The first ten minutes were a siege.

Apex was pinned back, their midfield unable to get a foothold.

In the 8th minute, a Port Vale midfielder, already on a yellow card for a cynical foul on Kenny McLean, slid in late on Emre.

The referee blew his whistle but kept his cards in his pocket, giving the player a final, stern warning.

"Are you kidding me, ref?!" Ethan screamed from the sideline, his voice hoarse. "That's a second yellow all day long! He's trying to kick us off the park!"

The Port Vale manager just grinned, a picture of smug satisfaction.

His team was winning the physical battle.

In the 14th minute, the pressure told. Port Vale's left-winger, a player with a speed rating that felt like a glitch in the game, received the ball. His name was Leo "Jet" Evans, and he lived up to the nickname.

He knocked the ball past the Apex right-back, Jack Stacey, and just ran.

It wasn't a contest. He was a blur of motion, a force of nature.

He got to the byline and cut the ball back perfectly.

And there he was. Kaito Tanaka. The Silent Striker. He had ghosted in between the two center-backs, and with a simple, first-time finish, he passed the ball into the bottom corner.

1-0 to Port Vale.

"AND THE HOME SIDE HAS THE LEAD!" the commentator roared. "'Jet' Evans with an absolutely electric burst of pace down the wing, and the S-Rank assassin, Kaito Tanaka, is there to apply the finishing touch! A goal of sublime quality, and the league leaders are behind! The 'Tilted Toddlers' narrative is looking dangerously prescient right now!"

The Apex players looked at each other, the memory of the Burton collapse fresh in their minds. But this time, something was different.

There was no panic. There was just a cold, hard anger.

"Right," Hanley barked, grabbing the ball and jogging back to the center circle.

"No more. We don't fold. We fight. Now get your heads up!"

The goal seemed to wake them from their slumber. The fear was gone, replaced by a defiant, glorious rage. They started to play.

In the 21st minute, David Kerrigan, who had been quiet, got the ball.

He ran at his full-back, then another, a whirlwind of chaotic, unpredictable energy. He was cynically hacked down right on the edge of the box by the same midfielder who was already on a yellow. This time, the referee had no choice.

A second yellow was shown, followed by a red. Port Vale was down to ten men.

"AND THE TABLES HAVE TURNED!" the commentator yelled. "A moment of madness from the Port Vale midfielder! A second yellow card for a blatant foul on the tricky David Kerrigan, and the home side are down to ten men! What a dramatic, crazy, brilliant game this is!"

Emre Demir placed the ball down. The free-kick was in a perfect position.

He looked at the wall, at the keeper. He took a deep breath.

"Come on, you little magician," Ethan whispered from the sideline.

Emre struck the ball. It wasn't a curler. It wasn't a knuckleball. It was a thunderbolt. He hit it with such ferocious power that the ball flew like a tracer bullet, a blur of white that smashed into the top corner before the goalkeeper had even moved.

1-1!

"GOOOOOOOOOOAL! AN ABSOLUTE ROCKET FROM EMRE DEMIR! HE HAS NEARLY RIPPED THE NET OFF ITS MOORINGS! An unstoppable, unbelievable strike, and Apex United are level! The ten men of Port Vale are stunned!"

Emre didn't celebrate. He just roared, a sound of pure, cathartic release, before grabbing the ball and sprinting back to the halfway line. The fight was on.

Now, it was Apex who were dominant.

With a one-man advantage, they were finding space everywhere. In the 29th minute, the moment that would define the entire match, and perhaps the season, arrived.

Jonathan Rowe received the ball on the right wing.

He cut inside and played a pass to Emre. Emre, with a sublime, no-look flick, played the ball into the path of Viktor Kristensen.

The Danish striker took one touch and then, from thirty yards out, he just hit it.

It was a speculative, hopeful shot.

A "why not?" shot.

But he caught it perfectly.

The ball flew through the air, a beautiful, soaring arc.

It flew over the keeper's head, dipped at the last possible second, smashed against the underside of the crossbar, bounced down over the line, and then spun back out into play.

Goal. But the referee hadn't seen it. The game played on.

The Apex players were screaming, pointing at the goal. The commentator was losing his mind. But the game continued. The ball was scrambled clear by a Port Vale defender, a long, hopeful punt upfield.

It fell to their one remaining striker. 'Jet' Evans.

He was inside his own half. He was surrounded by three Apex defenders. There was no danger.

But then, he started to run.

It was a sight to behold. He knocked the ball twenty yards ahead of him and just took off. It was pure, unadulterated, 99-rated pace. He flew past the first defender as if he were standing still. He ghosted past the second. Grant Hanley, the last man, tried to get across, but it was like trying to catch a bullet.

Evans was clean through. From the halfway line.

He bore down on Angus Gunn, the goal at his mercy.

And then, from the other side of the pitch, another blur of motion.

It was David Kerrigan, the chaotic winger, who had sprinted the entire length of the pitch, not to defend, but seemingly just for the thrill of the chase.

As Evans was about to shoot, Kerrigan launched himself into a wild, desperate, and frankly ridiculous sliding tackle from the side.

He didn't get the ball. He didn't even get the man. He just slid, like a human bowling ball, directly into the path of his own goalkeeper.

The two Apex players collided in a heap, a chaotic mess of flailing limbs.

And the ball, which Evans had just struck, rolled gently, almost apologetically, into the empty net.

2-1 to the ten men of Port Vale.

The stadium erupted. The commentator was just making a series of high-pitched, incomprehensible noises.

But the chaos wasn't over.

The ball was placed on the center spot. The Apex players looked at each other, not with despair, but with a kind of wild, hysterical laughter. This was their world now.

From the kick-off, the ball was played to Emre.

He took one touch and launched a 60-yard pass over the top of the entire Port Vale team.

Viktor Kristensen, who had started his run from the halfway line, was onto it in a flash. He was one-on-one with the keeper. He didn't shoot. He just calmly chipped the ball over the keeper's head.

But his chip was too high. It was going over the bar.

And then, from out of nowhere, a Port Vale defender, sprinting back towards his own goal, leaped into the air. He was trying to head the ball over the bar for a corner.

He made perfect contact.

The ball flew off his head, a beautiful, powerful, looping header.

Directly into the top corner of his own net.

1-2 to Apex. At the 30-minute mark.

The referee just stood there, his whistle in his mouth, a look of profound, existential confusion on his face, as if he was seriously considering just ending the game and going home...

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