Chapter 15 - COME ON, LEEDS! BELIEVE!
The whistle blew to signal the start of extra time.
Peep!
Elland Road vibrated with thunderous chants, a desperate chorus refusing to let the dream die.
Nathan stood in the center circle, chest heaving, legs trembling under the weight of exhaustion. Sweat streamed down his temples, stinging his eyes.
Across from him, the Ipswich players looked fresher, sharper — like predators scenting blood.
Still, he narrowed his eyes and set his jaw.
We didn't come this far to roll over.
But football didn't care about sentiment.
Barely a minute into extra time, disaster struck.
Ipswich's left winger, a wiry demon of a player, exploded down the flank.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Three rapid touches—one, two, three—and he ghosted past two Leeds defenders like they were nothing but shadows.
Nathan chased, lungs burning, but he was a step too late.
The winger cut inside, body low, muscles coiled like springs, and unleashed a low, vicious strike.
THUD!
The ball skimmed across the slick grass like a bullet.
Blackwell, Leeds' aging keeper, dove with desperate reflexes—
Fingertips brushed it—
But the ball kissed the inside of the post and rippled the net.
[3-4]
Crash!!
It felt like the stadium itself staggered.
A wave of stunned silence, then the cruel roars of the Ipswich fans split the air.
"Let's go Ipswich! Let's go Ipswich!"
Their chants hammered down like iron fists.
Nathan dropped to a crouch, hands on his knees.
All around him, his teammates wilted.
The right winger buried his face in his jersey.
Blackwell sat on the ground, staring at his gloves like they'd betrayed him.
It was as if the sky had collapsed on their heads.
No... Not like this...
Nathan gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached.
The restart was sluggish, heavy.
Leeds tried to push, but the belief had been ripped from their legs.
Passes grew sloppy.
Touches grew heavy.
Movements dulled.
Ipswich smelled the weakness.
In the 97th minute, they nearly twisted the dagger even deeper.
Another quick turnover in midfield.
Another blistering counter.
Their striker broke through, one-on-one against Blackwell.
Nathan sprinted back, muscles screaming, but he could only watch—
The Ipswich striker opened his body and curled a shot toward the far post.
Whish—!
The ball missed by mere centimeters, brushing the outside of the post.
"TCH...!!"
Nathan exhaled shakily, hands on his hips.
They were drowning.
No other word for it.
The minutes dragged by, slow and cruel.
Every sprint felt like pulling a ship through tar.
Every collision felt like two mountains grinding together.
CRASH!
Nathan got clattered to the ground after trying to win a header, pain blooming across his ribs.
He lay there for half a second, staring up at the swirling gray sky.
Is this what it feels like to lose everything you fought for?
The referee's shrill whistle for a foul snapped him back to his feet.
No time to wallow.
No room for weakness.
He spat to the side, wiped his mouth, and kept running.
When the referee blew the whistle to end the first half of extra time, the sound was like a blade sliding across stone.
PEEEEEEEP!
Nathan stumbled toward the sideline with the others, every muscle trembling.
He collapsed onto the bench, head hanging low.
The taste of metal and salt filled his mouth.
Around him, no one spoke.
Not Coach Grayson, not the assistants, not the players.
Only the roar of the crowd continued—an endless, aching hymn.
Somewhere in the stands, a boy's voice pierced the din:
"COME ON, LEEDS! BELIEVE!"
Nathan's head snapped up.
He scanned the stadium until he saw them—just a small group of kids, faces painted white and blue, scarves raised high, still screaming until their lungs gave out.
Believing when everyone else wanted to give up.