"GET IN THE GOAL!" helpfully screamed Zilia, putting aside the saltiness that the team was doing well without her for the prospects of making a semifinal for the first time ever. But get in the goal it did not, as Solara's rushed touch sent the ball well high. Benjamin had dogged her all match and wasn't relenting down to the last minute--the full-time whistle came still grounded at nil-nil.
"We're not getting anywhere." Joren grumbled as he slouched back on the bench; he'd been ordered to rest far away from the commotion of the S&T match, but the physio relented to let him attend the quarterfinal. Ninety minutes of Kalia not being able to pick the lock of the Ko-orenite defense, the Ko-orenite offense getting outpaced at every turn, the crowd going wild at any potential chance just to will something into happening, and Zilia blasting like a trumpet in his ear were not doing his head any favors. "Something's gotta give."
Don knew he should have been out a bit right then. His best claim to fame he'll likely have for the next hundred years is on a razor-thin line, and if it went to penalties he'd end up setting one thing or another on fire. He knew there was no choice but to gamble on a barely-tested strategy to either break through, or fold. But he'd caught himself. A dragon of his prestige--one of the soundest analytical minds the University had ever employed--was letting the game get to him. He'd been letting it get to him this entire time. So many of the best on-the-fly tactical decisions had come from Joren's prodding, or even fucking Jorm have an idea once in a while. He could paint as perfect a plan as you wont before a match, utilizing all the power of the data that Joren and the interns collect and his extensive studies of the international football of yesteryear. But was it not all for naught when in a match he gets lost in a red mist of goallust? There's a point where one must fight even their very love for the game, as being able to see nothing but the dramatic and romantic can leave you without the practical means to actually win the fucking game.
"Don? Play's about to start..." Joren tossed an empty bottle of water up, bonking the zoned-out dragon right on his snout.
"Oh, fuck, right, right." He turned to the bench and pointed a claw at each of the Royals. "Tia, Pia--you're on for Vernan and Malia." Vernan had done an excellent job making sure the game stayed even, but it was do-or-die time, and a strictly defensive presence like him wouldn't cut it. And Malia just looked exhausted after playing pretty much every minute of every game for the past... four years? Fuck, they really did need to work on their depth. So put the two fresh players with the most chemistry on the pitch and hope it's enough. We've never even had a match come down to penalties, it can't be now.
Extra time starts... okay. Hilda mishandles it early, but Kapitein mishandles it right back. Evens out, all's good, now press. Kalia's cut off--they've brought everyone back, they know they have the edge in penalties, shit. Lasser at least wins the free ball off the deflected pass--but can only barrel it at the goal. It's a rocket, but Theshendan stands firm, and takes a leap forward--but eats the ball again. His backs aren't moving forward. Some shouting happens, and things get moving--Don side-eyes one of the refs, wishing they'd actually do something about stall tactics. It's not 'a part of the game', it's a damn cheese that undercuts the most exciting moments. Hilda just goes for Holstege's legs--that's not a card? Ooh, twii.tur is not going to like that one. She wobbles a bit getting up, but can still run--it'll have to do, all subs are used. Kapitein tees off, a long ball to Longchambon--he'd floated further to the wing and Pia didn't keep the mark, shitfuckshit. Uhlon's there to snap it down--much cleaner than Hilda's, surprisingly. Did the Valladars actually teach him how to professionally foul? Oh, there's a yellow anyway. Someone probably yelled on her earpiece about the earlier one and that's a makeup call. Another free kick, Joren's yelling something but the crowd's too loud for even Don to parse it. It's short back to Dalton, long across to Swadling, up to Duchemin, back to Holstege, up to Longchambon in the box--Mara's on it in an instant, sliding right under him and sending the ball careening back out. Reina gets to it first, absolutely mashes it upfield--no sense messing around there with the goal empty for even a moment. Whistle sounds. Already?
Not much to chat about. "Don't look at me," he shrugs. "We all know what needs to happen." Of course, it's something very specific, and he could have said it, but these are good players. They'd seen it too.
Solara makes a big solo run. It was never going to go in, but Reina and Pia feint forward as if to follow up. She leaves a dent in the ground planting her right hoof and let it rip with her left; Theshendan stands firm. He makes a hopping throw, Kapitein corrals it, but Pia is already on him; they'd doubled back the moment Theshendan had it lined up. A few quick stomps and a friendly hip check and Pia's on the ball; takes two steps up, fires it up to Tia. She's in no-pony's land, they'd already broken forward--except for Benjamin, lagging behind. He'd just sprinted back just in case a rebound happened, because no way was he going to let that goat dive in horn-first and bash in a cheeky winner, and... well, now Tia was onsides, and he just had nothing left in the tank to get on her.
Theshendan sees his mistake. He launches forward, to get any bit of himself on the ball as it screams in. The chip sails a solid four feet over his head, an agonizing rainbow that bounces twice before rolling over the line.
Don collapses onto the bench. The vibration knocks Zilia and Mari off. Joren gives him a hug.
