The ball sank like a meteor—fast, violent, and terrifyingly precise and Leo, seated at the edge of the Wigan bench, froze mid-breath.
His spine locked tight as his eyes tracked the flight.
From his angle, it was impossible to tell if it was on target, but something about the crowd's collective inhale said it might be, and the Stoke end was already rising to its feet.
"Baker's hit that from the halfway line!" the commentator shouted, voice skipping up an octave.
"Jones is backpedalling—he's scrambling—!"
Jones twisted, launched himself backwards in a desperate leap.
His right arm shot out, fingertips stretching, just grazing the air beneath the ball—but it wasn't enough.
The ball arced and dipped with a wicked late swerve.
It crashed against the underside of the crossbar with a thunderous clank, the bar shuddering in the process as the fans screamed and the ball bounced out.
Not wide.
Not high.
Down.
Right back into the chaos of bodies scrambling into the box.
