The scoreboard read: 0 – 1.
Lincoln's lead. Lincoln's pride.
But with every passing minute, East Valley grew more brutal.
Shoulders slammed. Arms tugged jerseys. Shins cracked against shins. The whistle still shrilled, but no card came. Not a single flash of yellow, as if the referee had swallowed his courage.
Lincoln's players felt it. Some of them were snapping back, a shove here, an elbow there. The fire that made them dangerous was twisting into something reckless.
Julian's eyes cut to the side—Dante Cruz.
The devil in red and black wasn't even chasing the ball. He was chasing words. Running left, drifting right, always orbiting Lincoln's players. His tongue sharper than his boots.
And now he came for Julian.
"Feels like your team's not as cool as you, Emperor," Dante drawled, grin stretching too wide.
Julian's lips twitched upward, just enough to sting. "Yeah, but at least we've already put one in your net."
Dante's grin cracked. His fist clenched.
