Khaki kicked off, and immediately their shape looked organised—crisp passes, sharp movement, better spacing. They weren't retreating; they were fighting back.
The midfielder and the winger exchanged a neat one-two that split Iron Crest's first line of pressure. The crowd reacted instantly, cheers and claps echoing like the sound of sandals smacking pavement.
'They are hardly using the left wing' Ayodeji noted as his teammates carved space on the right. The winger dropped a shoulder, slid past his marker, and whipped a cross into the box.
The striker met it, striking the ball immediately but it just went over the bar. Hands slapped heads. Fans groaned before clapping, trying to motivate the team as they could still count it as a good moment.
Now everyone could feel that Khaki FC was alive and coming from the break stronger. Jidenna shouted, barking out orders as he paced the sidelines.
For several minutes, they traded blows confidently. Their passes found feet and their backline pushed higher, even winning second balls that they'd been losing earlier. The midfielders were working like gears, turning at the same pace.
Khaki weren't backing down as they pressed again. This time, their left-back sprinted up, intercepted a pass, and instantly launched a counter.
The ball fell to the central midfielder, who shoved it forward and continued his run. A neat one-two sliced open the midfield, and suddenly Khaki had numbers.
The striker took a shot; the ball aimed low at the near post. It forced the Iron Crest keeper into a quick reaction save, parrying it out awkwardly.
Shouts and cheers rose from the stands as Khaki earned a throw near the corner flag.
The play restarted immediately, as the ball got to the winger, who curled in a teasing cross—just a little too high, but it made Iron Crest nervous.
The Iron Crest defenders collided, nearly gifting the Khaki striker the ball before the ball was cleared out.
Khaki kept winning duels, recovering second balls, and forcing Iron Crest to retreat a bit. Their movement looked purposeful, their communication sharp.
On the other hand, Iron Crest looked rattled. They weren't expecting pressure. They weren't expecting Khaki to match intensity with actual structure and decision-making.
Khaki FC tried a quick counter again. Chike threaded a slick pass through the channel. The striker chased it full speed, passing through the defenders.
He got there. And struck it immediately.
The ball was straight at the keeper, but the save made the spectators explode again.
Iron Crest's captain, who was a defender, yelled at his teammates. They were being pushed back.
Khaki's confidence surged; momentum was theirs. They held possession well and switched flanks smartly. Their touches weren't panicked—just controlled.
For the first five, ten, fifteen minutes…Khaki FC looked like the better side.
And then…Iron Crest adjusted.
Their defensive midfielder stopped chasing and began shadowing passing lanes. Their left winger started drifting infield, receiving deeper, linking play instead of sprinting at defenders.
And their big striker, who had been lurking, dropped into pockets, dragging Khaki's centre-backs with him.
And just like that, Iron Crest took control. They didn't do anything dramatic or flashy, just good tactics.
Their passes became faster, sharper, and more decisive—zipping between Khaki players like they weren't even there. One-touches, rebounds off boots and triangle combinations down the sideline.
Khaki tried to step up, but Iron Crest moved the ball before pressure arrived. Inches. Always inches ahead.
The first scare came when Iron Crest's left-sided midfielder drifted infield, receiving a short pass with his back to Khaki's pressure. He turned sharply, sliding the ball to the deep-lying playmaker who had dropped between the centre-backs.
And suddenly, Khaki's midfield shape cracked open.
A single diagonal pass tore through two pressing players, landing perfectly at the feet of Iron Crest's No. 11 on the flank.
He didn't hesitate, driving forward immediately. It began with one touch, then two touches and a burst of pace. Khaki's FC right-back scrambled to match him, barely keeping up.
A low cross whipped into the box, dangerously curving past the defenders. Like a predator, the striker lunged but missed it by inches earning groans at the Iron Crest bench.
The ball skidded out the other side of the box and was recovered instantly by Iron Crest's winger, who recycled possession with calm precision.
The crowd clapped and hummed, motivating the Iron Crest players while also building pressure on Khaki FC.
Iron Crest reset their shape and attacked again. They gave no breathing space as they became sharper, faster and cleaner. The No. 8 slipped between two players with a feint and sent a darting through-ball into the half-space.
The right winger latched onto it with blistering speed and cut it back into the box, leaving the right back to catch dust. He made use of the space and immediately made a first-time shot but was blocked by the boot of the centre back.
The ball rebounded straight into a midfielder who has also moved up the pitch and was unmarked. He wasted no time in blasting the secod shot but the Khaki keeper punched the ball away desperately, tumbling off balance as the centre back cleared the ball.
Minutes ticked by as Iron Crest applied increasing pressure with every play, pushing Khaki FC deeper and reversing the roles from the opening minutes of the second half.
Back on the bench, Ayodeji boot was furiously tapping the sand as his jaw was tightened. He sneaked glances at Jidenna, seeing that his arms were crossed and his face hardened. He could tell that the man was having the same thought as he was
'Please don't not concede.'
But not every prayer gets answered.
In the 68th minute of the game, Chike received the ball under pressure and tried to pivot away. But Iron Crest's No. 10 was already on him. A quick toe poke knocked the ball loose, sending it rolling into open space.
And Iron Crest pounced.
The No. 8 lunged forward first, scooping up possession with a burst of acceleration that left Khaki's midfield sliced open. He drove forward, the sand spraying behind each step like he was tearing through water.
Chike shouted, "Close him! Close him!"
But the midfielder wasn't slowing.
He skipped past Khaki's first challenge—a midfielder who tried to cover for Chike's error, then used the outside of his foot to slip the ball to the left winger, who was already sprinting down the flank.
The pass was so well timed that the winger didn't break stride; he just caught it on the run, pushing the ball ahead of him with smooth, confident touches.
Khaki's right-back scrambled to catch up, but the winger had momentum. He pushed the ball forward again—bigger touch, more aggressive—inviting the defender to commit.
Then he struck. A sudden stop, his heel on the ball and his body swerving inward.
The right back lunged and. was left grasping air as the winger exploded the opposite direction, entering the box at full speed.
Shouts erupted as navy blue kits flooded back: "Hold him!"
"Don't dive in!"
"Track inside!"
But panic had already spread.
A Khaki centre back rushed across, trying to cut the angle. The winger saw him, nudging the ball slightly ahead with his instep—just out of reach—then planting his foot to shape his body for a cutback.
The centre-back stretched—
But it was too late.
The winger had darted across him, and in a desperate attempt to recover, the defender swung his leg out to block the pass.
His boot caught nothing but shin. The winger went down hard, rolling once on the sand before curling around his knee.
The referee's whistle cut through the chaos, loud and sharp.
Penalty.
The entire field froze for a breath before the Iron Crest players erupted in shouts of triumph, surrounding the winger as they pulled him up, patting him on the back.
The Khaki FC's defender held his head, lips parted in disbelief as he walked to the referee, trying to talk to him but even he didn't look convinced by his own statement.
The referee pointed to the spot with his whole arm, confident and unmoved.
The noise from the crowd swelled—half cheers, half groans, all tension.
Iron Crest's captain stepped forward. He maintained a calm expression, his eyes fixed on the ball as he placed it carefully on the penalty mark. The sand shifted beneath it, so he pressed it down with the heel of his palm, making sure it sat still.
The goalkeeper bounced on his line, wiping sweat from his eyebrows with trembling fingers. He adjusted his gloves as he waved his arms, trying to intimidate the skipper.
The captain stepped back, taking one… two…three small steps. He exhaled, shoulders dropping a little as he settled.
Behind him, teammates stood in a loose arc outside the box. Some bounced on their toes while others were completely still. Khaki FC players hovered in front of them, tense and annoyed, the foul still fresh on their faces.
The referee checked both sides, lifted the whistle, and blew.
The captain moved instantly but not explosively, his first step smooth. Then the second; his body leaning slightly to the right, his shoulders opening just enough to sell the feint.
The goalkeeper's eyes widened, his legs twitched. Then the captain's left foot struck the ground, planting firmly and his right leg whipped forward.
The moment of contact rang out—a full, clean, perfect strike.The ball didn't just roll; it shot off his boot, spinning violently, curving toward the left corner with venomous precision.
The keeper exploded in the same direction, stretching with everything he had. For a split second, it looked like he might get there. His glove skimmed past the ball by inches.
But it wasn't enough, the shot was too sharp.
Too fast.
Too accurate.
The ball slammed into the side netting with a heavy thwump, brushing the fibres so hard they trembled long after the ball settled inside the goal.
For a split second, the pitch froze.
Then the field erupted.
Iron Crest fans exploded into cheers, jumping, screaming, fists punching the air. The captain didn't even sprint or scream; he just turned around with a tight smile and pointed once to the sky before his teammates mobbed him.
On the other side, Khaki FC players barely moved. The goalkeeper stayed crouched for a few seconds, palms pressed into the sand, breathing heavily. He'd gone the right way but was not fast enough.
The defender who caused the penalty, dragged a hand through his hair and muttered something angry at himself. The captain of Khaki FC clapped twice, loud and sharp, trying to pull everyone together again.
And just like that, the deadlock was broken.
———
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