The Crestford goalkeeper, rushed off his six-yard box in a desperate attempt to narrow the angle.
Instead of opting for a simple chip over the onrushing keeper, Keene decided to go for glory, rounding the goalkeeper with a flashy step-over that drew a collective gasp from the crowd.
For a fleeting second, it looked like a moment of magic—until Harris, the defender, recovered with a perfectly timed bodycheck, slamming into Keene with just enough force to send him sprawling to the ground before he could tap the ball into the empty net.
"What the fuck!!!" Maddox hollered from the touchline, his voice raw with fustration as he threw his hands into the air. "We're fucking 5-0 down, mate! Who the hell cares for a beautiful goal?!" His face flushed red, his eyes blazing with a mix of anger and disbelief.
Keene's teammates on the pitch shared his sentiment—Riley Croft threw his hands up in exasperation, while Toby Winchell shook his head, his expression a mixture of shock and disappointment.
Even the Silvergate fans in the stands groaned in unison, their brief surge of hope dashed by the wasted opportunity to pull one back.
Unbeknownst to Maddox, his assistant, Nigel Crowther, watched the scene unfold with a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
For a brief moment, a relieved smile tugged at the corners of his mouth—a smile that vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a carefully crafted mask of disappointment.
Crowther, a 44-year-old man with a gaunt face and a perpetual air of cynicism, had been a thorn in Maddox's side before his transmigration to the body.
The memories of his predecessor—a younger Eric Maddox who had clashed repeatedly with Crowther over tactics and team selection—flashed through his mind, painting a picture of a man who couldn't be trusted.
Crowther's smug demeanor, his passive-aggressive remarks, and his habit of questioning decisions midgame and during meetings had already set Maddox on edge, and this fleeting smile only deepened his suspicion.
Fweeeeee!
The referee's whistle cut through the chaos, its sharp trill drawing everyone's attention to the 18-yard box.
The official pointed decisively to the penalty spot, his other hand reaching for his pocket to produce a yellow card for Harris, the Crestford defender who had bodychecked Keene.
[> "Ohh… He's pointed to the spot!" <] the first commentator, Dave, boomed through the speakers, his voice tinged with surprise. [> "The referee has awarded a penalty and a yellow card for the challenge on Keene! A lifeline for Silvergate—can they make it count?" <]
The stadium erupted into a cacophony of reactions—Silvergate's players and fans roared with approval, their hope reignited, while the Crestford Colts and their supporters were incensed.
"That was not a foul!" Harris shouted, his face red with indignation as he stormed toward the referee, his teammates joining in the protest.
"He dived! He was looking for it!" their captain yelled, pointing accusingly at Keene, who was still on the ground, clutching his side with an exaggerated grimace.
Maddox exhaled sharply, a wave of relief washing over him as he unclenched his fists. A penalty at 5-0 down wasn't much, but it was a chance—a spark that could ignite something bigger.
He made a mental note to substitute Keene after the spot kick; the boy's ego-driven decision-making had cost them a golden opportunity, and Maddox wasn't in the mood to take further risks.
Noah Perring, the hidden gem he'd identified earlier, would get his chance to shine at the 55-minute mark, just as he'd planned.
He turned toward his assistant to instruct the substitutes to warm up, but his eyes caught the expression on Crowther's face—a darkened scowl, his lips pressed into a thin line, his brow furrowed as if the penalty decision had personally offended him.
Maddox's own brows furrowed in response, suspicion gnawing at the edges of his mind. He hadn't spoken to Crowther since waking up in this body, and the memories he'd inherited painted a clear picture of animosity between his predecessor and the assistant coach.
"What's the problem?" Maddox inquired, his tone sharp and probing, startling Crowther out of his thoughts.
The assistant coach blinked rapidly, his flustered expression betraying a flicker of unease as he scrambled to compose himself.
"Huh, umm… Nothing. Nothing much," Crowther stammered, his monotone voice cracking slightly under the pressure of Maddox's gaze. "I was just surprised by the referee's decision to award a penalty, that's all."
Maddox narrowed his eyes, his suspicion deepening. "Oh… So you don't agree with the decision?" he pressed, his voice low and dangerous. "Which side are you on anyway, Nigel?"
Before Crowther could muster a reply, the commentators' voices drew their attention back to the pitch, where a comical scene was unfolding in the 18-yard box.
[> "Quite a comical scene in the 18-yard box here, Paul," <] Dave chuckled, his tone laced with amusement. [> "Nathan Keene is refusing to let the captain, Toby Winchell, take the spot kick! What do you think?" <]
[> "I understand Winchell's reason for wanting to take the penalty, you know," <] Paul replied, his voice carrying a hint of sympathy. [> "Keene has got a rather awful record on taking penalties, and after wasting that chance earlier, even I wouldn't let him near the ball. The lad's ego is writing checks his skills can't cash!" <]
[> "Hahaha, well said, Paul!" <] Dave laughed, the sound grating on Maddox's nerves as he watched the drama unfold.
On the pitch, Nathan Keene stood defiantly with the ball tucked under his arm, shaking his head as Toby Winchell approached, his expression calm but firm. "I'm taking it," Keene insisted, his voice carrying a childishly irritable edge as he turned away from his captain.
Toby, ever the composed leader despite his youth, tried to reason with him, gesturing toward the goal with a steady hand. "Nate, I've got this," he said, his voice steady but tinged with frustration. "You missed a good opportunity earlier and it might impact your chances, let me handle it."
But Keene wasn't budging, his ego bruised but unyielding, determined to redeem himself in front of the crowd.
Maddox clenched his fists, his patience wearing thin. "For God's sake, Keene, let Toby take it!" he muttered under his breath, his voice a low growl of exasperation.
The last thing he needed was another display of Keene's arrogance derailing their momentum. He glanced at the system interface in his vision, noting the team's morale had ticked up slightly after the penalty decision—[Team Morale: 32% (Rising)]—but Keene's stubbornness threatened to undo that progress.
Beside him, Crowther shifted uncomfortably, his earlier scowl replaced by a forced neutrality that didn't reach his eyes. Maddox made another mental note: he'd need to keep a closer eye on his assistant.
Something about Crowther's reaction—his fleeting smile at Keene's miss, his darkened expression at the penalty call—didn't sit right. If Crowther was sabotaging him from within, feeding flawed advice to the players and undermining his authority, Maddox would need to deal with him sooner rather than later.
But for now, the penalty kick loomed, a pivotal moment that could either ignite Silvergate's fightback or extinguish their faint hopes entirely.
Fweeee!
The referee blew his whistle again, signaling for the penalty to be taken. The stadium held its breath, the tension palpable as Keene placed the ball on the spot, ignoring the protests of his teammates and the jeers of the Crestford fans.
Maddox watched, his heart pounding, his mind racing with possibilities. This was their chance—a single goal could shift the momentum, could give his boys the belief they needed to fight until the final whistle.
But as Keene stepped back, preparing to take the shot, Maddox couldn't shake the feeling that this match—and his journey in this strange new world—was about to take another unpredictable turn.