The Next Big Thing
Chapter 91: The Price of Brilliance

Chapter 91: The Price of Brilliance

David Jones stood near the edge of the pitch, his heart still pounding from the thrill of his goal. The rush of the moment lingered, the echoes of the ball hitting the net still fresh in his mind. A satisfied smile tugged at his lips as he turned, ready to make his way to the corner post to celebrate. Just as he took his first step forward, a sudden rush of air brushed past his ear, sharp and swift, like something had just narrowly missed him.

Startled, he spun around, his pulse quickening.

Millwall’s goalkeeper, Bartosz Białkowski, stood a few steps away, his arm still extended, fingers slightly curled as if he had just pulled back from an attempted strike. His usually composed face was twisted in a scowl, eyes burning with something between frustration and fury.

David froze, confusion clouding his thoughts. Was that intentional? Did Bartosz actually just try to hit him? For a brief second, he expected some kind of explanation—maybe an apology, maybe even just a glare and a shake of the head. But instead, Bartosz’s expression only darkened further.

Without a word, the goalkeeper took a step forward. Then another. His posture was rigid, his fists clenched at his sides, his entire body radiating anger.

Bartosz didn’t answer. His movements quickened, his steps heavier.

And then he shouted, voice thick with frustration, "What the hell is wrong with you? Do you want to injure Murray?"

David’s brows furrowed in surprise, his mind scrambling to process the accusation. But before he could respond, the tension exploded as players from both teams rushed in.

Wayne Rooney led the charge, stepping in front of him, his voice cutting through the tension. "Hey! It’s okay! It’s okay!"

More Derby County players rushed to form a protective wall around David, their presence shielding him from the enraged goalkeeper. At the same time, Millwall players surged forward, their voices rising in outrage.

"What’s wrong with the kid, huh?" someone barked.

"Who does he think he is? Trying to take out Wallace?

""And what’s the deal with the way he scores is he mocking us?"

Derby players snapped back. "Calm down!" "It was just a challenge!"

The shouts escalated, chaos unraveling in a matter of seconds.

Then, a sharp whistle split through the noise.

The entire pitch fell silent.

All eyes turned to the referee, Stephen Martin, standing a few yards away, his glare cutting through the tension like a blade. "Everyone back to your positions," he commanded, his voice firm. "Millwall, get ready for kickoff."

But the referee’s words triggered a reaction far different from what he had anticipated. The Millwall players froze for a moment before their expressions hardened. Restart? Their minds raced with frustration. Shouldn’t the goal be disallowed? There was clear foul play in the buildup!

They didn’t hesitate to voice their complaints, with their captain, Shaun Hutchinson, taking the lead, his gestures animated as he confronted the referee.

Meanwhile, David had been safely pulled away by Wayne Rooney, who kept a firm grip on his shoulder as the commotion unfolded.

Watching the heated exchange, David barely registered Wayne’s voice beside him. "David, that was a risky play."

"Yeah, I know," David murmured absentmindedly, still focused on the argument. "If the goalkeeper hadn’t bought my feint, he would’ve caught my chip." He shrugged. "Well, I would’ve found another way around it, though."

Rooney’s head snapped toward him, his brows shooting up in disbelief. "No, David—I mean Murray Wallace. The way you pushed him—"

Before he could finish, David cut him off with a quick wave. "Hey, hey, the match is starting."

Wayne stretched out a hand instinctively, as if to stop him. "Hey—"

But David was already jogging back to his position. Wayne exhaled a sigh and shook his head before turning away.

The goal stood.

Millwall’s frustration only deepened as the referee brandished yellow cards to both goalkeeper Bartosz Białkowski and captain Shaun Hutchinson. That brought their tally to four cautions, and to make matters worse, they were now trailing 2-0. The only silver lining for them was that Murray Wallace was back on his feet, showing no signs of serious distress.

David, meanwhile, took his place on the right wing—positioned slightly deeper into his own half as he waited for the kickoff. His mind was elsewhere, fixated on one thing: his first-ever club hat trick. He could almost feel it within reach.

But as he stood there, eager for the restart, he remained oblivious to the shift in the atmosphere—the way the Millwall players eyed him now, their gazes sharp with intent.

Here’s the revised version of your passage, with added tension and clarity for a more polished novel feel:

The rest of the half took a chaotic turn, with David being fouled a staggering six times since the restart.

"Ooof, and there goes David Jones again! What a strong tackle by Shane Ferguson, who’s pulled back to support Murray Wallace after Millwall fell behind 2-0," Baron commented from his booth, sipping water between calls.

David, having just attempted a rainbow flick only to be shoved off the ball, found himself on the ground once more. He looked up at the referee, waiting for some sort of call. The official, unfazed, reached into his pocket and flashed a yellow card at Ferguson, the Millwall left midfielder.

David, his frustration bubbling over, shot up from the turf and yelled, "How is that not a red?!"

But the referee merely walked away, uninterested in his protests. David slammed his fist into the grass, his breath heavy with frustration.

As he tried to get to his feet, Ferguson, who had just fouled him, loomed over him. "Keep trying those skills, huh, boy?" Ferguson sneered, a condescending smile tugging at his lips.

David, unshaken by the taunt, stood tall, brushing off the dirt. He was angry, but more determined than ever. He didn’t let the constant fouls break his spirit. This time, when an opponent closed in on him, he didn’t try to take them on alone. He passed, each move smarter, his focus now on the team, knowing that if he kept his head in the game, the goal would come.

In the closing minutes of the first half, David stood still for a moment, watching as Max Bird slid in to collect the ball from a Millwall player. The way Max took off after securing the ball sparked a fire in David, and he immediately joined the chase, with Martyn and Tom following suit.

Max, sweat dripping down his face from the relentless running, glanced up as he sprinted. Seeing the attackers racing ahead, he sent a powerful pass across the pitch.

David’s eyes tracked the ball as it soared toward him. His heart quickened when he realized the pass had real power behind it. His mind quickly calculated the distance before his gaze shifted forward, locking onto Murray, who was charging toward him again. It felt like déjà vu. What should I do? The thought barely registered before the ball started descending, and instincts took over.

The ball was coming fast, but it looked like it might roll out of bounds. David’s teeth clenched as he sprinted towards the spot where he anticipated it would land.

Reaching the spot, David saw Murray closing in fast. He adjusted his stride, narrowing his focus. As the ball dropped, he set his leg, ready for impact. With a gentle tap, he controlled the ball, letting it slip through Murray’s legs in a flawless nutmeg.

Murray let out a frustrated "Shit!" as he spun around, watching the ball escape from him. He cursed himself for not reacting quickly enough, feeling the hesitation in his earlier attempt to clear the ball—too afraid to jump and block it in time.

Furious, Murray turned to make one last desperate move, determined to take David out of the equation, even if it meant risking a red card. But as he looked forward, all he could do was mutter "Ehn?" His eyes widened in disbelief—David was already gone.

David didn’t pause. He kept running, tuning out the angry shouts behind him. Ahead, he spotted another challenge—Millwall’s captain, Shaun Hutchinson, charging toward him with determination. But David wasn’t worried. He could already see his teammates, Tom and Martyn, sprinting into position.

As Shaun closed in, David pushed further down the flank, forcing the defender to commit. The moment Shaun lunged into a sliding tackle, David swung his foot, sending a perfectly timed cross into the box just as the studs of Shaun’s boot scraped the grass beneath him.

The ball soared across the goalmouth, finding Martyn, who leaped for the header—only to mistime it. "Fuck!" he screamed in frustration as the ball skimmed past him. But before Millwall could react cutting their happiness at the miss short, Tom arrived at the far post, striking it cleanly into the net.

Derby extends 3-0 (Tom Lawrence scores)

They turned to celebrate, but before the moment could sink in, a sharp cry cut through the empty stadium. The eerie silence of the COVID-restricted match made it even more jarring.

Heads whipped around.

David was on the ground, clutching his left leg, his face twisted in pain. His fingers dug into his shin, his breathing uneven. For a moment, there was only stunned silence

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