CHAPTER 42: APEX UNITED VS CARDIFF CITY (2)

Two goals in two minutes. It was a brutal, clinical execution.

On the pitch, the Apex United players were in disarray, the confidence from their opening league wins completely evaporated.

"Get a grip! Get your heads up!" Grant Hanley’s voice was a furious roar, but it was tinged with desperation. He looked at his midfield, who were being bypassed with ease. "Kenny! Jacob! Where are you?! They’re walking through us!"

"They’re everywhere, skip!" Kenny McLean shouted back, gasping for air. "We’re outnumbered!"

David Kerrigan, the supposed secret weapon, looked completely lost.

His game was built on confidence and swagger, and he had none left.

tried to take on a defender near the halfway line and was unceremoniously shrugged off the ball, nearly leading to another Cardiff attack.

Ethan stood on the sideline, a cold, sick feeling in his stomach. His ’Managerial Instinct’, his brilliant insight, had been a trap.

He had focused so much on exploiting a potential weakness that he had ignored Cardiff’s overwhelming strengths. He had been arrogant. He had been naive.

And his players were paying the price.

The half-time whistle blew like a mercy bell.

The Apex players trudged off the pitch, their heads bowed, avoiding eye contact with their manager.

The away dressing room was a tomb. The usual half-time buzz was replaced by a heavy, defeated silence. Players sat slumped, staring at nothing.

Ethan walked into the center of the room. He wasn’t angry.

He was something far worse... disappointed in himself.

"That," he began, his voice quiet but cutting through the silence, "was my fault. One hundred percent. I got a piece of information, and I got greedy. I built our entire game plan around a risky gamble, and I sent you out there to execute a flawed strategy. I’m sorry."

The players looked up, surprised.

They had expected to be yelled at.

"I asked you to be a missile, David," he said, looking directly at Kerrigan. "But I aimed you at the wrong target. That’s on me. So, we’re changing it. We’re throwing that plan in the bin."

He turned to the holographic tactics board, wiping it clean with a swipe of his hand. "We’re going back to basics. We’re going to a 4-4-2. We are going to be compact, we are going to be disciplined, and we are going to fight our way back into this game, inch by inch."

He looked at the bench. "Josh," he called out. Josh Sargent, the veteran striker, looked up. "You’re on for David. I don’t want you to run in behind. I want you to be a wall. Hold the ball up. Bring others into play. Give our midfield an out-ball. Be a nightmare for their defenders."

Sargent, who had been benched for a teenager, just nodded, a determined fire in his eyes. "You got it, boss."

"The rest of you," Ethan said, his voice rising with a new, defiant energy. "I don’t care about the score anymore. I care about the fight. I want to see you win your tackles. I want to see you fight for every loose ball. I want to see you play for the crest on your chest. Forget the prize money. Forget the next round. This half is about one thing and one thing only: pride. Show me who you are."

The teams walked out for the second half.

Apex looked different. The fear was gone, replaced by a quiet, simmering resolve.

"And we’re back for the second half, with Apex United making a change," the commentator noted. "It’s the veteran Josh Sargent on for the young David Kerrigan. A clear switch in tactics from Ethan Couch, who is looking for a more physical presence up front after a disastrous first half."

The first ten minutes of the second half were a gritty, attritional battle.

Apex wasn’t creating chances, but they weren’t conceding them either.

They were winning their fifty-fifties.

Sargent was a brilliant focal point, holding the ball up, winning free-kicks, and giving his defense a much-needed breather.

"Good work, Josh! Keep it up!" Hanley yelled, his voice now filled with encouragement.

The Cardiff players, who had been expecting an easy half, were getting frustrated.

The game was no longer a procession; it was a street fight.

In the 55th minute, the spark arrived. Jonathan Rowe won a crunching tackle on the right wing and played a quick pass inside to Emre.

Emre, now with Sargent occupying the defenders, found a pocket of space.

He turned and drove at the heart of the Cardiff defense.

He slid a pass out to the overlapping full-back, whose cross was deflected high into the air, looping towards the penalty spot.

It was a messy, broken play. The Cardiff defenders were watching the ball, trying to judge its flight. Josh Sargent, with his back to goal, saw his chance.

As the ball dropped, he moved into position, took off, and with a breathtaking display of agility and improvisation, launched himself into the air, connecting with a perfect bicycle kick.

The stadium fell silent for a split second. The ball flew like a missile, a blur of white against the green, and smashed into the top corner of the net. The goalkeeper didn’t even have time to dive.

It was a goal of such impossible, audacious brilliance that nobody knew how to react.

Then, the small corner of Apex fans erupted.

"OH MY GOODNESS! WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?! JOSH SARGENT! WITH AN ABSOLUTELY SENSATIONAL BICYCLE KICK! Out of nothing! Apex United have a goal back, and it is one of the best you will ever see!"

The Apex players mobbed Sargent, who was on his back, roaring at the sky, a look of pure, primal joy on his face.

The veteran who had been benched had just scored the goal of his life.

The goal changed everything. The Cardiff players were rattled.

The Apex players were buzzing, filled with a belief that bordered on religious.

They were no longer just surviving; they were attacking.

Five minutes later, just as the game hit the 60-minute mark, the ball broke to Emre Demir thirty yards from goal.

The Cardiff midfield, still in shock, was slow to close him down.

They gave him a yard of space. It was one yard too many.

Emre took one touch to set the ball, looked up, and with a technique that was almost casual in its perfection, wrapped his right foot around the ball.

The ball started wide of the post, curling, bending, arcing through the air as if guided by a string. I

t seemed to defy geometry, bending back in at the last possible second.

The goalkeeper, scrambling desperately across his line, launched himself into a full-stretch dive, his fingers just inches away as the ball kissed the inside of the post and nestled into the back of the net.

2-2.

The stadium was stunned into absolute silence. Two goals of impossible quality in five minutes.

"I DON’T BELIEVE MY EYES!" the commentator screamed, his voice hoarse with disbelief. "I SIMPLY DO NOT BELIEVE IT! EMRE DEMIR! WITH A GOAL THAT BELONGS IN A MUSEUM! He has painted a masterpiece at the Cardiff City Stadium! From 2-0 down and dead and buried, Apex United are level! This is the magic of the cup!"

Ethan stood on the sideline, his hands on his head, a look of utter, joyful disbelief on his face.

His team wasn’t just fighting back. They were creating miracles.