章節 10: Ian's Game
The ball went in!
One to one!
Marcus's shot brought United U17 back on level terms, resetting the game to equal footing.
"Yeah...!!"
"Whoa! That was a strike! Who's that kid?"
"Well done!"
United fans at the sidelines erupted in cheers, with many standing to applaud and celebrate Marcus's goal.
Though merely spectators, they could clearly feel the thrill of the ball tearing through the net.
In their hearts, this team wasn't just a club's team—it was their team. These kids represented their future.
Some fans, eager to encourage Marcus, even shouted that they hoped to see him in the first team someday.
On the coaching bench, Hans quickly stood up and applauded. His face brimmed with joy, and his gaze fixed tightly on Marcus's back.
He couldn't quite tell if it was the joy of the team equalizing or the delight of seeing Marcus's recent explosive improvement.
"That was a great long shot."
A voice suddenly came from behind him. It was Mourinho, who had taken the initiative to speak. "He must have done some dedicated long-shot practice, righht?"
"I believe so, Mr. Mourinho," Hans replied, clearly a bit surprised that Mourinho was paying attention to Marcus. "I've reminded him multiple times to take care of his body and not overtrain, but he's unstoppable."
"It seems like he has an obsession—he won't stop until he achieves his goal. Perhaps that's how players should naturally be!"
Mourinho nodded and absentmindedly said, "If possible, let him..."
Realizing it might be inappropriate to say more, he quickly corrected himself, "Never mind. You're the U17 head coach; I shouldn't interfere."
Hans didn't respond, but he understood the implication.
Honestly, after this goal, his thoughts were almost completely aligned with Mourinho's.
Near Liverpool's penalty area, United players lit up with excitement as they saw the ball hit the net, rushing toward Marcus in celebration.
"Brilliant!!"
"I knew that shot would go in!"
"One-one, now it's a fair fight."
Most of them had already been convinced by Marcus's improved skills. Only Ian and a few others, resistant to change, stayed back near the defensive line, neither joining the celebration nor saying anything.
Marcus, after scoring, laughed heartily. He felt a burning fire of excitement in his chest, a surge of energy propelling him toward the corner flag in celebration.
Whether he learned this from watching football stars on TV or it was simply an instinct born of exhilaration, he wasn't sure.
One thing was certain: scoring felt amazing!
"Technically, it's not my assist," said Gilbert, the team captain, who was the first to reach him. He hoisted Marcus up high, grinning. "But the corner kick that set it up was mine, so I guess I was involved."
"There will be more," Marcus replied with a confident smile. He didn't believe this match would end here.
The brief celebration ended, and the game returned to its normal pace.
As the game passed the 30-minute mark and both teams began adapting to each other's tempo, the balance on the field gradually shifted toward Liverpool.
After all, they were playing with their full-strength squad, while United had only four first-team players on the pitch.
Initially, both sides played cautiously, adhering to their strategies. But once the game opened up, the gaps began to show.
"Bang!!"
"Whoosh!!"
The difference in strength became evident in the match as Liverpool launched wave after wave of threatening attacks. United's goal area became a war zone, with the ball repeatedly flying toward the net.
Moreover Rowl started to get increasingly irritated watching Ian play and whenever ball pincered to his position, just as he feared Liverpool pincered a quick counter at the last few minutes before half-time.
Their winger beating all the United's midfield players including Gilbert easily passed the ball to their striker, he didn't even faced Carl they seemed to have grasped the weak link of United, CBs.
In the 44th minute, Liverpool scored their second goal.
"Bang!"
"Clang!"
The shot, unlucky, hit the post and rebounded into the box.
Fortunately for Liverpool, another midfielder rushed in and finished it off with a solid shot using the top of his foot.
Two-one!
Liverpool players gleefully ran toward the sidelines in celebration. The scorer even snuck a glance at Mourinho, hoping to catch his attention.
But Mourinho had no time for that. His brow furrowed as he stared at United's midfield and defensive line, his expression filled with disappointment.
In their own penalty box, United had failed to clear the second ball twice—a fatal mistake.
"Fall back! There aren't enough players in defence!"
Ian spread his arms in frustration, his face exasperated as he barked at his teammates. "We've been under pressure for ages, and no one's helping out."
"There are eight of us near the penalty area, including the goalkeeper. That's not exactly few," Gilbert snapped, his patience with Ian wearing thin. He was growing tired of Ian's constant whining and finger-pointing.
"If we had all our starters, we wouldn't have conceded that goal," Ian retorted, doubling down on his superiority complex. Seeing some of the trial players hanging their heads in guilt, he grew even more smug and continued, "I don't know how some people even made it onto this team."
Now, it wasn't just Gilbert and Marcus who were annoyed by Ian. Even Mourinho, on the sidelines, turned to Hans with a frown.
"That player..."
"I'll deal with him after the match," Hans replied through gritted teeth, already fuming. He felt like sending Ian straight to the reserves.
United's struggles weren't over yet.
After the 15-minute halftime break, the second half resumed.
Liverpool pressed on with relentless attacks. Their forwards seemed to have figured out United's weaknesses, pushing up aggressively to dominate possession in United's half.
"Bang!!"
In the 51st minute, Liverpool's captain, their No. 6 midfielder, unleashed a powerful long-range shot.
Ian instead of body blocking he attempted a sliding interception—the ball deflected off the outside of his shin and flew into the goal, leaving goalkeeper Hopkins helpless.
Three-one!
"Ah...!" Ian stood frozen, his head hung low as he placed his hands on his hips in frustration.
For a moment, he forgot about Marcus and the others, instead worrying about his own future.
With today's performance, it was clear Mourinho wouldn't be impressed.
'Shit…what I am even doing??'
Frustrated and regretful, he wished he'd focused more on the game from the start.
"Get the ball back. There's still time left. Don't waste it on regrets," a voice called from the front—it was Marcus, who clearly hadn't given up.
Rowl retrieved the ball and kicked it to Marcus, giving him a thumbs-up for encouragement.
"Damn it…that Frenchie," Ian muttered bitterly, jealousy flaring as he watched Marcus, who already had a goal to his name. If only he could have a moment of brilliance, he wouldn't care how many goals the team conceded.
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