Football System: Touchline God
Chapter 28: A Familiar Silhouette

Chapter 28: A Familiar Silhouette

The elderly man nodded at Claire’s comment about Morrison. His weathered face creased into a smile. "Smart girl. Most people don’t see past the fancy footwork."

Claire felt her cheeks warm. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "My dad made me watch endless match videos when I was younger."

Maddox watched the exchange with interest. Claire knew more about football than she let on. He filed that information away.

"What about their defense?" Maddox asked the old man. "They’re leaving too much space between the lines."

The elderly supporter’s eyebrows shot up. "You notice that too? Most fans just watch the ball." He studied Maddox more carefully. "You ever coach?"

"No," Maddox said quickly. "Just watch a lot of games."

The stadium speakers crackled to life. "Ladies and gentlemen, please return to your seats. The second half will begin in two minutes."

They shuffled back through the concrete corridors. The crowd’s energy had shifted during the break. Nervous excitement replaced the first half’s pure joy. One goal could change everything now.

Maddox settled into his seat and scanned the stands. Suddenly, a movement in the VIP section caught his eye. A familiar silhouette moved between the expensive seats. The figure wore a dark coat and walked with purpose.

Who was that? The shape tugged at his memory like a word on the tip of his tongue.

The person disappeared behind a pillar before Maddox could get a clear look. He shook his head. "Probably nobody important. Just my mind playing tricks."

Fweeeee!

The referee’s whistle pierced the night air. The second half began.

Cromley kicked off, passing the ball backward to their center-backs. The crowd settled into their seats, but the tension remained. You could feel it in the air like electricity before a storm.

Longford pressed high from the start. Their forwards harried every Cromley touch. The home team looked rattled. Passes went astray. Players took extra touches they couldn’t afford.

"Come on, lads!" shouted a man three rows down. "Get it together!"

In the forty-eighth minute, Longford nearly scored. Their striker rounded the keeper but shot wide from an impossible angle. The Cromley fans behind the goal clutched their chests like they’d dodged bullets.

"Bloody hell," Jenna whispered. "My heart can’t take this."

Sarah gripped the seat in front of her. Her knuckles had gone white. "How do people do this every week?"

The game ebbed and flowed like a tide. Cromley would build pressure, then Longford would break quickly on the counter. Neither team could find the killer pass.

Morrison, Cromley’s right winger, finally found space in the fifty-third minute. He cut inside from the touchline, beating two defenders with quick feet. The crowd rose as one.

"Go on!" the elderly man shouted. "Hit it!"

Morrison shaped to shoot, then slipped the ball to his strike partner instead. The striker’s first touch was heavy. The chance died.

Groans echoed around the stadium. Heads dropped into hands. Scarves were waved in frustration.

"Should have shot," Claire muttered. "Morrison had the angle."

Maddox glanced at her. She was leaning forward, completely absorbed. Her earlier nervousness had vanished. The game had hooked her.

Longford responded immediately. Their captain, a grizzled center-back with legs like tree trunks, launched a long ball forward. Their striker chased it down, using his strength to hold off Cromley’s defender.

The keeper came racing off his line. Striker and keeper converged on the bouncing ball. Time seemed to slow.

The striker got there first, but barely. He poked the ball past the diving keeper. It rolled toward the empty goal like a marble on a tilted table.

A Cromley defender appeared from nowhere. He slid across the goal line, desperate to clear. The ball struck his outstretched leg and bounced up into the air.

Twenty-eight thousand people held their breath.

The ball hung in the air for what felt like hours. Then it dropped safely into the keeper’s hands.

The stadium exploded with relieved cheers and nervous laughter. Hearts that had stopped beating suddenly remembered their job.

"Christ on a bike," the elderly man gasped. "Thought that was it."

The near miss seemed to wake Cromley up. They started passing with more purpose. Morrison began running at defenders instead of looking for the safe option.

In the fifty-seventh minute, he created the best chance of the half. A mazy run down the right wing left three Longford players on the ground. His cross found the striker unmarked at the back post.

The header was perfect. Low, hard, aimed for the bottom corner. The keeper had no chance.

But the ball struck the post with a metallic clang that echoed around the stadium. It bounced back into play, where a Longford defender hoofed it clear.

"Oh, come on!" Jenna screamed at the sky. "How is that not in?"

The Cromley fans couldn’t believe it. They’d hit the post, had a goal-line clearance, and watched their striker miss from six yards. Football could be cruel.

Longford sensed their chance. They pushed more players forward, leaving gaps at the back. The game opened up. Both teams chased the winner with increasing desperation.

As the clock ticked toward the sixtieth minute, tackles flew in harder. The referee’s whistle sounded more often. Yellow cards appeared like autumn leaves.

"It’s getting tasty now," the elderly man observed. "Always does when the stakes are high."

Maddox watched the tactical battle unfold. Both managers prowled their technical areas, barking instructions their players couldn’t hear over the crowd noise.

Cromley’s full-backs pushed higher up the pitch. Longford’s midfielders dropped deeper to cut out the supply line. It was like watching chess played at ninety miles per hour.

The intensity affected everyone in the stadium. Sarah found herself shouting at the referee for decisions she felt was wrong. Claire analyzed every tactical switch like a professional pundit.

Even Jenna, usually the calmest of the group, bounced in her seat during every attack.

"This is mental," she kept saying. "Absolutely mental."

The sixtieth minute approached with the score still tied at one-all. Both teams knew the next goal would probably be the winner. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

In the stands, fans checked their watches and calculated how much time remained. Children asked their parents if they could stay until the end. Old men muttered prayers to footballing gods.

Maddox found himself caught up in it all. The drama, the emotion, the shared experience of thousands of strangers united by ninety minutes of football.

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