Michael was on his feet, his hands gripping the back of the seat in front of him, his knuckles a bloodless, stark white.

He had just watched his young, [PA 80] goalkeeper, Sam Jones, fly through the air like a superhero and deny Derby County a goal that 30,000 people had already celebrated.

The CRACK of the ball hitting the crossbar, followed by Dave Bishop's desperate, goal-line clearance, was the single most beautiful, violent, and important sequence of the season.

And in the stunned, agonizing silence of 30,000 home fans, Michael felt the entire, massive, thundering weight of the game's momentum shift.

"I... I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO SAY!" the commentator shrieked in Michael's ear, his voice cracking with pure, unadulterated adrenaline.

"Barnsley has survived! They have survived the hurricane! And Sam Jones... Sam Jones is the hero of the hour! That is... that is biblical!"

The resulting corner kick was a joke. The Derby players, who had been playing with the slick, arrogant confidence of soon-to-be champions, were rattled.

Their "perfect" free kick, their "guaranteed" goal... it had been stolen.

The corner was weak, and Sam Jones, now ten feet tall and radiating pure, unadulterated "OP Keeper" energy, leaped above everyone, caught the ball with a smack against his chest, and held it, just to let the stadium know who was in charge.

Michael watched, his heart a frantic, joyous drum, as the game flipped.

Derby, furious and frustrated, tried to re-establish their dominance.

Their captain, Max Bird, the man who had just been denied his moment of glory, was on a mission.

He saw Danny Fletcher, the "Brain," receive the ball in the midfield. He flew in, a cynical, frustrated, "welcome-to-the-league" tackle, his studs high.

But Danny [PA 91] was too smart. He'd been taught by Arthur. He saw it coming. He just... wasn't there. He skipped over the tackle, leaving the Derby captain to slide, pathetically, on the turf. The Derby fans groaned.

A minute later, the ball was pinged to a Derby midfielder.

BAM!

Tom "The Interceptor" Harrison, who had been a terrified ghost for 20 minutes, was alive.

His [Interceptor (Lvl 2)] skill was humming. He didn't just tackle; he dispossessed.

He stole the ball, clean as a whistle, and played a simple, smart, forward pass.

This wasn't a "possession carousel" anymore. This was a fight.

On the touchlines, the coaches were yelling.

The Derby manager, a veteran with a face like a bulldog, was screaming at his players, "CALM DOWN! PLAY! THE! GAME!"

On the other side, Arthur Milton, leaning on his cane, a look of pure, cold, tactical fury on his face, just pointed. A single, silent, deadly command.

"Space. Go!!"

The 35th minute. The "Braves" were flying. The ball was worked, with a new, sharp, angry confidence, wide to Jamie Weston.

He was in space. He looked up. He saw Danny, his "Wonder Twin," making a run.

Jamie, not with his [Power Shot], but with finesse, whipped in a perfect, curling, beautiful cross.

It was heading straight for Danny Fletcher.

The "Prince" rose, his timing perfect, a foot above the two veteran [CA 70] defenders. He met it with his head. A powerful, downward, goal-bound snap.

This was it! 1-0!

But the Derby keeper, a man on a £50,000-a-week salary, who had done nothing all game, suddenly exploded.

He flew, full-stretch, a world-class, acrobatic, one-handed save, and just clawed the ball off the line.

"WHAT A SAVE!" the commentator screamed.

"NOW IT'S DERBY'S KEEPER! HE'S JUST ROBBED DANNY FLETCHER! This game has exploded! We've gone from a hurricane to a heavyweight boxing match! I CAN'T BREATHE!"

Michael sank back into his seat, his hands on his head. How did that not go in?

The game was now pure, unadulterated chaos. It was end-to-end. Tackles were flying.

Players were screaming at each other. The crowd was a single, roaring, 30,000-person animal, its blood up.

The 40th minute. The ball was cleared by the Derby defense, a long, high, hopeful punt.

It fell to Finn Riley.

And he ran.

He wasn't running at a man. He was running at the stadium. He was running at the league.

A Derby midfielder, the one who had been marking him, lunged in. Finn, with a step-over and a burst of pure, chaotic speed, was gone.

Another defender, their left-back, came flying across. Finn just... stopped. He put his foot on the ball. He did a full 360-degree spin, and the defender was left skidding on the grass, 10 yards away.

"HE'S LEFT HIM FOR DEAD!" the commentator shrieked.

"FINN RILEY IS ON A MADNESS! HE'S BEATEN TWO!"

He was at the edge of the box. The Derby keeper, the one who had just made the "OP" save, saw the danger.

He came rushing out, a 6'5" giant, his arms spread, trying to cut Finn off, to be the hero again.

Michael was on his feet. "SHOOT, FINN! SHOOT!"

Finn... didn't shoot.

He saw the keeper coming. And he smirked.

He stopped the ball. Dead. He put his foot on it. He just... waited.

The giant, world-class goalkeeper, his momentum carrying him, his professional pride on the line, couldn't stop. He went into a massive, desperate, clumsy slide...

...and slid, beautifully, pathetically, past Finn Riley, ending up in a heap on his own backside, five yards away.

The entire stadium... gasped.

Finn was now standing, all alone, one yard from an open goal. The keeper was on the floor, looking up at him, his face a mask of pure, existential humiliation.

The 30,000 Derby fans were groaning.

The 3,000 Barnsley fans were howling with laughter.

Finn, with a look of pure, "Wild Fox," unadulterated disrespect, just... rolled the ball towards the empty net. He was going to just pass it in.

He hadn't seen the Derby captain. Max Bird, the man who had hit the crossbar, had sprinted the entire length of the pitch, his lungs on fire.

Just as the ball was about to roll over the line, Bird, with a last-second, desperate, furious sliding tackle, hooked the ball off the line and smashed it out for a corner.

No goal.

Finn didn't even care. He just turned, looked at the goalkeeper, who was still sitting on the grass, and gave him a cheeky, devastating shrug.

"I... I DON'T... I DON'T BELIEVE IT!" the commentator was crying with laughter. "I HAVE... I HAVE NEVER... SEEN ANYTHING LIKE IT! Finn Riley has just... ended that goalkeeper's career! He put him on a hot dog! He sat him down! He bought him a drink! And then... he missed! Or was it cleared?! I DON'T EVEN KNOW! It's still 0-0! That is the most humiliating, most brilliant, most Barnsley piece of play I have ever seen in my life!"

The referee, his face red, his whistle in his mouth, his own mind blown, just... blew for halftime.

The Derby players were screaming at Finn, their faces purple. Finn just laughed and jogged off, his arm around Danny Fletcher's shoulder.

Michael was slumped in his chair, his face in his hands. He was laughing. He was dying.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.