Marcus Thorne, the legendary striker, was a shadow, a ghost that had attached itself to the soul of Apex United's creative engine.

For the first fifteen minutes, Emre Demir was a non-entity, a ghost being haunted by a legend.

Apex's attacks were disjointed, their rhythm gone.

They would build up play, look for their brilliant number ten, and find him being calmly, expertly, and completely suffocated by one of the smartest players on the planet.

"I can't get him the ball!" Kenny McLean yelled, after another one of his passes towards Emre was effortlessly intercepted by Thorne. "He's everywhere!"

"And this is a tactical masterclass from the Derby dugout!" Gary 'The Gaffer' Stone was crowing on the live stream commentary. "It's old-school, it's brilliant! You take out the opposition's best player, and the whole team crumbles! The Apex kids have no answer!"

Ethan stood on the sideline, his mind racing, a knot of pure, unadulterated panic tightening in his stomach.

His plan, his brilliant plan to cut off the supply to Thorne, was useless.

The supply wasn't the problem. Thorne was the problem.

He was being out-managed, out-thought, and humiliated in front of thousands of viewers.

But then, as he watched Thorne follow Emre deep into his own half, a wild, insane, and possibly brilliant idea sparked in his mind. He wasn't their greatest weapon.

"EMRE!" Ethan roared, his voice cutting through the noise of the stadium.

"GO FOR A WALK!"

Emre looked over, a confused frown on his face.

"THE LEFT WING!" Ethan screamed, pointing to the far touchline.

"GO STAND OVER THERE! AS WIDE AS YOU CAN!"

Emre, trusting his manager implicitly, did as he was told. He just jogged over to the left wing, miles away from the action.

And Marcus Thorne, his face a mask of grim, professional duty, followed him.

The Derby players were visibly confused.

Their legendary striker was now playing as a left-back.

Their entire defensive shape was being dragged out of position by a single, simple, stupid instruction.

But in the initial chaos of the tactical shift, in the 19th minute, Derby struck.

With Thorne out of position, they launched an attack down the other flank. A simple cross was whipped into the box.

Their other striker, a powerful, traditional number nine, rose high above the Apex defense and powered a thunderous header into the back of the net.

1-0 to Derby.

The home crowd erupted. It was a classic, brutal, and effective goal.

"AND DERBY HAVE THE LEAD!" Tactics Tim announced. "A powerful header, and the home side are in front! And you have to say, Ethan Couch's bizarre tactical tweak has backfired immediately, leaving his team completely unbalanced!"

But Ethan wasn't panicking. He was smiling.

"It's working," he whispered to James Pearce, who just looked at him as if he had finally lost his mind.

The game restarted.

Emre stayed on the wing. And Thorne, reluctantly, stayed with him. And now, in the center of the pitch, where a legendary striker used to be, there was a huge, gaping, beautiful hole.

In the 25th minute, the plan bore fruit.

David Kerrigan, receiving the ball, drove inside, directly into the space Thorne had vacated. He unleashed a blistering shot that was brilliantly saved. The rebound fell to Viktor, whose own shot was blocked. The ball pinballed around the box before being scrambled clear.

But the seed of doubt had been planted in the Derby defense.

Then, in the 28th minute, came the moment of justice.

Emre, receiving the ball on the wing, saw Thorne closing him down.

With a burst of acceleration, he skipped past the veteran.

Thorne, not a natural defender and his pride wounded, lunged in from behind with a cynical, desperate, and very, very hard tackle.

The whistle blew. A clear yellow card.

Marcus Thorne, the legend, had been booked for a clumsy, frustrated foul. It was a huge psychological victory.

The game was becoming a frantic, end-to-end battle. In the 32nd minute, a Derby counter-attack saw their winger one-on-one with Gunn, but the Apex keeper made a brilliant, sprawling save.

A moment later, at the other end, a long shot from Kenny McLean forced an equally spectacular, fingertip save from the Derby keeper.

The game was a powder keg, waiting for a spark.

In the 35th minute, that spark arrived.

Apex won a corner. Emre whipped it in. It was a chaotic scramble.

The ball was headed clear, but only to the edge of the box where Viktor Kristensen was waiting.

He hit a sweet volley that was destined for the net, but it was blocked.

The ball flew up into the air, and in the ensuing chaos, it fell to the one man who had been at the heart of the fightback. Grant Hanley.

He met the ball with a simple, side-footed finish from six yards out.

1-1!

"GOOOOOOOOAL! THE CAPTAIN! GRANT HANLEY! APEX ARE LEVEL!" Tactics Tim screamed. "The pressure has told! And the tactical gamble from Ethan Couch has paid off in spades! This game is absolutely electric!"

The Apex players celebrated wildly, a roar of pure, defiant joy.

But they weren't done.

From the restart, their tails were up.

They won the ball back immediately.

Emre, with Thorne now wary of making another challenge, found a pocket of space.

He looked up and saw David Kerrigan making a run.

He played a sublime, defense-splitting pass.

Kerrigan was in. He drove at the heart of the defense. He could have shot, but he saw Viktor making a better run. He unselfishly squared the ball.

Viktor took one touch and, with a calmness that defied his age, he slotted the ball into the bottom corner.

2-1 to Apex! In the 40th minute!

"I DON'T BELIEVE IT! I DO NOT BELIEVE IT!" the commentator shrieked, his voice hoarse with disbelief.

"TWO GOALS IN FIVE MINUTES! APEX UNITED HAVE TURNED THIS GAME COMPLETELY ON ITS HEAD! From 1-0 down and completely outclassed, they are now 2-1 up! Ethan Couch, you absolute madman! You beautiful, tactical genius! What on earth have we just witnessed?!"

Ethan was on the pitch, a wild, joyous roar tearing from his throat, mobbed by his ecstatic coaching staff. He looked across at the opposite dugout.

The Derby manager was screaming at his players.

And Marcus Thorne, the legend, was just standing there, a look of profound, dawning horror on his face.

His perfect plan, the masterstroke that was supposed to win the game, had just become the very reason they were losing.

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