CHAPTER 93: CHAPTER 93: THE SIEGE

The second half began.

East Valley with the ball.

The whistle shrilled—prittt—and war resumed.

They moved quickly, probing, trying to stretch Lincoln’s line, looking for a gap. But Lincoln didn’t bite.

They pressed with discipline, refusing to lunge too hard, knowing every overcommitment would be turned into a foul, a trap.

The cold air clung heavy, every exhale turning to white mist. Cleats scraped against frozen turf, each sound sharp as steel.

From the stands, the roar of East Valley’s crowd was less cheer and more curse—snarling chants, insults spat like stones hurled onto the pitch. The atmosphere wasn’t sport anymore. It was siege.

Julian’s eyes tracked the ball, his body coiled. He could already see the patterns—passes short, feints wide, the weight of their play leaning toward bait.

Then Dante drifted over, sliding close like a shadow.

"Your captain okay?" His voice was casual, almost friendly. His grin was anything but. "Hope he’s still standing by the end of this game."

Julian didn’t answer. Not a word. He didn’t give him the satisfaction. Just raised an eyebrow, cold, dismissive, and broke into a sprint toward the ball.

Dante followed with a chuckle, muttering low so only Julian could hear.

"Just you wait. Can you keep that calm face after one of your friends goes down?"

That smile—too wide, too sharp—was poison.

Julian’s jaw tightened, but his stride never faltered. His silence was louder than any insult. The only reply Dante would get would be written in goals.

But Julian knew—the only way to win this was with a cool head. One slip, one flare of temper, and East Valley would get exactly what they wanted.

...

The ball cycled back to Lincoln.

Leo’s feet claimed it, defenders rushing at him like wolves.

Two closed in. One lunged.

But Leo’s eyes lit with that sharp hue again—the maestro’s rhythm. A feint left, a drop of the shoulder, and he cut through both.

Hands clawed at his shirt, desperate to drag him down.

Leo lowered his shoulder, sheer strength surging through him, and ripped free.

"Stop him!" Dante’s voice cracked across the field, sharp and desperate.

Too late.

Leo slipped the ball wide to Noah.

Noah, steady as ice, controlled, then swept it across to Felix on the right.

Felix took one touch, then sliced it back inside to Aaron.

Perfect movement.

Perfect build-up.

But before Aaron could release the final pass to Julian—

BANG!

A body smashed into him, violent and reckless.

Aaron was sent flying, hitting the turf with a thud that echoed.

The ball rolled free.

But the moment Aaron’s back hit the ground, he sprang up like a coiled spring, rage boiling out of him.

He stormed the East Valley player, fists clutching the collar of his shirt.

"The fuck’s wrong with you?!" Aaron roared, eyes blazing.

Pritttt! Prittttt!

The referee’s whistle cut through the chaos, shrill and sharp.

Julian was already sprinting, shoving himself between them, hands gripping Aaron’s arms, forcing him back. "Don’t," he hissed. "Don’t get baited."

Leo was there too, waving his hands, pleading with the official.

"It was a dangerous body check! You saw it—he went for the man, not the ball!"

But the referee, expression tight, pulled two cards from his pocket.

One yellow for Aaron.

One yellow for East Valley.

Both sides punished. Nothing solved.

Julian’s arm stayed locked around Aaron, dragging him away before he could explode again. His voice cut low, firm.

"Slow down."

Aaron’s chest heaved, fury still crackling through him. His eyes darted to Julian’s, finding the steel there.

For a moment, he wavered.

Then, with a heavy breath, he let go.

"...Okay. Okay. Sorry."

But Julian knew.

Sorry wouldn’t be enough.

East Valley was still circling, waiting for another crack.

And Lincoln had to hold.

...

The midfield became a swamp. Every pass sank into fouls, every dribble hacked down by a desperate leg. Leo barked out warnings like a commander keeping soldiers in line.

Riku’s calm voice steadied their shape, the anchor in a storm. But all of them could feel it—the match wasn’t football anymore. It was attrition. How much pain could you take before you broke?

The match teetered on a knife’s edge.

0 – 1.

A stalemate of fouls and fury.

East Valley grew more and more agitated, their desperation bleeding into every challenge. The cards flew like a clearance sale—yellow after yellow, painting the game in warning.

Coach Owen’s jaw was tight on the sideline, his face grim. He knew it—one spark, one click, and this would stop being football. It would turn into a full-blown brawl.

Prittt!

Another foul.

East Valley’s man crumpled on the ground. Tariq stood over him, chest heaving. The referee strode in, flashed yellow. Tariq didn’t even argue—just nodded, jaw set.

But now, danger.

Lincoln’s wall pulled together in the box.

Sergio stepped up, the executioner’s look in his eyes.

Julian planted himself in the defensive line, shoulders tense.

This was going to be chaos.

Sergio ran up—

Boot struck leather—

The ball arced, spinning, slicing through cold air.

It dropped into the box.

Tariq and an East Valley forward went up together.

But hesitation—yellow card still heavy on his shoulders. Tariq flinched, half a beat late.

The East Valley player soared higher.

CRACK! A thunderous header.

Straight at goal.

But Cael was already airborne.

"NOT TODAY!"

His fist met the ball, punching it away, clearing it into open space—

Only for it to drop at the feet of another East Valley attacker.

A first-time volley—

BOOM!

Cael landed, then sprang again.

He stretched wide, gloves flashing, fingertips barely grazing it—deflecting, not catching.

The ball hung loose.

Chaos everywhere.

A third attacker stormed in, boot cocked back. Cael scrambled, legs coiling, body still twisted from the last dive.

He threw himself across again, chest smothering the shot. The impact rattled through his ribs. He spat a breath, rolled, and kicked the ball away—only for another wave to crash in. It was a siege, every heartbeat a new blade aimed at his throat.

And then—

Dante Cruz came flying in from the far side.

Boot cocked back, eyes burning, ready to smash it into the net.

Julian saw it unfold in an instant.

His chest tightened.

"...Fuck."

BANGGGG!

Studs met leather.

The ball ripped forward, venomous, screaming toward goal.

Cael lunged—arms out—

STRECHHHHH!