81 minutes. Silva danced past one, then two—shoulder feints and a sudden chop dragging the second defender the wrong way. The crowd rose with him, breath caught in collective tension.
He didn't blast forward. He paused just inside the box and scanned.
Then floated it.
A perfect cutback. Not a low drive, not a whipped ball—just weightless enough to beg for the right boot.
Walsh arrived at full stride, body angled slightly, balance clean. Side-footed, half-volleyed.
The sound it made wasn't a thud. More a kiss of leather and air.
It skimmed past the keeper.
And skimmed past the post.
Barely.
Close enough that some in the Kop screamed thinking it was in. Close enough that Silva slapped both hands to his head in disbelief.
Daniel Mann's voice came down from the booth like an echo:
"He deserved the goal. Everything but the net."
Jake didn't throw his arms up. Didn't pace. Just cupped his hands to his mouth and barked one word into the freezing night.
"Clean!"
