The half-time whistle blew, a shrill sound that cut through the tense atmosphere at Portman Road.
As the Apex United players walked towards the tunnel, a wave of applause from their small corner of traveling fans followed them. They were leading, but they knew they had been in a fight.
Inside the dressing room, the air was thick with the smell of sweat and the buzz of adrenaline.
"Did you see his face?" Jonathan Rowe said with a massive grin, toweling his hair dry. "That left-back! He was terrified to even get near me after that yellow card."
Kenny McLean chuckled. "You had him on toast, son. Good work. But don't get cocky. They'll put someone else on you in the second half, you can bet on it."
Viktor Kristensen sat quietly on the bench, staring at the floor. He had missed the team's only other clear chance. Emre walked over and sat next to him, handing him a water bottle.
"Hey," Emre said. "That run you made for my goal? That was perfect. You pulled the defender, you created the space. That goal was yours as much as it was mine."
Viktor looked up, surprised. "But I missed my own chance."
"So? You'll get another one," Emre said with a shrug. "Just be ready for it."
Grant Hanley, ever the captain, clapped his hands to get everyone's attention. "Alright, listen up. Good half. We're ahead. But we've been lucky. They're a good side, and they will come at us with everything after the break. We can't afford a single mistake. Stay focused."
Ethan entered the room, a calm, focused expression on his face. He let the players have their moment before he spoke.
"He's right," Ethan said, his voice cutting through the chatter. "The first ten minutes of the second half will be the most important of the match. They will make changes. They will press higher. They will be more aggressive. We have to weather that storm."
He looked directly at Rowe. "Jonny, outstanding work. You followed the plan to perfection. Be ready for them to double-team you. That means someone else will be free. Exploit that."
Then he looked at his two young strikers. "Emre, Viktor. The partnership is starting to click. I saw it. Keep making those runs for each other. The chances will come."
"We go back out there with the same intensity," he concluded. "We are the underdogs. Let's enjoy it. Let's make them hate playing against us. Now, let's go finish the job."
The teams re-emerged from the tunnel. As predicted, Ipswich had made a change. The left-back on the yellow card was gone, replaced by a faster, more defensive-minded player.
"And the second half is underway!" the commentator announced. "Apex United, in that sleek all-black kit, are looking to defend their one-nil lead. Ipswich manager Kieran McKenna has made a change at the break, bringing on the pacy Wes Burns. A clear sign of intent."
The change was immediately effective. The right flank, which had been a source of constant joy for Apex, was now a locked-down warzone.
Rowe found himself with no space, constantly hounded by two players. The game's momentum began to shift. Ipswich, playing with a renewed purpose, started to dominate possession, pinning Apex deep in their own half.
"Get out! Get up the pitch!" Hanley roared, but his team was trapped.
In the 61st minute, the inevitable happened. After a sustained period of pressure, an Ipswich midfielder unleashed a blistering long-range shot.
Angus Gunn, at full stretch, made a spectacular save, tipping the ball over the bar. But the danger wasn't over.
From the resulting corner, the ball was whipped into the near post. The Ipswich striker, a powerful unit, out-jumped his marker and flicked the ball on.
It flew across the face of the goal to their unmarked center-back, who had ghosted in at the far post to nod the ball into an empty net.
1-1.
The stadium erupted. The Ipswich players celebrated wildly, while the Apex players looked at each other with frustrated, accusing glances.
"And there it is! Ipswich have their equalizer!" the commentator shouted.
"A brilliantly worked corner routine, and the substitute pays off! Portman Road is rocking! Can the new boys from Apex United respond?"
Ethan stood on the sideline, his jaw clenched. He shouted encouragement, trying to lift his team's spirits, but he could see the confidence draining from them.
They had gone from hunters to the hunted.
The goal emboldened Ipswich. They swarmed forward, sensing blood in the water. Their passing was quicker, their movement sharper. Apex was chasing shadows.
In the 76th minute, disaster struck. Jacob Sørensen, the Apex defensive midfielder, tried to play a pass out from the back but was caught in possession by an aggressive press. In a flash, Ipswich transitioned from defense to attack.
A quick one-two on the edge of the box sliced the Apex defense wide open. Their star midfielder, Conor Chaplin, received the ball, took one touch to set himself, and curled an unstoppable shot into the top corner.
2-1!
It was a goal of pure, Championship-level quality. Ruthless, clinical, and devastating.
The home fans went into a frenzy. The Apex players slumped, their shoulders sagged. They looked beaten.
"Two goals in fifteen minutes! Ipswich Town have turned this game completely on its head!"
"A stunning strike from Conor Chaplin! The dream debut for Apex United against higher-league opposition is turning into a harsh reality check. They look shell-shocked."
Ethan watched as his team, once so full of fire and confidence, now looked like a collection of lost individuals.
Viktor Kristensen, who had barely touched the ball in the second half, looked completely demoralized.
He looked at his bench. He had options. He could try to shut up shop, prevent a total collapse, and escape with a respectable 2-1 defeat. It was the logical choice.
But as he looked at the dejected faces of his players on the pitch, his 'Managerial Instinct' trait flared in his mind.
It wasn't a specific tactical insight this time. It was a feeling, a powerful, undeniable gut instinct. A single word flashed in his consciousness, glowing with a dangerous, high-risk light.
Overload.
He knew what he had to do. It was insane. It was suicidal. It was probably going to get them thrashed 4-1. But it was the only chance they had.
He turned to James Pearce, his eyes burning with a wild, desperate fire.
"Get Gibson off," he ordered, pointing to his most experienced center-back. "And get another winger on. We're going to a 3-4-3."