Jerry bent over, hands on his knees, sweat dripping from his face as the Dortmund crowd went nuts around him like some wild animal.
3–2.
He'd done it.
Not just any goal—the goal. The one that actually meant something.
But there was no time to celebrate. No arms up, no knee slide, no running to the corner flag. Just straight adrenaline and noise shaking the stadium.
The game wasn't over yet.
And Dortmund weren't backing down.
"Back in position!" Jester yelled, jogging past and clapping his hands like only a captain could when everyone else looked dead. "We're not done!"
Jerry groaned and straightened up, swiping sweat from his eyes as he forced himself to turn back toward the halfway line. His lungs were on fire, chest pumping like an engine about to give out. His whole body ached, but he kept going.
