SECOND HALF

Midway through the first half, the score was still 2-0. San Ignacio's defense was a wall, and Javi wasn't breaking through.

"Come on," Alonso muttered under his breath.

His legs twitched with the urge to run, to move, to do something.

San Ignacio controlled the ball again, working it through their midfield with crisp, precise passes.

 Alonso could see their rhythm from the bench—the way they shifted, always a step ahead, always finding the open man. They weren't just bigger; they were better.

 Organized. Every touch had a purpose.

Meanwhile, Bilbao Central struggled to hold its shape. Javi, for all his flash, wasn't passing when he should. 

Twice, he had the chance to lay it off to Miguel or Torres, but he chose to go for goal himself—both shots went wide. Each miss weighed heavier, dragging the team down.

Another attack came down the right wing. San Ignacio's winger, a tall boy with a burst of speed, cut inside past Xavi like he wasn't even there. 

Alonso clenched his fists as the winger curled a dangerous cross into the box.

Mendez and Ortega both leaped to clear it—but their striker, taller than both of them, rose higher.

 His header thundered toward the goal.

Ramires barely got his fingertips to it, deflecting it against the post. 

The ball bounced back into play, chaos erupting in the box as Bilbao Central scrambled to clear it. Finally, Salazar booted it upfield, earning a rare cheer from their section of the stands.

But it was a temporary relief. San Ignacio came back harder, their confidence swelling with every passing minute.

On the sidelines, Coach Herrera paced back and forth, his face dark with frustration. His voice rang out across the pitch, calling for more effort and better decisions—but nothing was working. 

They were being outplayed.

Alonso felt it in his bones. Javi was losing control.

Minutes later, Javi tried another fancy move near the box and lost possession. The counterattack came swift and deadly. Three quick passes and their striker was through on goal again.

This time, Ramires had no chance.

The net bulged. 3-0.

A wave of noise surged from the San Ignacio supporters. 

The green and white banners rippled like victory itself.

Alonso's heart pounded in his chest.

 He gritted his teeth against the burning desire to be out there. To help. To fight.

"Damn it," Coach Herrera growled, tossing his clipboard onto the bench. 

His eyes swept the field, then settled on Javi.

"He's trying too hard to be a hero," Miguel muttered beside Alonso, shaking his head.

Alonso didn't answer. He just watched. Every muscle in his body was tight, coiled like a spring.

The halftime whistle finally blew, and the players trudged toward the locker room. Javi lagged, shoulders tense with frustration.

Inside, the air was thick and heavy. 

No one spoke at first. The sound of cleats scuffing against the tiled floor filled the silence.

Coach Herrera slammed the door shut behind him.

 "Sit down," he snapped, his voice cutting through the tension.

They dropped onto the benches, heads hung low.

"Three-nil," Coach barked, pacing in front of them. "Three-nil! Is this how we play? Is this what you want to show them?"

No one answered.

"We're losing because we're playing selfish!" His eyes locked on Javi.

 "You want to win by yourself? Fine—but you're dragging the whole team down."

Javi lifted his chin, but there was no arrogance left in his face. Just anger.

"Second half," Coach said, voice tight with frustration. "We fight. We work for each other. And there are going to be changes."

His gaze shifted.

"Javi, you're out."

A ripple of shock swept through the room.

Javi's mouth fell open. "What? Coach—"

"Enough," Herrera snapped. "You're not bigger than this team. Sit down."

Alonso's heart thundered against his ribs as Coach's gaze settled on him.

"Morales," he said, quieter but no less firm. "You're in. Second striker. I want you moving—press their backline. Make them uncomfortable."

Alonso's breath hitched in his throat. For a second, he thought he had misheard.

"Me?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, you," Coach said, his tone softening just a bit. "You've been working hard. You earned this. Now show me what you've got."

Alonso swallowed the lump rising in his throat and nodded. "Yes, Coach."

"Good." Herrera clapped his hands.

 "Now, get out there and play like you mean it."

Alonso stood, his heart a drumbeat in his chest. 

He was the smallest player on the pitch—thin, barely reaching the shoulders of some of his teammates—but right now, none of that mattered.

He pulled his jersey over his head and followed the others back out into the biting cold.

The second half began with renewed urgency.

Alonso moved into position, feeling the weight of the moment settle over him. His legs trembled—not from fear, but from anticipation.

San Ignacio wasn't worried about him. Why would they be? A tiny kid, barely taller than their midfielders. But Alonso had one thing they didn't.

He had nothing to lose.

The first time the ball came near, Alonso darted forward, pressing their center-back.

 He wasn't fast, but he was relentless. He chased down every loose pass, every rebound, making their defenders uncomfortable.

Now the game was very fast. Both teams were playing very well making scoring a goal very tough. Alonso had the pall passed to him by Ramires. 

He quickly remembered the videos of Christiana Ronaldo he watched before the day of the game. In the video, he saw Christiano Ronaldo dribbling past a player and made the player fall onto the ground and then he shot the ball to the net.

 Alonso quickly did the dribble passed the defender with ease and made his way to the eighteen-yard box. He shot the ball but unfortunately, the goalkeeper saved the ball from entering the net.

 There was a loud cheering from the Bilbao Central School because they had gained trust in Alonso. The game continued but now the possession was 50-50 percent. 

The game was in equilibrium with good performance from both sides. His chance came in the fifty-eighth minute.

Miguel intercepted a sloppy pass and pushed the ball upfield. Alonso saw the gap—a narrow space between the center-backs. Without thinking, he sprinted.

"Alonso!" Miguel shouted, driving the ball through the defense.

The pass was perfect—rolling just ahead of him..

Alonso stretched, toes brushing the ball. He took one touch, pulling it away from the nearest defender, and then—

He struck it.

His body moved on instinct, years of practice compressed into a single moment.

The ball curled low and hard toward the far post.

 The San Ignacio keeper dove—but too late.

It hit the back of the net.

A stunned silence fell across the pitch. Then came the roar.

"GOOOOAL!"

Alonso barely heard it. He stood frozen, heart hammering in his chest.

He had scored.

His teammates swarmed him, slapping his back, and ruffling his hair. Miguel laughed, voice bright with pride.

 "I told you!" he shouted. "I told you you'd get your chance!"

On the sidelines, Coach Herrera smiled—just a little.

But Alonso wasn't done yet. Not even close.