The final twenty minutes of the match were a masterclass in controlled, confident football. Apex, buoyed by their two-goal lead and the visible meltdown of their opposition, simply kept the ball.

They passed it in calm, patient triangles, the "olés" from the home crowd and the 6,000-strong virtual audience growing with every completed pass.

"And this is just a joy to watch," Tactics Tim purred, his voice filled with a professional's admiration.

"This is the mark of a top team. Not just the ability to score brilliant goals, but the intelligence to know when to take the sting out of the game. They are managing the clock with the composure of seasoned veterans."

The Lincoln City players, who had started the game with such fire, were broken.

They chased shadows, their frustration growing with every effortless Apex pass.

Then, in the 82nd minute, the game, which had settled into a calm, professional rhythm, decided to have one last, beautiful, ridiculous laugh.

A long, hopeful clearance from the Lincoln keeper was headed back towards him by Grant Hanley. The ball bounced once on the turf, a simple, harmless-looking situation.

But then, from behind the goal, a small, fluffy, golden retriever puppy sprinted onto the pitch.

The entire stadium, the players, the managers, and the 6,000 people watching online, fell into a state of stunned, bewildered silence.

The puppy, its tail a blur of pure, unadulterated joy, saw the bouncing football and clearly decided it was the greatest thing it had ever seen in its entire, short life.

It bounded after the ball, yapping excitedly, its paws skidding on the perfect green grass.

The Lincoln goalkeeper, a man who had been trained for every possible footballing scenario, had absolutely no protocol for this.

He just stood there, his mouth agape, as the puppy reached the ball, gave it a happy nudge with its nose, and then started trying to play-fight with the corner flag.

"I... I... well, I've seen it all now," Tactics Tim stammered, his voice cracking with a mixture of shock and suppressed laughter. "There appears to be... a dog. On the pitch. A very small, very fluffy, and very, very happy dog. I... I don't have the tactical terminology for this, ladies and gentlemen. This is a new one on me."

The chat window simply ceased to function, a solid, immovable block of crying-laughing emojis.

The referee blew his whistle, stopping the game, a look of profound, existential confusion on his face. A few players, from both teams, started to laugh.

David Kerrigan, naturally, jogged over and started trying to pet the puppy, who immediately rolled onto its back for a belly rub.

The moment of pure, unexpected joy was so infectious that the tension of the match just evaporated.

But it was also a moment of distraction. And in football, distraction is deadly.

The game was finally restarted with a drop-ball after the puppy, now nicknamed "The Glitch Retriever" by the chat, was safely escorted off the pitch by a grinning steward. But the Apex players, their minds still reeling from the sheer, hilarious absurdity of what they had just witnessed, had switched off.

From the restart, a sloppy pass from a still-laughing Kenny McLean was intercepted.

The Lincoln striker, the only person in the stadium who was still focused on the game, pounced.

He drove at the heart of the Apex defense, which was in complete disarray. He unleashed a powerful shot. Angus Gunn made a good save, but the rebound fell straight to another Lincoln player, who smashed the ball into the open net.

2-1.

The goal came from absolutely nowhere.

The Apex players, who had been laughing seconds earlier, now looked at each other with horrified, guilty faces.

"AND LINCOLN ARE BACK IN IT!" the commentator roared. "A calamitous defensive error in the immediate aftermath of 'Dog-gate'! Apex United were mentally still petting the puppy, and Lincoln City have punished them for it! You cannot make this stuff up!"

The goal sent a jolt of pure, desperate hope through the Lincoln team.

They threw everything forward for the final few minutes.

In the 92nd minute, they won a corner.

Their goalkeeper came sprinting up the pitch. It was a last-ditch, all-or-nothing gamble.

The corner was swung in. It was a chaotic scramble.

The ball was headed clear by Grant Hanley, but only to the edge of the box.

A Lincoln midfielder hit a blistering volley. It was blocked by the heroic Jacob Sørensen. The ball ricocheted to another Lincoln player.

He shot. It was blocked again, this time by Ben Gibson's face.

The ball looped high into the air, and for a heart-stopping moment, it looked like it was going to drop into the net.

But Angus Gunn, scrambling back, leaped and just managed to tip the ball over the bar.

The referee blew the final whistle.

It was over. 2-1 to Apex.

The Apex players didn't celebrate.

They just collapsed, a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and mild embarrassment on their faces.

They had won, but they had almost been undone by a puppy.

Ethan just stood on the sideline, a slow, disbelieving smile spreading across his face.

He looked at the final viewer count. It had ticked over.

7,124.

He looked at his team, his brilliant, chaotic, and utterly unprofessional team, who were now arguing good-naturedly about whose fault the dog was.

He had won. He was still top of the league. His stream was a viral sensation.

And he was pretty sure he had just managed the single stupidest, and most entertaining, football match in the history of the universe.

As he was about to log off, a final, simple message appeared in his private chat. It was from Maya.

Maya: A goal, a defensive meltdown, and a puppy. You really are the most ridiculous manager in this entire game, Couch. And I loved every second of it.

.....

The Apex United dressing room was a beautiful, chaotic mess.

The players, high on a cocktail of adrenaline, relief, and the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of what they had just been a part of, were a whirlwind of noise and motion.

Ethan stood in the middle of it all, the small red LIVE icon still glowing in the corner of his vision, a grin plastered on his face.

The viewer count had dropped from its peak of over seven thousand to a still-staggering two thousand, a hardcore of dedicated chaos-watchers who had stuck around for the post-match analysis.

"I'm telling you, it was a tactical masterstroke!" David Kerrigan was insisting, gesticulating wildly.

"The puppy was our secret weapon! It lulled them into a false sense of security! The gaffer planned it all along!"