Ayodeji's name was called just as the players began drifting back toward their positions.
"Deji."
He looked up to see Coach Jidenna standing by the touchline, one hand already resting on his shoulder. The noise around them faded slightly—not gone, just pushed aside.
"You're going in on the left," Jidenna said calmly. "Don't force anything. Keep it moving. If you see space, attack it. If not, recycle and go again."
Ayodeji nodded, already standing.
"And Deji," the coach added, lowering his voice, "play your game. Nothing else matters."
Ayodeji pulled the bib over his head, adjusted his boots once, and jogged onto the pitch as the referee signaled for the restart. A few claps came from the Khaki FC bench. Some players on the field glanced at him briefly—curious looks and then turned their focus back to the ball.
The whistle blew.
Khaki FC kicked off sharper than they had at any point in the match.
They kept the ball moving with purpose this time, not just passing to survive but to probe. The right winger drove forward first, cutting inside and forcing Iron Crest's left back to commit before laying the ball off at the edge of the box. A quick low shot followed but the keeper got down well, pushing it wide.
The corner came in fast.
It cleared the first man and dropped into a crowded box. A Khaki midfielder met it on the half-volley, striking through bodies, only for the ball to thud into a defender's leg and spin out again.
Appeals for handball rose briefly, then died just as quickly as the referee waved play on.
But still, Khaki didn't slow.
Ayodeji stayed patient on the left, watching the movement ahead of him. When the ball finally reached him, he took a touch inside and slipped a short pass into midfield as he spotted Chike before darting forward again. The return came instantly.
This time, he carried it toward the box, drawing two defenders before shifting it wide to the overlapping fullback.
The cross flashed across goal. No one connected—the striker arriving half a step late.
A groan rolled through the crowd.
Iron Crest were being pushed back now, forced to defend deeper than they wanted. Khaki FC recycled possession again, working the ball side to side, looking for cracks.
Another opening came when Ayodeji cut inside and attempted a quick one-two near the edge of the area, but the final pass was just overhit.
That was when Iron Crest struck back.
They won the ball off a heavy touch in midfield and exploded forward. One pass became two, then three—suddenly Khaki's shape was stretched. A through ball split the centre-backs cleanly, sending the Iron Crest striker racing through on goal.
For a moment, it looked like 2–0 for sure.
He opened his body and went for placement rather than power—but the shot drifted wide, brushing the outside of the post.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by groans and shouts of frustration from Iron Crest's bench.
Khaki FC had barely survived, and the scare seemed to wake something in them.
The next phase of play slowed, steadied. Ayodeji finally dropped a few steps deeper and showed for the ball. When it came, he didn't rush.
One touch to control, another to shift away from pressure, then a simple pass inside. He moved immediately after, sliding into space again. No matter what, the ball kept finding him.
Each time, something changed—a defender stepped out, a line broke, Iron Crest's shape bending just a little. Ayodeji began carrying the ball more confidently now, driving forward when space opened, releasing it when it closed.
Khaki FC started to dominate possession. Iron Crest still fought—tackles flying in, shoulders leaning, voices barking instructions but the rhythm had shifted.
The next chance came from the right.
A Khaki midfielder intercepted a loose pass and immediately drove forward, carrying the ball thirty yards before slipping it wide. The winger took on his man and whipped in an early cross.
It bent dangerously toward the penalty spot, where the striker rose above his marker and nodded it down but straight at the keeper.
The save was routine, yet the rebound spilled awkwardly. For a split second, the ball sat loose in the six-yard box before an Iron Crest defender hacked it clear, boots colliding with shins as bodies tumbled.
Khaki appealed again but the referee ignored them.
Play continued.
Iron Crest tried to slow the tempo, knocking the ball around at the back, but Khaki's pressure forced a mistake. A miscontrolled pass rolled straight into midfield, and Ayodeji pounced, cushioning it with a controlled touch before releasing it quickly.
One-two.
The return pass found him again, and he surged forward, forcing two defenders to collapse toward him. He slipped a short pass to the edge of the box, where a teammate struck first time...
The shot skimmed off the surface, bouncing unpredictably, and clipped the outside of the post.
Another groan as hands went to heads. Someone punched the air in frustration.
Iron Crest were no longer comfortable. Their back line stayed compact, refusing to step out, while their midfield dropped deeper to crowd the space Ayodeji kept drifting into.
Every time he touched the ball, someone closed him down immediately. Still, Khaki kept coming.
Ayodeji received the ball near the halfway line, turned, and accelerated. One defender tried to step across him; Ayodeji slipped past with a sharp touch and kept going. Another defender came. He didn't beat him outright—instead, he drew him in and slipped a pass wide, then sprinted forward again.
The return ball came immediately.
Now facing the back line, Ayodeji slowed just enough to force hesitation. The striker made his run between centre-backs. Ayodeji saw it instantly.
He didn't shoot. Instead, he slid the ball through the gap with precision, weighted perfectly into the striker's path.
One touch.
Shot.
Goal.
Cheers erupted mainly from the Khaki FC bench. Players rushed toward Ayodeji, some laughing in disbelief, others shouting as they slapped his back and grabbed his shoulders.
The striker pulled him into a quick embrace, shaking his head with a grin that said he couldn't quite believe it himself.
On the touchline, Coach Jidenna stood still for a moment longer than usual, eyes fixed on the pitch.
Then he exhaled slowly.
****
After the equaliser, the match tilted into something dangerous.
Both teams pushed forward with less caution now, urgency seeping into every touch. Chances came in bursts—shots dragged wide, crosses cut out at the last second, saves made more from reflex than positioning.
No one slowed the game down, no one wanted extra time.
From the touchline, Coach Jidenna didn't stop shouting. Instructions flew nonstop about when to press, when to drop, and when to foul if necessary.
His voice cracked once, then steadied. He never took his eyes off the pitch.
Iron Crest adjusted. Every time Ayodeji drifted into space, someone followed. Sometimes two. Their midfielders stopped stepping forward recklessly; instead, they angled their runs to block passing lanes that led to him. Fullbacks hesitated before overlapping, wary of what would happen if possession turned over.
On counters, Iron Crest were still sharp but even then, they tracked back faster than before, breaking off attacks just to make sure Ayodeji didn't get room.
Khaki FC noticed it and hey began to use him as the pivot. Balls were played into his feet just to draw pressure, then released elsewhere. Even when he wasn't touching the ball, Iron Crest's shape bent around him.
The clock kept moving. With only few minutes left, fatigue crept in. Tackles came in later, arms were used more freely. A few challenges crossed the line, the referee warning players with sharp gestures but letting play continue.
Then it happened.
Iron Crest committed too many men forward at once. A Khaki defender stepped in front of a pass and knocked it into midfield. One touch. Then another. The ball moved quickly now with clean short passes.
Iron Crest panicked.
They rushed toward the ball, lunging, trying to stop the break before it could form. A midfielder slid in recklessly and missed. Another grabbed at a shirt and let go when the referee glanced his way.
In the midst of all that chaos, the ball reached Ayodeji. Immediately, two defenders closed in but he didn't slow. He nudged the ball past the first challenge, cut slightly inside to avoid the second, and pushed forward again.
A third defender came across late, too late and clipped his leg as Ayodeji wound up to strike. The whistle rose to the referee's lips, but the shot was already gone.
Ayodeji had hit through the ball cleanly, his body twisting just enough to bend it away from the crowd of legs. The ball arced, rising, curling...
...and smashed into the underside of the crossbar.
For a split second, time froze. Then the ball dropped behind the line and bounced into the net. The referee pointed to the centre circle.
Goal.
Khaki FC exploded.
Players sprinted toward Ayodeji, dragging him into a swarm of arms and shouts. Some were laughing, others yelling incoherently, disbelief written across their faces.
Iron Crest players stood frozen, their hands on hips, heads turned toward the referee, knowing it was too late to argue.
On the sideline, Jidenna watched as his players celebrated. He didn't smile or jump or join them.
Instead, he clenched his fist once.
Hard.
———
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