The Next Big Thing
Chapter 113: United vs Chelsea FA Cup Semis II

Chapter 113: United vs Chelsea FA Cup Semis II

The 42nd minute came with a sudden shift in the atmosphere. Chelsea earned a corner after Giroud’s shot was deflected out by Lindelöf. The players moved into position, the air around Old Trafford heavy with tension. David’s eyes locked onto the far end of the pitch as Willian walked over to take the corner. Even without the usual roar of the crowd, the intensity was palpable.

Willian stood poised over the ball, his arms slightly raised as he signaled. His right foot struck it cleanly, curling the ball into the box with precision. The players—both Manchester United and Chelsea—instinctively turned their eyes to the sky, tracking the flight of the ball. It hung in the air, spinning, dipping, and curving toward the crowded penalty area.

David couldn’t help but crane his neck upward, following the ball with an eagerness that made him momentarily forget the ache in his leg. "Get it out!" someone yelled from the United bench, but David barely noticed. His eyes were glued to the scene unfolding in the penalty box.

The ball descended into a sea of bodies, players jostling for position. Among them, Antonio Rüdiger surged forward, his powerful frame muscling through the chaos. Eric Bailly, ever the fearless defender, leapt alongside him. Both men rose high, their eyes laser-focused on the ball, determined to claim it.

Then it happened.

Their heads collided with a sickening thud that echoed around the stadium. The sound was enough to make even the most hardened players wince. Both men crumpled to the ground, the ball bouncing away harmlessly. Gasps erupted from both benches, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze.

David shot to his feet, the pain in his leg forgotten. The players swarmed around the two fallen defenders, their faces etched with concern. Rüdiger stirred first, clutching his head as he slowly got to his feet, wobbling slightly but determined to stay upright. The Chelsea players helped steady him, their worry shifting to Bailly, who remained motionless on the grass.

"MEDICS!" someone shouted, and in an instant, the medical staff sprinted onto the pitch. The urgency in their movements sent a chill through David. Even the Chelsea bench stood, their expressions mirroring the worry on the faces of the United players.

David watched intently, his heart pounding. Bailly began to stir, but his movements were sluggish, his hand barely lifting to touch his head. The medics worked quickly, stabilizing him before calling for the stretcher. As they prepared to cart him off, the stadium fell into an eerie silence.

Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, usually composed, was pacing furiously along the touchline. His face was red with frustration as he muttered curses under his breath. Finally, he turned and barked, "Martial, warm up!"

The bench froze. David blinked in confusion, as did the rest of the substitutes. A striker for a defender? The decision was unorthodox, to say the least. But Martial, thrilled at the unexpected opportunity, jumped to his feet with a grin and began stretching, eager to get onto the pitch.

As the stretcher passed the United bench, David caught a glimpse of Bailly. His head was bandaged, his face pale but calm. David couldn’t help but stand, watching as they carried his teammate away. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Bailly, ever the warrior, raised a shaky hand and gave a thumbs-up.

David’s chest tightened. "Damn," he muttered, sitting back down heavily.

Beside him, Mata’s voice broke the silence. "The cons of football," he said softly, his tone somber.

David nodded, his thoughts racing. He couldn’t stop thinking about the collision, imagining the pain of clashing heads with someone as solid as Rüdiger. His eyes drifted back to the pitch, where the Chelsea defender stood talking to his teammates, seemingly unfazed by the brutal impact. "What kind of head does he have?" David thought, a shiver running down his spine.

Mata’s voice came again, this time lighter. "Let’s hope we win now."

David looked back at the pitch. Martial was jogging into position, his face alight with determination. Wan-Bissaka, still shaken, was retreating to take his place in the defensive line. David’s eyes flicked across the United players, searching for some reassurance. Finally, he let out a deep breath and said, almost to himself, "We’ll win."

He wasn’t sure if he believed it again or if he was simply trying to comfort himself. Either way, the words hung in the air, a quiet declaration of hope amidst the tension.

The referee signaled for eleven minutes of added time, and a collective groan rippled through the Manchester United bench.

"Eleven minutes?!" Ole Gunnar Solskjaer exclaimed, throwing his hands up in disbelief. "That’s outrageous!" He paced up and down the technical area, muttering under his breath before sitting back down. The frustration on his face was clear, and it wasn’t long before the bench started murmuring about it.

"Eleven minutes?!" Ighalo echoed, his voice rising. "This is insane!"

"Completely absurd," someone added, shaking their head.

"It’s fair, though," Mata said calmly, shrugging as he leaned back on the bench.

Ighalo turned to him, his eyes narrowing. "Of course the blue would say that!" he teased, referencing Mata’s Chelsea past.

Mata burst out laughing. "Dude, I’m a Manchester United player now! My allegiance is with United, one hundred percent!"

"Yeah, yeah," Ighalo muttered with a smirk, but even he couldn’t help chuckling as the two shared a laugh.

David, however, didn’t join in the banter. His eyes were glued to the pitch, his heart pounding in his chest. The game had turned into a chaotic back-and-forth battle, with both teams desperate for a decisive goal. Every pass, every tackle, every shot felt like it carried the weight of the entire match.

As the clock ticked toward the eleventh minute of added time, David couldn’t take it anymore. He leaned forward, his fingers gripping the edge of his seat. "It’s time," he said, his voice sharp with urgency. "It’s time."

But Mata’s calm voice came from beside him. "Yeah, but Chelsea’s on the attack."

David’s head snapped toward the pitch, his heart sinking as he saw Mason Mount driving forward with the ball. Mount danced past Matic with a quick feint, then evaded a sliding challenge from Wan-Bissaka. His control was immaculate, the ball glued to his feet as he surged toward the box.

"Come on, someone stop him!" David muttered, his voice almost a whisper now.

Mount lifted his head and sent a curling cross into the box, perfectly weighted. The ball soared through the air, drawing defenders and attackers alike. Harry Maguire lunged to clear it, but the ball bounced off Azpilicueta, creating chaos in the six-yard box. Lindelöf and Fred scrambled to get a touch, but the ball fell to Giroud, who reacted first.

The Frenchman extended his leg, poking the ball past a helpless David de Gea.

"GOALLLLL!" erupted from the Chelsea bench. Players leapt to their feet, hugging and shouting in pure elation. Frank Lampard sprinted down the touchline, his arms raised in triumph before he started jumping in celebration.

David sat frozen, his hands on his face, unable to believe what had just happened. He muttered under his breath, the disappointment hitting him like a truck. "Fuck."

Around him, the Manchester United bench was silent, the weight of the moment sinking in. The players on the pitch looked deflated, heads down, as Chelsea celebrated their late goal. The once-hopeful energy at Old Trafford evaporated, replaced by a tense, bitter stillness.

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