24 minutes in, the shape shifted suddenly.
Partizan swung play from left to right with urgency—one of their midfielders spotting the gap behind Taylor, who had just finished an overlapping run on the previous phase. The crowd groaned before the ball even reached the winger.
Taylor turned, bolted back, boots scraping turf. He didn't slow—not even when it was clear the Partizan winger had a step.
One lunge.
He took the ball clean with his leading foot—but the trailing leg clipped the man, enough to send him tumbling just in front of the technical area.
Whistle sharp. Yellow card out immediately.
The Partizan bench demanded red.
Jake didn't move. Just scribbled something—quick and firm—onto the corner of his tactical pad. He leaned slightly to Paul Robert.
"Roney tracks next rotation," he murmured. Paul nodded, already shifting the setup on his folded sheet.
Taylor looked over, chest still heaving. Jake met his gaze with a slow blink. No anger. Just recognition.
