, but he planted his left foot, pivoted, and let his right leg swing with explosive precision slipping between them like a blade through water.
The strike that followed was thunderous a devouring shot that sliced through the air. Lucius dived instinctively, but the ball screamed past him and smashed into the top corner of the net.
The stadium erupted into chaos a wave of cheers, disbelief, and roaring emotion.
Marcel stood frozen for a heartbeat, chest heaving, eyes wide. Then slowly, he turned toward the sideline, his gaze locking onto Lourenço. No words were needed his look said everything.
Maraford 1 — Devertary United 5.
Scored in the 97th minute (90+7).
Moments later, the final whistle pierced the air.
As the Maraford players celebrated their single consolation goal, Marcel raised his hand toward the stands. His expression was calm, unreadable but the fire in his eyes told the story.
The "useless striker" had become the only light in Maraford's darkest hour.
As the final whistle echoed through the stadium, the roar of the crowd faded into a strange, hollow silence.
Maraford players stood scattered across the pitch some with hands on their knees, others staring at the ground, their faces drenched in sweat and disappointment.
The scoreboard burned mercilessly in red letters:
Maraford 1 — Devertary United 5.
Though the single goal had come too late to save the match, for a brief moment, it had reignited the hearts of Maraford supporters if only to remind them that pride was not yet lost.
Beyer Marcel stood near the center circle, still catching his breath.
His teammates slowly gathered around him, some patting his shoulder, others too weary to speak.
Across the field, the Devertary players were celebrating, their cheers echoing like a storm of triumph.
On the sideline, Paulo Lourenço stood motionless. His arms had dropped to his sides, and his once-firm expression was replaced by something unreadable a mixture of relief, regret, and shame.
For all his tactical calls, his anger, and his desperate commands, it was the very man he had insulted Marcel who had found the net.
As the Maraford players trudged toward the tunnel, Lourenço turned slowly, his eyes following Marcel.
The young striker walked with quiet dignity, not celebrating, not smiling just calm. That calm, Lourenço realized bitterly, was the mark of a player who didn't need approval anymore.
---
Inside the locker room, the atmosphere was heavy. No one spoke at first; the only sounds were the hiss of the showers and the thud of boots being pulled off. The air smelled of sweat, turf, and frustration.
Lourenço finally entered, his presence drawing uneasy glances. He walked to the front of the room, his expression unreadable.
For a moment, he simply stood there, hands behind his back.
Then, in a tone much quieter than anyone expected, he said, "Five goals conceded. One scored." His gaze swept across the team. "That's not Maraford football."
Silence.
He exhaled heavily, looking down. "We broke shape, lost focus, and let them dictate every rhythm of the match.
Our defense collapsed under pressure, and our midfield lost control."
He paused, his eyes landing on Ramírez the captain sat slumped on the bench, towel over his head, his face hidden.
"Ramírez… I don't know what happened out there. You weren't yourself."
Ramírez didn't respond.
Then Lourenço's eyes moved to Marcel. "And you…" His voice softened slightly. "That goal it was beautiful."
The locker room stirred faintly; a few players looked up in surprise.
Lourenço nodded once, his jaw tightening. "You proved a point today, Marcel. Maybe to me… maybe to yourself."
Marcel met his gaze quietly. "I wasn't proving anything, Coach," he said, his voice low but steady. "I just played my part the same as I always try to."
Lourenço looked at him for a long moment, the air between them heavy with unspoken tension. Then he turned away. "Get some rest. We'll talk tomorrow."
As the coach left the room, the players sat in silence. Marcel leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling, his chest still rising and falling from the effort.
Outside, the crowd was dispersing but in the distance, faint chants of his name still echoed through the stadium.
For the first time that night, a small, tired smile tugged at the corner of Marcel's lips.
He had not saved the match but he had saved his name.