The restart ca from the foul that had replaced Ben Kehi off.
Mateo stood over the free kick in the centre of the park, looking at the shape in front of him. Double DM behind - Lloyd Angelo and Ward Clarence. Hant and Wheeler Angelo still on the wings. Benedict still on the pitch, one warning from the referee.
He played it short to Lloyd, took the return, switched it left to Hant, and moved into the space that opened.
For a few minutes it almost held.
Schalke maintained possession - careful, nothing ambitious, keeping the ball away from Magdeburg's aggression. Daniel had given the instruction from the technical area before the restart: don't chase the fourth goal, protect the two-goal margin, make Magdeburg co to you.
Sound advice. The problem was that with Ben Kehi off, Schalke had no one to pin the defensive line, and every ti the ball moved forward it arrived at Hant or Wheeler Angelo in isolation against two defenders. Magdeburg had started to read the pattern. The press was higher. The first ball was winning more duels.
By the 58th minute Schalke were playing almost entirely in their own half.
Augsberg drove at Sitney Parker on the right, the sa move he'd been running since the first minute, faster this ti with tiredness in Sitney's legs. The cross ca in early. Neil rose at the near post, a fraction ahead of Esther Scott.
Edgar ca off his line and got two hands to it.
Fweet—!
Corner. The crowd applauded.
In the booth Tom said: "Edgar is keeping Schalke in this. But the structural problem remains, without Ben Kehi there's no one who can turn defence into attack quickly enough to relieve the pressure. They're defending without a release valve."
[Just hold on. Co on.]
[Silva hasn't touched the ball properly in ten minutes. Magdeburg are going long every ti.]
[Edgar has been incredible. If he holds this, man of the match no question.]
Wave after wave. Long balls to Neil, crosses from both flanks, corners and set pieces. Babi Edgar making saves and catches and punches, each one another minute used, another minute closer to the whistle.
Seventy-two minutes. Seventy-four.
Seventy-seven.
Bowen received on the left with ti. His cross was good - pace, angle, dropping toward the back post. Marshall had started his run from deep, the kind of late surge from a midfielder that the back four hadn't tracked. Ward Clarence was with him but Marshall was bigger and stronger in that direction, and he got his shoulder in front at the crucial mont.
The header was firm and directed.
Edgar got a hand to it.
Not enough.
SWISH!
Fweet—!
3–2. 77th minute.
The Magdeburg players surrounded Marshall at the corner flag. The celebration of a team that had been two goals down and had refused to accept it. Loud, emotional, genuine.
On the Schalke side the mood dropped fast. The specific deflation of a team that has been holding on and has just felt the grip loosen.
Mateo looked at the scoreboard.
3–2. Thirteen minutes left.
He looked at Benedict, Hant, Wheeler Angelo. "Push forward when I have it. Whoever gets the run, take it. Don't wait."
Hant nodded. He looked uncertain but he would run.
Fweet—!
Schalke kicked off with the urgency of a team that could sll the finish. Mateo tracked back to the halfway line.
Benedict received the knockback and played it imdiately to Mateo. He turned onto it, pushed forward two strides-
Kiplin Jason ca through him from behind. Studs down, calf, no pretence at the ball.
Mateo went forward onto the turf, right knee first. The pain hit imdiately - a sharp, specific ache from the point of contact, spreading up the back of the leg with each heartbeat. He lay there and pressed his hand to the spot, genuinely checking the damage.
It hurt. Nothing had broken. He knew that. But the hurt was real and he let himself acknowledge it.
He rolled to his knees and took the second he needed.
Fweet—!
Yellow for Jason. His second. The referee held it, then showed it - Red card - Jason was off.
Magdeburg down to ten n. Tobias Felix standing on the edge of the area, hands on hips, his own yellow card aning he was effectively frozen.
Mateo stood up slowly, pressing his calf once more. Straightened.
Walked to the ball.
Thirty-eight tres out. Slightly left of centre.
Behind him, Daniel from the technical area: "Silva — your call."
He stood over it and looked at the wall, the goalkeeper's position, and the space the spin would need to carry the ball through. Then he looked at the back post.
Nobody there.
The system line appeared - amber toward the near post, red curving left past the wall, and one thread running all the way to the back post. Not red. Amber. But the number beside it read 85%.
Eighty-five percent to an empty position. Because the ball wasn't going to that position - his teammate was.
He glanced at Hant. Hant was already beginning his near-post run, which was the obvious read for any winger. The back post would be empty for exactly as long as it took for soone to realise they should be there.
He lined up three steps.
Struck the ball with his right foot, catching it slightly off-centre, the spin heavy and lateral - the kind that held the trajectory straight until the turf caught it and kicked it right.
The ball left his boot but the question remains - where it's going?
Plz Drop So Power Stones.
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