The players emerged from the tunnel with a sense of purpose, their footsteps brisk, their expressions steely. The floodlights bathed the pitch in a harsh glow, illuminating the task ahead. The cool Vienna air carried the faint scent of damp grass, but the atmosphere inside the stadium was anything but calm. Rapid's supporters were relentless, their chants echoing through the night, urging their team to finish the job.
Bradford had other ideas.
Jake lingered near the technical area, his silhouette rigid against the illuminated backdrop. His eyes darted across the field, absorbing every detail—the spacing, the body language, the energy in his players' movements. This wasn't the time for panic. No sweeping tactical shifts. Just precision. Sharpness. Ruthlessness.
The referee glanced at his watch, then lifted the whistle to his lips. A sharp blast split the air.
Game on.
