The ball changed direction, and for a split second, a sense of relief washed over the fans of red and white.
A heartbeat ago it had been a cannonball, a straight and merciless line toward the top corner. Now it was a spinning, wounded thing, twisting off Unai's fingertips and skipping toward the near post, where it clipped the turf, hopped once, and rolled toward the byline.
It was loose, and every player on the pitch saw it at the same moment.
Hiro saw it from the ground. He was still half sprawled on the grass with Enzo's legs tangled beneath him, but Maestro's Vision had already flared to life behind his eyes.
Lines of light spread across the pitch, tracing the ball's path, the sprinting bodies, and the collapsing gaps in the Atlético defense.
Romero was throwing himself toward the ball, desperate to clear it. Daniel was too far away, still recovering from his sprint. Unai was on his knees on the goal line, scrambling up.
