Thirty-nine minutes in.
Jake had seen the first pass before it left the boot. Not because it was obvious—but because it was always coming. The kind of pass you feel, not read.
Alkmaar were patient for most of the half, pressing and prodding, but now they stitched with speed. One moment Rojas had his man in front. The next, the winger dropped off, received on the half-turn, and set it back.
Then everything accelerated.
One-touch.
Inside.
Back out.
And suddenly Taylor was two steps too high, caught between tracking the fullback and watching the run in behind.
"Drop, drop—" Paul Robert barked, but it came too late.
The ball zipped down the right channel. Alkmaar's number ten ghosted into the half-space and never broke stride. Rojas tried to recover, but the triangle moved faster than feet could follow.
Vélez spun but didn't reach. Lowe saw it but couldn't touch it.
