The game restarted quickly after the goal celebration, and there was no let-up. Both teams went at each other like heavyweights trading punches. One attack followed another. Dortmund moved the ball with technical precision, zipping it through the lines with purpose. Liverpool responded in kind with quick passes, diagonal switches, bursts from Salah, relentless movement from the midfield.

And just like that, the momentum shifted back and forth like a pendulum.

Then came the 74th minute.

Dortmund launched a rapid counterattack down the right. A one-two between their winger and fullback left Liverpool's young stand-in left-back scrambling to recover. The winger hit the byline and whipped in a vicious, low cross that skimmed through the heart of the box.

Zachary tracked it with dread, watching it cut between van Dijk and another academy defender.

Then, as if on cue, Brunn Larsen appeared out of nowhere, slipping into the gap. He didn't blast it as he didn't need to. He just made a well-timed, clean side-foot finish past the keeper.

3–2. Dortmund.

The stadium shifted.

A mix of cheers and groans rippled through the stands, but on the Liverpool bench, it was all frustration. Klopp smiled and shook his head. The staff exchanged glances. The team had clawed back from two down, only to let it slip again.

On the pitch, Zachary stood still for a moment, staring at the net, lips pressed tight. Although it was a pre-season game he didn't want to lose. He just didn't like losing.

Then he turned to Henderson.

Their eyes locked.

No words. Just a look.

Let's go.

The tempo surged again.

Henderson roared back into action, closing down passes, snapping into challenges, demanding more from the players around him. Zachary mirrored his intensity, dropping deeper to help build, then pushing forward to link. He wasn't just another midfielder but was also trying to stitch the team together, find the gaps, and pull something out of nothing.

And they almost did. Again and again.

Salah burned down the right flank like wildfire, forcing Dortmund to double up just to slow him down. Zachary and Henderson fed him every chance they got, threading passes through tiny channels and angles.

But the German defense held firm. Positionally sound, physically committed, and quick to snuff out half-chances before they turned dangerous.

Time drained away.

82nd. 83rd. 84th.

Then came the 85th, and with it, a decision.

Zachary inhaled deeply. It wasn't just about being fit anymore. It wasn't about making safe choices and passing backwards. He had to risk it.

He pulled off the emotional brace he'd been wearing since returning. The hesitation. The caution. He could no longer afford all that.

It was time to play like himself again.

And from that moment on, everything changed.

He stopped playing around Dortmund and started playing through them. Taking defenders on. Turning in tight spaces. Daring the tackles. The crowd felt it as he was suddenly everywhere. He skipped over fouls, found space, demanded the ball with a fire that hadn't been seen for months.

And as the clock ticked towards the 88th minute, he dropped into a pocket of space just inside Liverpool's half and called for it.

Henderson found him immediately with a first-time crisp pass.

Zachary controlled it, pivoted, and exploded forward. One touch to gather. One to glide past the first man. Then another, smoother than silk, past a second. A sharp shift of pace, and he slipped between two midfielders like a ghost.

The crowd erupted.

He was free, driving toward the edge of the box, the white line approaching fast. He set the ball to his stronger foot, drew back to shoot… And then?

WHACK.

A blur of yellow came sliding in from the blind side.

Zachary didn't see it, but only felt it. One moment he was upright, focused. The next, his world spun sideways. His left leg was swept completely out from under him. He hit the turf hard, his back sliding across the grass as the ball rolled free.

On cue, the whistle shrieked.

It was a foul. Clear as day.

Free-kick. Just outside the area.

But no one cheered. No one complained. For a second, the stadium fell silent. All eyes turned to where Zachary lay crumpled on the pitch.

Klopp was already on his feet.

Henderson jogged over in full sprint.

Salah froze mid-motion.

The Liverpool bench didn't breathe.

As for Zachary, his eyes were shut tight. His jaw clenched.

Not now. Please… not like this.

He opened his eyes. Stared at the floodlights. Then slowly moved his fingers. His toes. Flexed his foot. Rolled his ankles.

No lightning bolts of pain. No tearing sensation. Nothing sharp or unnatural.

He slowly pushed himself upright. Bent both knees. Checked again.

Still intact.

Still standing.

A long, shaky breath escaped his lips as he sat up fully.

Henderson reached down.

"You good?"

Zachary nodded. "Yeah. I think so."

He stood, gingerly at first, then with more certainty.

The Liverpool bench exhaled.

Klopp clapped once, his hands letting out a sharp and loud sound.

Salah jogged over, shaking his head, smirking through the sweat.

"That run? That was criminal," he said. "You had them spinning."

Zachary managed a grin, but the adrenaline was still burning through him. The tackle had been heavy. A few inches higher and things could've been different. A planted foot and this whole comeback story might have turned tragic.

But none of that happened.

He was still here.

Still whole.

He shook the nerves out of his arms, rolled his neck, and turned toward the ball.

No more time for reflection.

There was a free-kick to take, just outside the box, slightly right of center. It was the kind of spot that made goalkeepers shuffle nervously on their line, unsure whether to trust their wall or their reflexes. It was a specialist's range.

Three Liverpool players hovered near the ball, including Henderson, Van Dijk, and Salah. They had formed a semicircle with Zachary as they discussed their options while the referee stood a few meters away, arms out, counting out the steps to form Dortmund's wall.

Mo Salah glanced over, smirking. "You sure you still remember how to hit one of these?" he said, nudging Zachary with an elbow. "Been what…six months? Could be dust on those boots."

Zachary chuckled and wiped his right boot theatrically across the turf. "Only one way to find out."

Henderson folded his arms and tilted his head. "No pressure. If it flies into Row Z, we'll just say it was the wind."

Zachary flashed a crooked smile. "Or it'll be the keeper's nightmare. Depends how you look at it."

There was no ego in the conversation. No pecking order to worry about. Just the trust of senior players giving one of their own his moment.

Salah gave a quiet nod, eyes steady. "Go on, then."

Van Dijk was already stepping away, clearing the space. Henderson slapped Zachary lightly on the back and leaned in.

"Make it count."

Zachary nodded and approached the ball.

The wall was nearly set, with four Dortmund players shoulder to shoulder, shifting in place, yelling instructions to the keeper. Behind them, the Dortmund goalie crouched low, peering between heads, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.

Zachary's eyes scanned everything. The angle. The height of the wall. The keeper's position, which was slightly left of center. He'd leave the right side exposed, trusting the wall.

Big mistake.

After assessing the opposition defensive set-up, Zachary took three deliberate steps back, body slightly angled. His arms swung loose at his sides. He inhaled once, deep and slow, chest expanding. Then let it out.

The referee blew the whistle.

The sound pierced the hum of the stadium.

Zachary took his run-up, ensuring that he was fluid, balanced, and locked in. His plant foot struck firm into the turf, and his right foot whipped through the ball with practiced ease.

The connection that followed was clean. The strike pure.

The ball bent beautifully, curling up and on course to go over the wall and spin towards the top right corner, on the way to the keeper's weak side.

The crowd gasped mid-flight.

But just as the shot crested, one of the Dortmund players at the end of the wall, who was outstretched and fully airborne, got the tiniest flick of the top of his shoulder on the ball.

It was just enough.

The trajectory shifted ever so slightly. The curl was still there, but now the dip came too late. The ball struck the underside of the crossbar with a heavy CRACK that echoed through the stadium.

The sound was sharp. The bar rattled violently. And the ball came screaming back into the penalty area.

Panic ensued.

A blur of legs, boots, and bodies converged. Dortmund defenders tried to hoof it clear. Liverpool players lunged in, with Henderson, Salah, and a couple of academy kids desperate to turn chaos into gold.

The ball took a ricochet off a defender's knee, bounced off another's shin, and dropped right into the path of Henderson.

He didn't think. He didn't wait.

He struck it first time, laces through leather.

Bang.

The net snapped back with the force of the strike.

3–3.

And just like that, the stadium went into meltdown.

It wasn't polite preseason clapping. It was real. Roaring. Limbs in the stands. Fans leaping to their feet. Flags flying. It felt like the equalizer in a Champions League semi-final, not a summer exhibition.

Zachary didn't move at first. He stood frozen, his eyes still on the trembling crossbar, his heart still thumping in his ears.

Then, as the team swarmed Henderson in a blur of red jerseys, Salah turned and ran straight at Zachary.

He threw an arm around his shoulders. "Not bad for a guy who forgot how to shoot."

Zachary laughed. A real laugh that was raw, loud, and unfiltered. His lungs were still burning, his calves tight, but he felt alive.

Henderson jogged past, pointing at him. "We're calling that an assist, yeah? You rattled the crossbar so hard it nearly cracked."

Even Klopp on the touchline couldn't hide his grin. Arms folded, head shaking, he gave Zachary a single clap and a look that said everything:

You're back.

Zachary nodded, and turned to jog back to his position, letting it all soak in.

He hadn't scored. But that strike had meant something. It had turned the tide. It had created the moment that brought Liverpool back.