60 minutes. The rhythm was back in Bradford's hands—possession skipping between boots like it trusted them more than the ground beneath it.
Roney picked up a loose pass on the left and drifted toward the edge of the final third, slow at first. Then a flick—quick, cheeky, a nutmeg that sent his marker one way and the crowd the other.
Gasps turned to applause.
Until the second defender crashed in late.
Boot to ankle.
Roney spun once midair, landed hard, and curled inward with a grunt. The linesman's flag didn't twitch—it didn't need to. The referee's whistle was already rising.
Free kick. Just a yard outside the box. Left-hand channel. Wide enough to cross. Close enough to shoot.
Silva jogged over casually, rolling his shoulders as if he wasn't interested in anything more than a breather. He picked the ball up, set it down like an afterthought, then turned toward the touchline and raised a single finger.
The crowd murmured. Confused.
Short?
It didn't look rehearsed.
