After the throw-in, the rhythm of the game settled back into the same brutal pattern from the first half—
San Dimas pressing.
Lincoln High enduring.
Only now, with Miles orchestrating and Kai prowling up front, every through ball from San Dimas cut like a scalpel.
Their passing wasn't just quick—it was surgical, slicing into channels that barely existed until the ball was already there.
The gold-and-silver stands stayed on their feet, chanting in waves. The noise was a wall, pushing against Lincoln every time they tried to breathe.
Even a simple clearance was met with jeers, the sound bouncing off the small metal bleachers and echoing across the pitch.
But Lincoln didn't break. Not yet.
Every shot was blocked. Every cross deflected.
Every step forward fought for in a haze of grunts, sliding studs, and the sting of cold turf burns.
"This is frustrating," Aaron growled, sweat glistening on his temples despite the winter air.
