The minutes were nearly gone.
Jake didn't check his watch; he didn't need to. The shape of the game had narrowed into a single, sharp edge. One more moment. One more breath.
Chapman held central, pressed from both sides, body tight over the ball. He didn't panic. He waited, then stabbed it to Walsh, who had drifted into the right half-space without anyone noticing.
Walsh looked up, then down, then up again. AZ's line backed off, waiting for the whip. But Walsh didn't whip it. He didn't fire it low. He lifted.
A slow arc, high and spinning—shaped like a mistake—until it dropped just inside the edge of the box. Rasmussen didn't rush. He didn't swing or lash; he let it bounce just once. Then he leaned over it and curled.
Low. Whipped. Across his body, from the left boot. It skipped past the keeper's reach before the dive even finished. And the net—again—exploded.
