The ball sank like a meteor—fast, violent, and terrifyingly precise and Leo, seated at the edge of the Wigan bench, froze mid-breath.

His spine locked tight as his eyes tracked the flight.

From his angle, it was impossible to tell if it was on target, but something about the crowd's collective inhale said it might be, and the Stoke end was already rising to its feet.

"Baker's hit that from the halfway line!" the commentator shouted, voice skipping up an octave.

"Jones is backpedalling—he's scrambling—!"

Jones twisted, launched himself backwards in a desperate leap.

His right arm shot out, fingertips stretching, just grazing the air beneath the ball—but it wasn't enough.

The ball arced and dipped with a wicked late swerve.

It crashed against the underside of the crossbar with a thunderous clank, the bar shuddering in the process as the fans screamed and the ball bounced out.

Not wide.

Not high.

Down.

Right back into the chaos of bodies scrambling into the box.

"What a hit! That was inches away from one of the goals of the season!" cried the commentator, but his job wasn't done.

"It's anyone's ball now!" he called as the rebound spun awkwardly along the six-yard box, low and spinning—like it wasn't done causing trouble.

Jones scrambled to his feet while Whatmough pivoted, shoulders down, chasing the ball as it spun like a top.

But they weren't fast enough.

David Brown was.

The Stoke winger came crashing in from the blind side, untracked and unmarked—his boot caught the ball flush on the volley.

A thud.

And then, silence—for a half-second.

The net rippled.

And the away end of the DW Stadium erupted into chaos.

"STOKE EQUALISE! From nothing! From sheer chaos! It's Jacob Brown with the final touch, but that all started with Baker's audacious attempt from another postcode!"

Red shirts surged toward the corner flag.

Brown was already on his knees, sliding on the turf with arms spread wide as his teammates swarmed him, some leaping over him to the away crowd, and the others just pulling him further onto the ground.

Even a few subs tore off bibs and bolted from the sideline while the away fans bounced like they'd won the league.

Back on the pitch, Whatmough slammed his hand into the turf once before pushing himself upright.

Jones stood still, chest heaving, glaring at the goal like it had betrayed him.

And on the Wigan bench, Leo hadn't moved.

Still frozen. Jaw tight. Eyes locked on the crossbar.

That bar. That damned bar.

It had been that close.

The replay flickered onto the stadium screens.

"That is unthinkable," the co-commentator murmured.

"You don't hit that unless you're either out of your mind or utterly certain."

"Or both," the lead voice replied. "And it nearly came off. Let's be clear—Jones is the only reason that didn't go straight in. He never stopped watching."

The footage showed it again from the side angle.

Jones's full stretch. The violent ricochet. The rebound and Brown's ruthless finish.

Then, the cameras cut to Dawson on the sideline, shaking his head in resignation before he turned towards his assistant, Nolan, exchanging a few words with the latter.

The match was level.

The atmosphere had changed.

And Leo? He couldn't wait to get on the pitch.

But the DW had gone strangely quiet—its roar replaced by a low, uncertain hum beneath the weight of the equaliser.

Even the ball seemed heavier now, less cooperative.

Wigan tried to respond.

A few firm touches.

Recycling between the centre-backs.

Nothing elaborate—just trying to reassert some control.

But the rhythm had dipped.

The sting of the goal still lingered.

McClean sat beside Leo, rubbed his thigh with a quiet grimace.

"Should've closed that down earlier," he muttered.

On the pitch, Stoke pressed higher.

The spaces Wigan once owned between the lines vanished.

Broadhead dropped deeper to find the ball, but each time he turned, a red shirt was right there.

Bennett shouted for a switch and got it, but his first touch betrayed him, forcing him wide.

By the time he gathered it, Stoke's shape had snapped back into place.

Dawson edged toward the touchline.

One hand under his chin, the other clenched tight by his side.

He'd felt this before.

Control slipping.

Not in an obvious way, but in the slow, invisible moments that crept in without you realising.

That was always the worst part.

Not when the opponent storms you—but when they quietly take the oxygen out of the room.

Cousins shouted from midfield, calling for calm.

He swept the ball sideways toward Whatmough, who had pushed forward—just a yard past halfway.

Too far.

There were too many red shirts coiled and ready to spring.

"…and as we approach the final minute of the first half," the commentator said, his voice settling into a thoughtful murmur, "you can't help but feel Wigan lost their grip on this one after the equaliser. That moment flipped the rhythm. Since then, it's been all Stoke."

Down on the pitch, that rhythm was still playing out.

Jacob Brown was electric.

One goal under his belt, and now he ran like he wanted three more.

He shifted into space near the touchline, tight on the byline, the ball glued to his foot like it owed him something.

Whatmough tracked him closely, barking over his shoulder.

"TILT! Slide left! Cover me!"

Brown dipped his shoulder and went in with confidence, but Whatmough was already there—he'd read it.

He slid in low, timed it just right, his right leg scything across the turf.

Boot to ball.

A clean, echoing thud as the challenge sent it careening upfield.

The crowd roared in appreciation.

Not just for the tackle, but for the resolve.

That was a captain's tackle.

The ball landed at Naylor's feet just past the halfway line, and his first touch, as poor as it was, angled to turn him inside, into space.

You could feel it shift again—like a tide pulling back.

"Here they come!" the co-commentator snapped. "That might be the break Wigan needed!"

Naylor glanced up, options appearing on either flank.

Broadhead had already peeled away, and Fletcher was charging through the middle.

The away end went suddenly quiet.

Naylor took one more touch— and then.

Pweeeeeep!

The referee's whistle cut through the noise like a blade.

"No!" someone in the stands cried.

Naylor's pass was already halfway to Broadhead when he stopped, hands in the air.

"Ahh," the commentator sighed. "There it is. Halftime."

Boos fluttered from the home end.

Not out of anger. Just frustration.

That one chance had felt promising—like a break from the storm that had followed Stoke's equaliser.

Dawson turned from the sideline, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

He didn't speak as the players jogged past.

He didn't have to. The look on his face said everything.

Missed moment.

A spark extinguished before it could catch.

The players filed off the pitch.

Some heads down.

Others were just unreadable. Stoke's bench clapped their starters in while Wigan's bench remained still, eyes following their teammates into the tunnel.

On the screen above the stadium, the halftime score lingered:

Wigan 1 – 1 Stoke City

And just below it, a freeze-frame of Baker's strike, followed by Brown's equaliser, played on loop, again and again as the teams disappeared down the tunnel.

........

Up in the stands, a small cluster of men leaned in toward each other, jackets zipped up to their necks, voices low but growing louder with each exchange.

"I'm telling you," one of them muttered, adjusting his cap, "we're flat without the lad. You watched the Watford match, right? Whole second half — that kid, what's his errm-"

"Calderon", Mia reminded suddenly, causing Sofia to wrap her palms around her mouth.

"Yes, Calderon, Calderon. That kid changed everything."

Another man, younger but with the same kind of weary edge in his voice, nodded.

"Mate, I was glued to my phone. Watched it in the middle of work. He was everywhere. Got the assist. Pre-assist too."

"Exactly," the first replied.

"And today? Nah. It's all too slow. No bite. No one's pulling strings in there. Cousins is solid, but he ain't doing what the kid does. And they are supposed to be the experienced ones."

"Dawson's playing it safe," a third man chimed in, wiping foam from the lid of his coffee.

"But safe doesn't win games in the Championship. You need someone who's brave enough to break lines, and that kid is your guy. Not scared to lose it and always wants the ball. The veterans don't look that invested in the club. We need fire."

"Bet he comes on in the second half," the second man said, leaning forward.

"Dawson's not stupid. He'll see it. We need someone who's gonna stir things up. "

A pause.

Then the first guy muttered under his breath, "He's seventeen, and he already looks more alive than half the starters."

A/n: Okay, it has been a while. Here, have fun reading and I'll see you in a bit. which genuinely means like in 3 days. Really sorry for the inconsistencies guys.