Chapter 148: Chapter 148: We’re All Moving Forward
Prrrtttt!
The whistle split through the stadium’s roar.
The battle was over.
One hundred fifty minutes.
A war that stretched through sweat, grit, and sheer will.
Lincoln High had dragged themselves to the very edge—past exhaustion, past pain—into the crucible of extra time.
...
Julian exhaled softly, eyes fixed on the screen. Even thirty thousand feet above the earth, his heart was pounding.
From the very first half, Lincoln had burned everything.
They’d pressed like madmen—wave after wave, no hesitation, no retreat.
Every run, every tackle, every pass carved from pure resolve.
The stadium had shaken with their rhythm. The bleachers quivered under stomping feet, chants clashing against each other like war drums.
Lincoln wasn’t just playing a game—they were imposing will. Even the neutrals in the crowd leaned forward, unable to tear their eyes away from this storm of red jerseys.
Even the smallest duels felt like life and death—boots colliding, shoulders slamming, voices hoarse from shouting commands.
Leo led the charge—his commands sharp, movements fluid, eyes locked on every gap in the field.
Beside him, Felix darted through midfield like a storm.
Ricky, relentless, harried defenders with fearless energy.
And Noah, calm as stone, orchestrated attacks with precision—his injured knee forgotten, spirit unbroken.
Even the crowd couldn’t hide their awe.
"Lincoln High... they’re relentless! Where’s this stamina coming from?!"
Julian’s eyes narrowed. They’ve grown.
Even through the feed, he could sense it—
their stats, their rhythm, their unity.
It wasn’t just luck. They’d sharpened themselves.
Minute by minute, Lincoln’s pressure mounted—
until chaos struck.
Noah cut in from the right, unleashed a low strike—
the keeper dove, fingertips brushing it aside—
but the ball deflected, spinning loose across the box.
And Ricky was there.
He lunged, swung, and buried it.
1–0.
Lincoln High.
The roar of the crowd spilled through the tablet speakers, echoing even through the cabin air.
Julian clenched his fist, a grin flickering across his face.
Well done.
After that, Lincoln shifted their shape—
a defensive wall, compact and disciplined.
The back four moved like iron gates, sliding together, never leaving gaps. Cael barked orders from behind, his gloves clapping as he organized the line.
Every clearance carried more than desperation—it carried belief. And every block was greeted with roars from the stands, each one feeding the next.
For the rest of regulation, they absorbed wave after wave, pressing only when needed, holding their ground like veterans.
They slowed the tempo, controlled the rhythm, forced Silver Heights to chase shadows.
Minute after minute, the clock ticked toward victory.
When the board lifted—90 minutes—Lincoln’s players already carried the posture of winners.
Confidence. Relief. Maybe... a hint of ease.
And that’s when it happened.
Two minutes added.
One careless pass.
One desperate push from Silver Heights.
A cross curled in. A striker slipped free.
A single touch—
and the net rippled.
1–1.
Julian’s eyes narrowed, breath stilling.
"...They relaxed."
The echo of his own past battles stirred inside him—every lesson etched in pain.
A lesson, burned into his mind. Never loosen your guard before the final whistle.
The equalizer dragged the match into extra time.
Both teams staggered forward, bodies heavy, lungs burning.
Mud clung to socks. Jerseys clung to sweat. Every breath drew fire.
Chances came and went—shots blocked, tackles flying, hearts pounding.
But in the end, the scoreboard stayed frozen.
1–1.
No more miracles. No more time.
The whistle blew again—
and the war marched into its final stage.
Penalties.
Julian sat up straighter, tablet gripped tight, eyes locked on the screen.
This was it—
not strength, not speed—
but will.
...
The penalty shootout began.
Each whistle. Each step. Each strike.
Julian’s heart pounded like a drum against his ribs.
He inhaled sharply before every kick, exhaled through his teeth as the ball hit the net—or the keeper’s gloves.
One after another, the score climbed.
Every shot a test of nerve. Every save a miracle.
Leo buried his penalty high and proud, jaw set. Ricky’s curled low, clean, clinical. Even Noah—limping slightly—drove his home with quiet defiance.
Until at last—it came down to the final kick.
If Cael could stop this one...
Lincoln would win.
Julian’s breath caught. His fingers clenched together.
Please, Cael...
The Silver Heights striker stepped up, eyes cold, shoulders squared.
A heartbeat of silence—
then the whistle.
He struck.
The ball tore through the air, a blur of white—
Cael lunged, body arching backward, fingertips straining—
Thud!
A deflection.
The ball spun wide.
Saved!
Julian shot to his feet, a grin breaking through pure disbelief.
"YES!"
On-screen, chaos erupted.
Lincoln’s players sprinted toward their keeper, laughter and tears mixing under the floodlights.
They swarmed Cael, lifted him high into the air, voices echoing across the pitch.
Lincoln High had won.
Laura’s camera jolted as she ran onto the field, her voice breaking with laughter.
Leo grabbed the phone mid-sprint, turning it to his face.
"We win!" he shouted, eyes blazing with pride.
Julian’s fingers flew across the keyboard.
[Julian]: Nice.
He leaned back, a quiet smile settling on his face as he watched them celebrate—
teammates jumping, shouting, embracing beneath the night sky.
For them, it felt like winning a trophy.
For Julian, it was proof—
Lincoln could stand tall.
Together.
Even when he wasn’t there.
...
With the stream fading to black, Julian exhaled deeply, a soft laugh escaping his lips.
He typed a quick farewell to the group chat and closed the tablet, the echoes of victory still ringing in his mind.
Crest, seated beside him, turned slightly. "They won?"
Julian nodded, grin wide and bright. "Yeah. They won."
For a brief moment, the strict lines of her face softened. A small smile—rare, genuine.
"Well done," she murmured.
Julian leaned back, letting the seat cradle his tired frame.
The adrenaline ebbed, leaving behind a peaceful warmth.
He picked up his console again, resuming his game with slow, easy motions.
But fatigue soon crept in, tugging at his eyes.
Outside, the stars shimmered like scattered embers across the dark horizon, and the plane’s wing carved through the clouds like a silver blade.
As the clouds drifted beyond the window and the engines whispered steady lullabies,
Julian let the console fall into his lap.
They did it, he thought, a faint smile lingering. We’re all moving forward.
And with that quiet satisfaction, he closed his eyes—
hoping that when they opened again,
he’d already be touching down in Germany.