huff.huff.huff.
The breathing quickened with each passing moment. His lungs had never felt like this before, burning as he dragged air into his chest.
The clock ticked forward, approaching the inevitable.
"And there will be a minimum of 2 minutes of additional time at the end of this game! CD Mirandés would have been hoping for at least three or four."
"And just as you say, Gorroxtxategi is taking the ball forward. It seems like Mirandés doesn't want to go to Extra Time."
The pain in his lungs worsened as he tracked backwards, pushing his heavy feet off the ground. The roar of the crowd climbed as the ball moved forward at the Carlos Tartiere Stadium. Nearly 30,000 fans held their breath with each passing moment. The home team was losing control, and the fans could sense it too.
"And Costas has managed to clear the ball for a corner, but the danger remains imminent. Mirandés is committing every player forward."
The corner was taken quickly.
Too quickly.
The ball left Alberto Reina's boot with a sharp whip, curling dangerously toward the six-yard box. It cut through the air faster than he expected, dipping late.
Near post.
That was where he was, waiting to meet the ball before the swarm of red jerseys could.
He shifted his weight, knees bent, eyes locked on the ball. His calves begged for mercy as he pushed off the turf, every movement half a beat slower than what the situation demanded.
His neck tightened on instinct as the ball clipped his forehead, not square but grazing the side. Bodies lunged around him, a desperate swarm to clear the ball off the line, but the ball had made up its mind. It bounced awkwardly and crawled inside the line.
A single ripple of the net, with cruel politeness.
"And OHHHH!!! He has completely miscued, and it's in. The cruelest of own goals as Mirandés edge ahead with the final whistle fast approaching! Absolute heartbreak for Real Oviedo, and Ícaro Redentor can only watch in horror as the ball finds the back of his own net!"
For a fraction of a second, the Mirandés players didn't believe it.
Then arms shot into the air.
Red shirts sprinted frantically, screams tearing loose from chests that had been tight with tension just seconds earlier. The bench emptied as the corner flag became a sea of red.
Up in the away end, Mirandistas erupted in joy and disbelief. For Mirandistas, it was a fairytale. It would be the first time the Mirandés faithful saw their club in the pinnacle of Spanish Football, the LaLiga, since the club's foundation in 1927.
The home crowd could only watch. Some froze, unable to process the horror show. Others waited for despair to settle. Years of hope had crumbled to ashes once again; their wait of 24 years for top-flight football was extending its contract for another year.
Ícaro finally pushed his body up, ignoring the scream his body let out. He stood by the post, eyes fixed on the sea of red, refusing to disband. Around him, the Carbayones' despair made the net seem smaller, the pitch colder, and the extra time they had begged for irrelevant.
The referee pointed to the center circle.
There was still time.
The whistles hadn't blown yet.
Yet for Ícaro, it was already over.