By the thirty-fifth, the storm didn't look like a storm anymore.
AZ had the ball. That was clear. They moved it side to side, back and forth—fifteen passes in a row without interruption. But they never touched the box. Not once. The crowd watched, voices rising when it reached the final third, then fading again as the pass went sideways, or back.
Barnes didn't drop deep. He stepped out instead. Arm up, voice sharp, pointing not once but twice—at Kang, then Lowe. His line stayed high. Not reckless. Composed. Defiant.
Jake didn't shout from the touchline. He didn't need to. The players were owning it now. Kang moved as if he could see the pass a second before it came, shuffling across like a gate swinging shut at just the right moment.
And when the chance finally did come—a free kick, wide right, thirty yards out—AZ loaded the near post. Tall bodies clustered. Arms tangled. The delivery came in hard, low, bending toward the six-yard space.
