Minute 43.
The chance came—finally, after a storm of wasted chances, the door cracked open.
Julian stood in the center, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his jaw.
The rhythm of the match had shifted again, the defenders weary but still clinging, like men clinging to a wall in a flood.
He felt the pull in his body, the call of the pitch.
Leo darted up beside him, the two of them sliding roles without a word.
Striker and playmaker—no fixed line between them. Noah waited wide left, Felix cutting sharp on the right, Leo ghosting ahead in the middle.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +15 Technique Attributes]
Julian's eyes sharpened. The ball at his feet sang like steel under his control.
With the outside of his boot, he faked left—body twisting, hips lying—but the ball bent right, slicing through the grass like a blade toward Felix.
Crenshaw's defenders bit on the feint, shadows dragged the wrong way. But not Javion.
He read it. He always read it.
