Tim Matthews’ POV: 

You see, football is a funny thing. It is a game where the three point system applies; where one goal changes everything, where a tie becomes something beautiful, where one foul changes the course and tone of the entire match.

But, that isn’t all. Football has also been known as a team game. No matter what you might tell yourself; how good a single individual might be in a team. He has to find a synergy with the other ten players on the pitch, to succeed.

Yes, football is a team game, where every player, in essence, has to play out of each other’s rhythm, and a mistake in passing could, literally, send the game the other way.

Australia was playing well.

They were giving it their all.

They were playing hard.

They were fighting fiercely.

But then, again, football is a game that is completely different on every playing field. On a different day, where the elements aren’t favorable, you might see even a team that played fantastic, collapse.

Australia pushed. 

Bailey won it back in midfield, rolled it wide to Matthews overlapping. He took it at full tilt, hips swivelling, ball glued to his left. Jong-su lunged; Matthews hopped over the tackle, landed balanced, and whipped a low cross skimming the six-yard box. 

Hendrick rose—thump—header. Saved. The keeper parried, the ball looped high. 

Jong-su sprang for it, his forehead colliding painfully against the sphere. There were the tell-tale sounds of studs, scuffing against the turf—shuffling as the ball got knocked away. Dae-hyun chased it down, and threaded an immediate laser that saw Sung-tae, taking over the game.

Sung-tae wasn’t the most dazzling or gifted football in the team, but he had his moments, brief sparks of brilliance. In this case, Sung-tae chose to advance on his own as well. The striker ran along the right wing, pushing the ball far away to cover more distance, and in doing so, his momentum carried him past two Aussie midfielders who had a close attention, eager to regain the ball.

Still, he did so with an added difficulty.Sung-tae wasn’t the flashiest name on the team sheet, no violet-eyed prodigy, no headline magnet. But he had his nights. This was one.

He took the ball on the right touchline, gave it a single, decisive push with the outside of his boot. It rolled further, ten yards into open grass. Then he ran. Not a sprint for show, but a working-man’s burst, shoulders low, arms pumping. Two Aussie midfielders lunged, close enough to nearly breathe down his neck, but the ball was already gone, rolling like it had somewhere better to be.

Sung-tae chased it down, gathered it with a soft inside touch, and kept going. One defender slid in late—missed. The other back-pedaled, eyes wide. Sung-tae didn’t need tricks. Just space, stride, and a heart that refused to brake. And he fucking ran like a horse. 

His lungs were on fire. His throat burned, and his legs were heavier than bags of wet sand, with his hamstrings and quadriceps ablaze. His breathing echoed out in his own chest. His eyes scanned. A cross. A pass? To who? Matthews saw it, even from a distance, even as he desperately ran back into defense.

Jae-il was there. Of course he was fucking there. Always on point. Matthews gritted his teeth as he sped forward. 

Sung-tae chipped the pass. Low and razor sharp.

One defender lunged. Another jumped to cut the lane, hoping to intercept. 

They left the box empty.

The sphere barely avoided the second defender’s toes and made a perfect, straight voyage for Jae-il’s feet, who shifted, hips still, eyes forward, and let the ball pass harmlessly between his legs. A ghost feint that caught the defender off-balance.

And there, Jun-hwan, arrived like a bullet train.

He didn’t kill its momentum. The angle was already perfect. 

The moment Jun-hwan’s boot connected, it was pure violence. 

The ball swerved, kissed the inside post with a ping, and buried itself in the net.

4-1.

Matthews stared at the scoreboard. The numbers climbed like ivy on a crumbling wall. His legs felt suddenly heavy, his boots rooted to the grass. He looked across the pitch. 

Jae-il hadn’t even broken stride. He was already jogging back, briefly stopping to mob and compliment Jun-hwan. 

His pulse pounded in his ears.

Jong-su thrust a triumphant finger in the air. A South Korean fan exploded in the front row; Matthews was positive his glasses cracked from the noise. 

Each player dragged themselves back into position, ghosts in green jerseys, the fire in their eyes flickering like dying embers.

Another restart.

Australia tried to build from the back, desperate to string something together. Short passes between the centre-backs, a sideways roll to the full-back, then back to the keeper—anything to eat up time, to claw back possession, to pretend they still had a pulse. 

The clock ticked mercilessly: 72 minutes gone, 4–1 down. 

But the hunger was gone too, replaced by that hollow ache of inevitability, the kind that makes legs feel like lead and minds wander to the final whistle. Coach Jones had long stopped calling out instructions. Now he stood at the sidelines, hands in his pockets, his expression bereft of life. 

That’s when the mistake came.

Their centre-back, under zero pressure—or so he thought—rolled it short to the keeper, a lazy five-yard pass, the ball bobbing softly on the slick turf.

Jae-il smelled it. He’d been hovering like a shadow, dropping deep into the half-spaces between the lines, invisible until the moment mattered. 

His violet eyes locked on the ball’s path a split-second before it left the boot. He ghosted forward. 

One step. Two. 

Jae-il’s toe found the ball like a pickpocket’s fingers, a soft snick that sent it rolling free. The keeper lunged, arms wide, mouth open in a silent ‘No!‘—too late. Jae-il was already gone, a red blur, hips swivelling as he slipped past the sprawling body. Grass stained the keeper’s jersey; the goal gaped empty.

Jae-il didn’t rush. No thunder, no drama. Just one calm tap with the inside of his boot, not even bothering to see whether it went in or not.

The stadium coming alive told him all he needed. 5–1.

Matthews punched the air in frustration, but the gesture felt hollow. 

The Korean end was a red ocean, wave after wave of sound crashing down. He tasted blood where he’d bitten his tongue. ‘Still time’, he thought, but the thought was thin, a lie he no longer believed.

Seventy-eight minutes. South Korea won a corner. The delivery swung in, a vicious dip. 

Their tallest centre-back rose highest, glanced it down. The keeper punched—straight to Jae-il on the edge of the D. He killed it on his thigh, let it drop, and curled it first-time into the top corner.  6–1.

The scoreboard blinked. 6–1. Matthews stood rooted, sweat cooling on his skin. He watched Jae-il jog back to position amidst slight cheers and pats on the back from his teammates. The sheer joy one would experience when scoring was simply not there anymore, because the match was a foregone conclusion. 

Matthews couldn’t recall ever feeling his heart sinking in his chest as much as it did now. Hendrick, his proud teammate, was downcast, too, slumped on his heels. All eyes on the Korean half, they looked around and met Coach Jones’ downhearted look.

The dejected coach rubbed a hand across his face.

Eighty-five minutes. Australia scored a consolation. Matthews himself, a scrambled tap-in after a goalmouth melee. 

6–2. 

He didn’t celebrate. He looked up at the clock, ticking remorselessly toward 90 minutes. No miracle could reverse the numbers. He imagined what the headlines would look like come tomorrow. He knew where the world’s gaze was focused—not the lone green and gold figure celebrating a meaningless goal in the face of total annihilation.

No, everyone would focus their eyes on the nine in red, a young man with pale skin, tall stature, and a wicked beauty.

The whistle blew. The stadium roared, but the sound felt distant, muffled, as if Matthews were underwater. The numbers burned in his retinas.

The far half of the field erupted—hugs, screams, pure ecstasy at having dismantled another giant.

Hendrick slumped on the grass, cradling his head in his hands. Hendrick would get up again, he knew it. But today’s game left him with a lasting impression of what it meant to fight against true talent, the sting of knowing exactly where the bar now sat.

‘Next time…‘

Matthews blinked hard, feeling the warm track of tears sliding down his cheeks. In front of twenty thousand people, no less.

He couldn’t help himself. The adrenaline was long gone, leaving an emptiness so wide and bottomless it almost frightened him. What else was there, except to be crushed, to grieve? What else was there, except to be crushed, to grieve? 

His legs gave out, and he sat on the grass, staring vacantly at the celebrating red horde. ‘It should’ve been us… haaah…‘

The whistle still hung in the air when the red wave broke apart. 

Players drifted toward the tunnel, some already peeling off shirts, others checking phones that had buzzed themselves dead during the ninety minutes. 

Matthews stayed on his knees, palms on his thighs, staring at the patch of turf where the ball had last betrayed him.

Footsteps. 

Light, almost soundless on the trimmed grass.

He looked up.

Jae-il stood three metres away, alone. The floodlights carved sharp shadows under his cheekbones; sweat still clung to his temples, darkening the hair that had fallen across his forehead. 

The number nine looked suddenly human, tired, even. Matthews almost laughed at the sight. 

Jae-il didn’t speak at first. Just tilted his head a fraction, the way you do when you’re trying to decide if someone wants to be left alone or not.

Matthews pushed himself up. His legs felt weak, fatigued.  

Jae-il closed the distance in two unhurried strides and extended his right hand.

“It was a good game. It was, genuinely.” His voice was softer than expected. Lower.

Matthews lifted his hand, slowly, meeting the waiting palm. Jae-il’s grasp was unexpectedly firm.

“Didn’t look like it.”

Came Matthews’ self-deprecating laugh. What? It was the truth.

Jae-il was simply giving lip-service.

Matthews pulled away, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and stood silent. 

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t give your best.” Jae-il spoke again. “Don’t sit in it, Matthews. We all lose. Doesn’t matter how good you are, some nights the ball just doesn’t go in for you.”

“Wasn’t one of those nights for you, though, was it?” Matthews let out a bitter half-laugh, eyes flicking up to Jae-il for a second before dropping again.

“I wasn’t talking about me.” Jae-il’s mouth curved, not quite a smile, just watching Matthews fight to keep it together. “The stakes were high today, and you guys got crunched by the odds. I can’t really tell you otherwise, nor will I patronize you by saying false hopes. You have a great future, Matthews. This is one setback. Recover well.” He patted Matthews on the shoulder. “See you at the World Cup.”

“……”

Matthews stared wordlessly as the younger boy walked away. 

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep