Seeing an opportunity from the freekick, Maddox didn’t hesitate. "Noah," he called, his voice firm as he waved the boy over. "You’re taking it."
Noah Perring nodded, giving no excuses or grand gestures, just a quiet determination as he walked to the ball, his glasses reflecting the stadium lights like twin beacons.
He placed the ball down with the care of a surgeon prepping for a critical procedure, his small fra steady despite the pressure. The Crestford wall lined up, their bodies tense, while the goalkeeper barked orders, his gloves snapping nervously as he adjusted his position.
Noah stepped back, took three deliberate strides, and struck the ball with his instep. The shot soared—clean, precise, and almost too perfect, arcing over the wall and dipping just before the crossbar.
The keeper leapt, his fingertips brushing the leather, but it was futile; the ball nestled into the top corner with a soft—thud—.
[> "OH MY GOODNESS!" "NOAH PERRING. That is OUTRAGEOUS!" "A goal and two assists. Player of the Match, no question." "And now it’s 6–4. Is this actually happening?" "UNBELIEVABLE." "This match looked dead at halfti. Silvergate has scored five unanswered goals!" "The final whistle is seconds away, Maddox has made this a thriller."
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