The second half began.
East Valley with the ball.
The whistle shrilled—prittt—and war resumed.
They moved quickly, probing, trying to stretch Lincoln's line, looking for a gap. But Lincoln didn't bite.
They pressed with discipline, refusing to lunge too hard, knowing every overcommitment would be turned into a foul, a trap.
The cold air clung heavy, every exhale turning to white mist. Cleats scraped against frozen turf, each sound sharp as steel.
From the stands, the roar of East Valley's crowd was less cheer and more curse—snarling chants, insults spat like stones hurled onto the pitch. The atmosphere wasn't sport anymore. It was siege.
Julian's eyes tracked the ball, his body coiled. He could already see the patterns—passes short, feints wide, the weight of their play leaning toward bait.
Then Dante drifted over, sliding close like a shadow.
