On the pitch, the Apex players were riding a wave of supreme, almost arrogant, confidence.
"Is that a new club record?" Jonathan Rowe yelled to the bench as he jogged back to the halfway line, a massive grin on his face.
"I think the record was just ’scoring a goal’," David Kerrigan shouted back, laughing.
"We’re in uncharted territory now, lads!"
Ethan stood in his technical area, trying his best to look like a calm, professional manager, but inside, he was doing cartwheels.
The next twenty minutes were a procession.
Apex United played with a swagger that bordered on cruelty.
They passed the ball in triangles around the bewildered Accrington players, who were chasing shadows.
Emre Demir was untouchable, a ghost in midfield, orchestrating the play with a series of sublime, first-time passes.
"This is an absolute masterclass from the league leaders!" the commentator purred, his voice filled with admiration.
"Accrington Stanley simply cannot get near them! It’s patient, it’s probing, it’s beautiful to watch. You feel it’s only a matter of time before they add a second."
But as the half wore on, a subtle change occurred.
The beautiful, intricate passing started to become a little too intricate. The simple, effective play was replaced by an unnecessary extra pass, a fancy flick where a simple one would do. They weren’t just trying to win anymore; they were trying to show off.
In the 35th minute, David Kerrigan beat his man on the wing, cut inside, and instead of shooting or crossing, he tried an audacious ’rabona’ pass that sailed harmlessly out of play.
"Davey! What was that?!" Grant Hanley’s voice was a furious roar from the back.
"Just play the game!"
"Lighten up, skip! The fans want a show!" Kerrigan yelled back, unconcerned.
Ethan saw it, and a flicker of unease went through him.
This was the danger of a perfect start. This was arrogance.
The first half ended 1-0. In the dressing room, Ethan tried to bring them back down to earth. "Alright, we’re ahead, but we got sloppy. Stop trying to score the perfect goal. Just score a goal. Let’s get the second and kill this game off."
The players nodded, but he could see in their eyes that they weren’t really listening.
They thought the game was already won.
The second half began, and the sloppiness continued.
Then, in the 58th minute, Accrington Stanley reminded them that this was a professional football match.
Their quiet, unassuming left-winger, who had been anonymous all game, picked up the ball deep inside his own half.
He looked up and saw a sea of blue shirts ahead of him. So he just started to run.
He beat Jonathan Rowe with a simple drop of the shoulder. He glided past Kenny McLean, who lunged in with a tired tackle.
He was now at the heart of the Apex defense. He jinked past Ben Gibson. He was suddenly in the penalty area.
Grant Hanley came across, but the winger was too quick, knocking the ball past him and unleashing a powerful shot.
Angus Gunn made a brilliant save, but the rebound fell straight to the Accrington striker, who had the simplest of tap-ins.
The goal came from absolutely nowhere, a moment of individual brilliance that shattered Apex’s illusion of invincibility.
The home crowd was stunned into silence.
"WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?!" the commentator screamed. "A goal of sensational, breathtaking quality from the Accrington winger! He has dribbled past half the Apex United team! A one-man wrecking crew! And just like that, against all the run of play, we are level! Game on at The Apex!"
The goal sent a jolt of panic through the Apex players.
The swagger was gone, replaced by a frantic, desperate energy.
Their calm, patient passing was replaced by hopeful long balls. They had lost their composure completely.
Ethan was on the sideline, screaming instructions, trying to get them to calm down, to get back to their game plan. But they couldn’t hear him. They were lost in the chaos.
Accrington, buoyed by their goal, were now playing with a fierce, underdog spirit.
They were winning the fifty-fifties. They were first to every loose ball.
The game became a frantic, end-to-end battle. In the 89th minute, with the clock ticking down, Accrington won a corner.
It was their chance to steal an improbable victory.
The ball was whipped into the box. It was a chaotic scramble.
The ball was headed clear by Hanley, but only to the edge of the area.
An Accrington midfielder hit a blistering volley that was destined for the net.
From out of nowhere, a body in a blue shirt launched itself in front of the shot. It was the new S-Rank defender, James McCarthy.
The ball smashed into his chest with a sickening thud, knocking the wind out of him.
It was a heroic, game-saving block.
The ball ricocheted high into the air, looping back towards the Apex goal.
Angus Gunn, seeing the ball was going to drop near his goal line, came rushing out, shouting, "Keeper’s!"
But James McCarthy, still gasping for air and with his back to the goal, didn’t hear him.
All he saw was the ball dropping dangerously in front of an open net. His only thought, his only instinct, was to clear it. To get it away.
He launched himself backwards, twisting his body in mid-air, and swung a desperate leg at the ball.
He made perfect contact.
It was a powerful, decisive, beautifully executed clearance.
Except it wasn’t a clearance.
The ball flew off his boot, a perfect, looping volley.
It sailed over the head of his own onrushing, horrified goalkeeper. It floated, as if in slow motion, under the crossbar and nestled gently into the back of his own net.
For a full three seconds, the entire stadium was utterly silent.
No one could process what had just happened.
Then, a small pocket of the stadium, the corner where the traveling Accrington fans were housed, erupted in a roar of pure, disbelieving, hysterical joy. This content belongs to novel·fire·net
The referee blew the final whistle.
2-1 to Accrington Stanley!!
The Apex United players just collapsed to the turf, their faces a mask of pure, tragic disbelief.
They hadn’t just lost. They had been beaten by the most spectacular, heartbreaking, and utterly comical own goal in the history of football.
And James McCarthy, the S-Rank wonderkid, the hero of the last-ditch block, just lay on his back in the six-yard box, staring up at the sky, a single, perfect tear rolling down his cheek.