The restart came like a jolt—AZ still high, still hungry—but Silva didn't wait.
He shifted his weight as the ball came to his feet, pulled the defender wide with one feint, then burned past him down the right. No buildup—just space eaten in three long strides.
The crowd stood.
Roney darted near post, and Vélez ghosted central. Silva waited—held his cross half a heartbeat longer—then cut it low across the six-yard line, skipping past the first man.
Vélez hit it on the run.
Clean.
But it clattered off legs—defender throwing himself blindly, no balance, just instinct. The ball deflected, chaos in motion. Costa spun on it in one movement and struck with the laces.
The shot had teeth—low, corner-bound—but the AZ keeper flung himself full stretch and palmed it wide.
Jake didn't blink.
No arms raised, no breath held.
He turned to the bench, his voice low but firm.
"Warm up Walsh. And get Chapman focused."
Paul Robert was already moving.
