The ball spun loose down Bradford's left. Chapman turned late, dragged into a sprint after a heavy second touch from AZ's winger. It was recoverable—just—if he judged the angle right. One more stride, and he lunged, back leg stretched across the line of the run.
The contact came too soon. A clipped heel. The winger dropped—not theatrically, just cut down mid-turn.
Jake stepped once toward the edge of the technical area. He didn't raise his voice; his eyes were already following the ref.
Whistle. Arm up. Pointed straight to the spot.
Chapman stayed on one knee, head tilted up just enough to see the flag. He didn't argue. No one did.
VAR flashed once on the big screen. Quick check. Delay no longer than a breath. Confirmed. Penalty.
The crowd didn't erupt; it slumped. Barnes paced toward the penalty spot and back again. Lowe stood on the edge of the area with his hands on his hips, not moving. Silva crouched, laces undone, elbows resting on his knees.
