THE PLAYMAKER
The noise from the Bilbao Central supporters hadn't died down. Alonso's goal had breathed life back into the team, and for the first time all match, San Ignacio looked unsettled.
"Come on!" Coach Herrera's voice cut through the roar of the crowd. "We're not done yet!"
Alonso jogged back to his position, his heart pounding so hard it echoed in his ears. The goal had felt like a dream.
The weight of the ball leaving his foot, the flash of the net rippling—he could still feel it. But there was no time to celebrate. Not yet.
San Ignacio kicked off again, but something had changed. Alonso could feel it in the air. The pressure was on them now.
Their crisp, confident passes had lost a bit of sharpness, and Bilbao Central had fire in their veins.
The crowd sensed it too.
Bilbao Central's supporters, once quiet and anxious, were now a roaring sea of voices. They clapped, stomped, and cheered every tackle, every pass.
A group of younger kids waved a makeshift banner that read "Vamos Central!" while parents leaned forward in their seats, tension etched across their faces.
Alonso kept moving, never letting their defenders rest. His lungs burned, but he ignored the ache.
Every time they tried to play it out from the back, he was there—nipping at their heels, forcing hurried passes.
San Ignacio still had the lead, but it no longer felt secure.
Their midfielders, once so composed, started misplacing passes under the relentless pressure. Their coach yelled instructions from the sidelines, his voice tense and clipped.
In the 62nd minute, Miguel won another ball in midfield. This time, he didn't hesitate. Alonso had already started his run, and Miguel spotted him.
"Alonso!" he shouted, launching a looping pass over the defense.
Alonso's legs burned as he sprinted.
He watched the ball drop, his mind calculating the bounce. A defender closed in from the side, but Alonso angled his body, shielding the ball as it came down.
One touch.
A flick of his boot brought the ball under control. The defender lunged, but Alonso twisted his body, spinning away from the challenge.
Two touches.
He was in the box. The keeper charged, arms wide, trying to cut down the angle. Alonso felt the world slow down.
Every detail sharpened—the scuffed white lines on the grass, the glint of sunlight off the crossbar, the roar of the crowd swelling in his ears.
Three touches.
Alonso chipped it.
The ball floated over the keeper's shoulder and dipped under the crossbar.
GOAL!
The Bilbao Central section exploded. Alonso spun around, fists clenched, his mouth open in a wordless shout of triumph.
Miguel tackled him in a hug, nearly knocking him over.
"Two!" Miguel yelled, breathless. "Two goals, Alonso!"
On the sidelines, Coach Herrera's tense face softened into something like a smile. He clapped his hands together. "Keep going! Keep the pressure on!"
San Ignacio restarted, but their rhythm was broken. Alonso felt it in their movements—hesitant, rushed. They were rattled.
The crowd's noise surged every time Bilbao Central touched the ball. Fans chanted Alonso's name, and each cheer seemed to give him more energy.
Meanwhile, frustration crept into San Ignacio's game. Their defenders shouted at each other, and their captain flung his arms in the air when a pass went astray.
In the 70th minute, Torres forced a turnover near midfield and passed quickly to Miguel. Alonso was already on the move, weaving between defenders like he was born to do it.
Miguel didn't even have to think. He released the ball with a perfectly timed through-pass, splitting the center-backs.
Alonso pounced.
His legs stretched with every stride, his heartbeat a drumbeat in his chest. The defenders couldn't catch him. This was his moment.
He drew his foot back and struck the ball cleanly.
It rocketed past the keeper's outstretched hands.
The net bulged.
GOAL!
A hat-trick.
The noise was deafening. His teammates surrounded him, their cheers filling his ears, but Alonso barely felt their hands on his back.
His mind raced, his heart soaring.
"Alonso the playmaker!" the crowd chanted, over and over again. The name echoed through the stadium, sending chills down his spine.
San Ignacio looked broken. The scoreboard read 3-3. They had been cruising, but now they were fighting to hold on.
The tension on the pitch was electric. Every touch mattered. Alonso could feel the desperation in San Ignacio's play—they pressed harder, tackled more fiercely—but the cracks in their armor were showing.
And Alonso wasn't finished.
In the 78th minute, San Ignacio managed to push forward, earning a corner kick. Their towering striker rose to meet the cross, but Ramires made a stunning reflex save, slapping the ball away.
Torres cleared it long, and suddenly, Alonso had space.
He took off down the left wing. Miguel spotted him and sent a pinpoint pass flying over the midfield.
Alonso controlled it mid-stride, pushing forward with blistering speed. A lone defender stood between him and glory.
He feinted left.
The defender bit.
Alonso cut right and was gone.
The keeper rushed out, desperate to close the angle.
Alonso waited until the last possible second—then slid the ball beneath the keeper's diving body.
GOAL!
The stadium erupted.
4-3
The comeback was complete.
Alonso dropped to his knees, fists raised to the sky. He could hardly breathe, hardly think.
The sound of his name echoing through the stands seemed distant and unreal.
"Alonso the playmaker! Alonso the playmaker!"
When the final whistle blew, the Bilbao Central players swarmed him. Miguel and Torres lifted him onto their shoulders, carrying him toward the cheering crowd.
Tears pricked at Alonso's eyes as he looked around—at the roaring crowd, the smiling faces, the green pitch beneath his feet. He had done it.
Against all odds, he had changed the game.
"Alonso the playmaker!" they shouted, their voices ringing with pride.
Coach Herrera stood on the sidelines, arms crossed, but there was no hiding the satisfaction in his eyes. This was more than just a victory.
It was a statement.
And Alonso?
He wasn't done dreaming.