The second ga of the week took Lincoln High back on the road.
Another away day. Another chance to carve their mark.
The iconic team bus rolled into Westbrook territory, engine rumbling like a beast at rest.
The mont the doors hissed open, winter air clawed at their lungs—sharp, biting, alive with the faint tang of dry soil.
The sll was different here, a mix of frozen earth and the faint tallic hint of rust from the old bleachers looming over the pitch.
It wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t welcoming either.
Julian’s cleats crunched against a pitch that had more scars than grass. The turf was thin, brittle, with patches where bone-dry dirt stared back like exposed bone.
Every step felt like stepping over landmines—divots, uneven ridges, and stubborn clumps of frost.
Across the field, Westbrook High waited in their colors—deep purple and silver flashing under the pale sun.
Julian’s eyes narrowed. [Scan Lv.1] whispered numbers into his mind.Average total attributes: 100–110.
Two players spiked higher—150 and 160.
Dangerous enough to demand respect, but not fear.
Coach Owen’s pre-match voice still rang in Julian’s ears.
"4–3–3, high risk, high reward. They live in chaos.
They feed on mistakes. Break their rhythm, and they break themselves."
The whistle blew—and chaos was exactly what ca.
Westbrook played like every touch might be their last. Press high. Press early. Press always.
Boots hamred into the turf, purple shirts swarming like hornets.
Sotis it worked—Lincoln coughed up possession, and for a heartbeat, Westbrook’s crowd tasted blood.
But every ti they ca close, Cael’s gloves or Riku’s boots shut the door. Hard.
Still, chaos cuts both ways.
And Julian was the blade waiting in the storm.
He sprung traps, tested the line. Twice he was caught in the offside net, the flag snapping up like a guillotine. But he kept hunting.
The frustration was a thin coil in his chest, but beneath it burned a sharper instinct—he could sll the mont coming.
Then—minute 32.
Leo’s vision flashed like lightning. A chipped pass sailed over the final defender, perfectly weighted. Julian caught it on his chest mid-stride, the ball sticking like it knew its place.
One heartbeat. One breath.
Then he ripped a half-volley so clean it sang off his boot.
The keeper barely twitched before the net bulged and the stadium detonated in noise.
0–1.
Westbrook snarled and pushed harder. They had to chase the ga now, and in chasing, they bled space.
Cael saw it first—stepping up on a counter, tangling with their center-back. A mistid challenge. A trip. The whistle shrieked.
Penalty.
Cael placed the ball with the calm of a man ordering coffee. He looked at the keeper, smiled like a villain, and rolled it the opposite way. The net rippled again.
0–2.
From that point, Lincoln didn’t just play—they strangled the ga. Every pass was deliberate, every tackle a statent. The ho fans grew restless, shouts turning to groans as minutes bled away.
When the final whistle blew, it wasn’t a roar—it was a sigh, long and heavy, as Westbrook’s fight died where it stood.
[ MATCH PERFORMANCE RATING: 11 ]
Just like that, Lincoln High had made it three straight wins, each one by the sa scoreline: 2–0.
They sat at the top of their group, ahead on both points and goal difference.
Julian was the league’s top scorer.
Next up—Gardenhill Academy.
This ti, Lincoln would play at ho. Coach Owen, looking to rotate, made changes.
Ricky for Julian.
Miles for Zion.
Caleb for Tariq.
Damien for Cael.
When the Gardenhill bus rolled in, its doors swung open to spill out players in green-and-black uniforms. The color alone didn’t shout—it stated. Cold. Unblinking.
Julian’s gut tightened. Sothing felt off.
[Scan Lv.1] confird it:
Average total attributes—110–115.
Three peaks—160, 165, 175.
Not their toughest opposition, but not to be underestimated.
Formation: 4–2–3–1.
Their movent? chanical. Every run, every pass, clockwork-perfect. Overcoached, maybe—but only a fool thought that was weakness.
The whistle blew.
Gardenhill started with a rehearsed pattern, every player knowing exactly where the next pass would go. Lincoln, riding high after three clean sheets, looked sluggish—sloppy touches, lazy runs.
And in the 10th minute, Gardenhill punished them. Tight passes pulled Lincoln’s lines apart, and a simple finish made it 0–1.
From the sideline, Coach Owen’s voice tore through the cold air.
"The fuck are you doing? I said focus!"
Julian watched from the bench, jaw set, as Coach Owen kept barking orders.
His fingers tapped against his thigh, not from nerves, but from the slow burn of wanting to be out there. He could see the seams in Gardenhill’s defense—small, but there—and every wasted chance felt like sand slipping through the hourglass.
The ga compressed—Lincoln straining to break through, Gardenhill suffocating space. Then, in the 43rd minute, a spark.
Leo, Tyrell, Felix, Ricky—four-pronged, relentless.
The ball zipped between them like it had a mind of its own before Ricky smashed it ho.
1–1.
Second half—pressure mounted, the air thick with mist and breath. The score refused to change.
78th minute—Owen finally turned to Julian.
"You’re in. Finish this."
By then, the sky had opened. Rain hamred the pitch, each drop exploding against turf and skin.
The cold was instant and vicious, needling into his muscles before he’d even crossed the touchline. But his blood felt hotter for it.
It didn’t take long.
82nd minute—a bouncing ball near the box, slick from the downpour. The defender went to clear, but Julian lunged in shoulder-first. The man’s swing t shin instead of ball—ricochet. The spin was cruel, looping over the keeper into the net.
Not pretty. Not clean. But the stadium roared just the sa.
The final whistle was rcy. Lincoln’s players trudged off, soaked to the bone, teeth chattering—grinning like thieves who’d gotten away with it.
[ MATCH PERFORMANCE RATING: 8 ]
Another win for Lincoln High.
Another three points in the bag.
And once again, Julian had saved them.
He wasn’t just a forward anymore—he was becoming the pillar the team leaned on.
When Lincoln needed him, he delivered.
...
The pattern held.
Match after match, Julian’s na lit up scoreboards and highlight reels.
Clips of his goals, his runs, his duels—spliced, slowed, set to music—spread on YouTube.
Subscribers ticked upward. Eight hundred. And rising.
With every upload, his na spread further beyond the pitch. The comnts were a mix—so in awe of his skill, so curious about his background, and a few who seed to know more than they should.
But fa has a long shadow.
The internet connected his na to more than football.
The Ashford surna.
Ashford Industries.
His parents’ empire.
Sowhere out there, they’d seen him by now.
Sowhere out there, they knew.
It was only a matter of ti before Julian Ashford t his parents for the first ti—
since the day he’d transmigrated into this world.
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