For the second time in five minutes, the home fans had been rendered completely speechless by a goal that defied logic.
The only sound was the delirious, frantic roar from the tiny section of traveling Apex supporters and the shouts of the players in the all-black kits.
Ethan stood on the sideline, his hands on his head, a laugh of pure, unadulterated disbelief bubbling up from his chest. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be.
Bicycle kicks and impossible curling shots weren’t supposed to happen in the same half, let alone the same five-minute spell. This wasn’t a football match; it was a highlight reel.
On the pitch, his players were reacting with a similar sense of joyous bewilderment.
"What are they feeding you, wee man?!" Kenny McLean yelled at Emre, clapping him on the back so hard the teenager almost fell over.
Josh Sargent, the scorer of the first miracle goal, just jogged over to Emre and shook his head. "Okay, fine," he said with a grin. "Yours was better."
Emre just smiled, a quiet, confident look in his eyes that said, I can do this whenever I want.
The Cardiff players, on the other hand, were in complete disarray. Their captain was screaming at his midfielders for not closing Emre down.
Their goalkeeper was just staring at his goalpost as if it had personally betrayed him.
They had gone from a comfortable 2-0 cruise to a chaotic 2-2 dogfight in the blink of an eye.
The Cardiff manager reacted, making a desperate, defensive substitution, bringing on another center-back to try and stem the bleeding and see the game out to penalties.
"I need a moment to catch my breath!" the commentator exclaimed, his voice filled with a giddy excitement. "This game has been turned on its head by two of the most spectacular goals you will ever see! The momentum is entirely with Apex United now. Can the shell-shocked Championship side hold on?"
The next twenty minutes were a siege.
Apex, filled with an almost manic belief, threw everything forward.
The Cardiff players, now in full damage-control mode, defended with a desperate, last-ditch heroism.
In the 71st minute, a cross from Jonathan Rowe found Sargent, whose powerful header was brilliantly tipped over the bar.
In the 78th minute, a mazy dribble from Emre ended with a shot that was blocked by a sliding defender who threw his body in front of it like a secret service agent taking a bullet.
"How did that not go in?!" Ethan groaned, turning to his assistant. James Pearce just shrugged, his AI-generated face a perfect mask of neutrality.
As the game entered the final ten minutes, the frantic pace began to take its toll. The Apex players, having given everything to get back into the game, were starting to tire. Their passes became a little less crisp, their runs a little less sharp.
Cardiff, sensing a moment of respite, began to venture forward again.
In the 88th minute, against the run of play, they launched a hopeful long ball upfield.
Their big number nine, who had been anonymous for the entire second half, managed to flick it on.
Their fastest winger, who had been tracking back all half, suddenly found himself in a footrace with Grant Hanley.
The Apex captain, running on fumes, just managed to keep pace, shepherding the winger towards the corner flag. The winger cut back, then cut back again, and sent a low, hopeful cross into the box.
The ball should have been easily cleared. But it took a wicked deflection off a defender’s boot, looping high into the air and dropping right into the six-yard box.
Angus Gunn, caught in two minds, hesitated for a split second.
It was a fatal error.
A Cardiff midfielder, who had gambled on a lung-bursting run from deep, came flying in and bundled the ball over the line with his chest.
The home crowd, who had been silent for half an hour, exploded into a deafening roar of pure, unadulterated relief.
Their players celebrated with the desperation of a team that knew it had just stolen something it didn’t deserve.
The Apex players collapsed to their knees, their faces a picture of utter devastation. They had played their hearts out, scored two miracle goals, only to be undone by a lucky deflection.
"Heartbreak! Absolute heartbreak for Apex United!" the commentator lamented. "They have been magnificent in this second half, but a cruel, cruel deflection looks to have stolen the dream away from them right at the death! Football can be a cruel, cruel game."
Ethan stood on the sideline, a cold, sick feeling in his stomach.
He looked at the fourth official’s board. Three minutes of stoppage time. It felt like an insult.
"Get up!" he roared, his voice hoarse. "Get the ball! It’s not over! Get it back!"
His players, spurred on by their manager’s defiant cry, hauled themselves to their feet. This text is hosted at novel⦿fire.net
They had three minutes to find another miracle.
They threw everyone forward. Grant Hanley became an auxiliary striker.
They pumped long balls into the box, creating chaos. The Cardiff players, now defending for their lives, headed everything, kicked everything, blocked everything.
The clock ticked past 92 minutes.
The ball broke to Kenny McLean forty yards from goal.
He looked up, saw the packed penalty area, and instead of launching it in, he saw a single, calm figure in an all-black kit, standing in a pocket of space just outside the D. Emre Demir.
McLean played a simple, crisp pass to his feet.
The Cardiff defenders, their eyes wide with terror, saw the danger.
They swarmed towards him. Two, then three of them, a blue wall descending to snuff out the final spark of hope.
Emre took one touch. He saw them coming.
He knew he couldn’t shoot. But he also knew they thought he was going to.
With an audacious, almost arrogant flick, he scooped the ball over the head of the first defender, took two quick steps to his left, and collected it on the other side as the defenders scrambled to change direction.
He had created an inch of space for himself.
That was all he needed.
The clock showed 92:50. This was the last kick of the game.
He didn’t even look at the goal. He just wrapped his right foot around the ball, his body arching back, his technique a perfect, fluid motion.
It was the same shot as before.
The same impossible, physics-defying arc.
The ball flew from his foot, starting wide, curling, bending, a beautiful, deadly serpent arcing towards the top corner.
The goalkeeper flew through the air, his body at full stretch, a picture of desperate hope.
But you can’t save perfection.
The ball kissed the post and rippled the back of the net.
The stadium fell into a silence so profound it was like the world had stopped spinning.
The referee put the whistle to his lips and blew for full-time.
"I HAVE SEEN IT ALL! I HAVE SEEN IT ALL!" the commentator screamed, his voice completely gone. "EMRE DEMIR HAS DONE IT AGAIN! AN IDENTICAL GOAL TO HIS FIRST! IT IS 3-3 WITH THE LAST KICK OF THE GAME! THIS IS NOT REAL! I cannot believe what we have just witnessed, ladies and gentlemen! After 93 minutes of the most incredible cup tie I have ever seen, we are level! And that can only mean one thing... penalties!"