Extra Time –
As the final whistle of regular time echoed across Valley Parade, a heavy silence fell—brief but profound. Bodies bent, hands on knees, chests heaving. The scoreboard read 2-1 on the night, 3-3 on aggregate. But Jake Wilson didn't let the moment linger.
He stormed onto the pitch like a commander retaking ground. No clipboard. No diagrams. Just presence—magnetic and urgent. He pulled the players into a tight huddle, arms slung around shoulders slick with sweat.
He didn't shout. He didn't need to.
"This is ours now," he said, voice low and loaded with certainty. "You dragged this back. You broke them. Now finish the job."
Eyes locked on his.
"Forget what hurts. Thirty minutes. That's all. Empty the tank."
There was a beat of silence, then Silva—jaw clenched, chest rising fast—nodded. Ibáñez muttered something under his breath in Spanish. Barnes thumped his fists together.
Jake stepped back and pointed toward the touchline.
Then came the reinforcements.
