From his vantage point on the bench, Reinhart observed the unfolding spectacle with a knowing smile. A soft murmur escaped his lips, "Lucas, you've done it."

  Anya's presence in the VIP tribune alongside Cassandra was no mere coincidence. It was Cassandra who had pulled strings, leveraging her connections to bring Anya to the stadium.

  Reinhart had spent considerable time pondering how to reignite the spark within Lucas. He recalled an old interview where Lucas had stated his unwavering dedication to football stemmed from a deep affection for someone special.

  Digging deeper into Lucas's past, Reinhart unearthed the existence of a young girl, small and delicate, whom Lucas had brought with him to Engnd. This girl, Reinhart surmised, held the key to Lucas's resurgence.

  Cassandra and Reina meticulously orchestrated the pn to bring Anya to the game, keeping Lucas completely in the dark. Now, the stage was set for a potentially pivotal moment.

  Following Bradford's second goal, a subtle shift began to occur in Lucas's demeanor. The initial struggle he faced in intercepting Wimbledon's long passes seemed to evaporate. He moved with newfound speed and agility, consistently winning aerial duels and ground balls.

  Takefusa and Mateo exchanged bewildered gnces. They, who had previously dominated Lucas in aerial contests, now found themselves consistently outmaneuvered. Even the commentators struggled to comprehend the sudden transformation.

  [Commentator 2] "This is utterly bizarre! Lucas, who looked so troubled in the early stages, has suddenly transformed into a lightning-fast force, intercepting every long ball Wimbledon pys to the left fnk! What on earth is happening out there?!"

  The atmosphere in the stands underwent a dramatic change. The earlier murmurs of resignation gave way to fervent shouts of encouragement.

  Takefusa, initially dismissing Lucas's improved py as mere luck, was forced to reconsider after repeated failures to beat him. The turning point arrived in the 30th minute.

  As Dante and Takefusa attempted their familiar left-sided attack with short passes, Lucas seized the opportunity to showcase the brilliance that had once earned him the "wonderkid" moniker at Lille.

  With an explosive sprint, he executed a perfectly timed clean tackle on Takefusa, leaving the Japanese winger utterly stunned by the suddenness and precision of the challenge. He couldn't fathom a defender executing such a clean tackle at full speed.

  In the same breath, Lucas sprang to his feet and delivered a pinpoint pass to Eden, who had found space in the center of the pitch. As the ball reached Eden's feet, Dante and Leo swiftly moved to close down his passing options. However, with breathtaking skill, Eden flicked the ball up with the outside of his boot, then back-heeled it over the heads of Leo and Dante, a sublime piece of artistry.

  The lofted pass arced through the air, nding perfectly at Lucas's feet. As if anticipating the py, Duvant immediately darted into the central area, drawing the attention of Wimbledon's central defenders. Mateo and Takefusa gave chase, relying on their speed to catch Lucas. Yet, inexplicably, no matter how fast they ran, Lucas remained just out of reach.

  The Bradford supporters erupted in a chorus of encouragement. "Go on, Lucas!" "That's it! Keep running!" "Good heavens… he's left Takefusa behind! He simply can't catch him!"

  Takefusa, usually untouchable in terms of pace, found himself trailing. His eyes widened in disbelief. He pushed harder, Mateo alongside him, but Lucas was simply too quick, too light on his feet. He glided across the turf like a phantom.

  Each stride seemed to break free from unseen shackles. The lingering pain in his leg, the doubt that had pgued him for so long, now seemed to dissipate. His heart roared louder than his straining muscles.

  "I can… I can run again… Why didn't I realize… all this pain was just in my head…" Lucas mentally repeated these words, willing the ache to subside. "I've been so afraid, thinking I could never come back. But it turns out… I just needed a reason to try… one voice… one face in the stands…"

  "This… this is for you. For Kelly. For Anya."

  [Commentator 1:] "Lucas has broken free down the right side of the Wimbledon defense! Look at his speed! This is not the same pyer we saw in the first half!"

  In the stands, the supporters rose as one, their cheers reaching a fever pitch. "LUCAS! LUCAS! LUCAS!!"

  Lucas reached the right edge of the penalty box. He gnced towards the center, his eyes finding the one pyer he instinctively knew could convert his cross. In that instant, Lucas swung his leg, unleashing a cross that curved beautifully through the air, a perfect arc like an arrow loosed from a taut bowstring. The ball sailed past two defenders who stood rooted to the spot.

  Then, Mathias leaped.

  But the ball fell just inches short of Mathias's head, a mere five centimeters. A collective groan of disappointment rippled through the Bradford supporters, convinced the chance had gone begging.

  However, from behind Mathias, a figure unched himself into the air with incredible height, his back to the goal. It was Lucien, defying gravity with a spectacur overhead kick in the unguarded space.

  The ball hurtled towards the left side of the goal, nestling perfectly inside the net.

  GOOOOOAAAAALLLLLL!!!

  [Commentator 2]: "GOOOOOOOOAL!! A PERFECT ACROBATIC FINISH FROM LUCIEN, CAPITALIZING ON A MOMENT OF LAPSE IN THE WIMBLEDON DEFENSE!! BUT LET'S NOT FORGET WHO DELIVERED THAT INCREDIBLE BALL IN! LUCAS!! LUCAS, HE'S BACK!!" "From the depths of despair to the grandest stage! A pyer weighed down by doubt has answered his critics with a moment of pure brilliance!"

  The stadium erupted. Anya stood jumping, clutching a poster bearing Lucas's name. Supporters wept, cheered, and ughed in a maelstrom of emotions.

  Lucas sank to his knees at the edge of the pitch, tears welling in his eyes, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "The pain never truly goes away… but today… I chose to run with it."

  "I don't need to be perfect… I just want to be worthy of being remembered by the people I love."

  He looked up towards the tribune. Anya was still there, smiling, shouting his name.

  “Hey Mom, did I do okay this time, hehe?”

  Bradford City 1 : 2 AFC Wimbledon

  The explosive roar from the Bradford faithful after their first goal was more than just relief; it was a tidal wave of belief, a tangible surge of energy that coursed through the pitch. The pyers, buoyed by the tangible success of Reinhart's intricate pn, felt a renewed vigor coursing through their veins. The dynamic had shifted; the hunters who had been relentlessly tormenting their prey now found themselves the hunted.

  A true storm was now brewing for AFC Wimbledon. Ominous whispers began to form amongst the Bradford supporters. "Lankshear on the right, Lucas on the left... wow, we've got some incredible wing-backs now!" excimed one fan, his voice brimming with hope. Another chimed in, "They both seem to have simir capabilities, both defensively and offensively!"

  Five minutes ter, that prediction began to materialize. Takefusa, momentarily in possession, once again attempted a quick burst to outpace Lucas. Instead, he found the ball ripped from his grasp by a relentless Lucas with another clean, decisive tackle.

  This time, a predatory glint ignited in Lucas's eyes. He unleashed a lightning-fast pass to Ismael, who, with a deft touch, id it off to Duvant, streaking down the left fnk like a phantom.

  The transformation of Bradford's left side was a spectacle to behold. Gone were the days when Duvant was a lone warrior charging down the wing. Now, Lucas was an indefatigable auxiliary attacker, his runs a testament to astonishing stamina, blurring the lines between defense and offense as he surged from one end of the pitch to the other.

  As Duvant hugged the touchline, drawing the Wimbledon defense towards him like moths to a fme, Lucas, with the cunning of a seasoned predator, cut inside alongside the elegant Eden. The counter-attack, a coiled spring suddenly released, was terrifying in its speed and precision. Bradford's attacking juggernaut, a beast with abilities far exceeding the average, surged forward with frightening velocity.

  Mateo, a hulking figure with surprising speed in the Wimbledon defense, lunged to intercept Lucas, attempting a physical confrontation, a battle of brute strength. But in a dispy of raw power and deceptive agility, Mateo's rger frame was not only resisted but violently shrugged aside.

  From the Bradford bench, Reinhart watched the exchange, a fleeting glimpse of grim satisfaction flickering across his features. He murmured, almost to himself, a dark anecdote, "That man once felled four men with a wooden staff, relying solely on his physical might, you know."

  A collective roar of etion reverberated through the stands as the counter-attack gained momentum. On the right fnk, Mike Lankshear carved a path towards the center, while Harry stretched the defense wide on the wing. Eden, a maestro in the heart of the attack, drifted into the central space, his movements fluid and unpredictable, leaving Ismael to focus on defensive duties.

  Mathias, the spearhead, charged forward, shadowed by two desperate Wimbledon defenders clinging to him. And then there was Lucien, a menacing presence, his uncanny movement making him difficult to track, constantly ghosting into pockets of space.

  The numerical advantage was stark – seven rapid Bradford pyers surging towards the three remaining Wimbledon defenders. The outcome felt inevitable, a mathematical certainty unfolding live.

  With fire in his veins, Duvant whipped in a beautiful cross towards the penalty area, the ball whistling through the air like a guided missile, aimed perfectly towards Mathias's head.

  Having won the aerial duel with commanding presence, Mathias inexplicably refrained from heading the ball directly into the gaping net. Instead, with a subtle, almost nonchant flick of his head, he directed the ball to the left, into the vacant space where the defenders, fixated on him, had vacated.

  And then, like a phantom emerging from the shadows, Lucas arrived. His eyes locked onto the dropping ball, his body coiling, and with thunderous conviction, he unleashed a shot of pure fury that rocketed towards the goal.

  It struck the back of the net with brutal perfection. The net billowed outwards, a violent tremor shaking the goalposts, accompanied by an explosion of sound from the delirious Bradford supporters.

  [Commentator 2] "GOOOOOAAAAALLLLL!" bellowed the commentator, his voice cracking with excitement. "Lucas! The wing-back! He's done it again! A sensational counter-attack! Pace, precision, unbelievable audacity! Wimbledon simply have no answer!"

  The stadium was a cauldron of noise. Scarves were twirled, bodies collided in joyous celebration, and the name "Lucas" echoed through the stands like a war cry. The momentum had shifted irrevocably. Bradford were not just back in the game; they were ahead, their youthful exuberance and Reinhart's tactical brilliance combining to create a force to be reckoned with. The beautiful game had just delivered another breathtaking moment, a testament to the unpredictable magic of football.

  The University of Bradford stadium erupted in joyous pandemonium. The cheers reverberated like endless waves, shaking every corner of the stands. Fans screamed, some wept openly, while the rhythmic pounding of drums and fervent chants began to echo: "LU-CAS! LU-CAS! LU-CAS!"

  Lucas still knelt on the sideline, gasping for air. His breath came in ragged heaves, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. Yet, a radiant smile, the smile of a man who had finally shattered the chains that had bound him, illuminated his face.

  Suddenly, the Bradford pyers surged towards him. Mathias, Conrad, Mike, Lucien, Duvant, Harry, Eden – all of them sprinting. They hoisted Lucas onto their shoulders, lifting him high above the ground, as if wanting the entire world to witness their hero's triumphant return.

  "You were incredible, Lucas!" “Hahaha, finally your first goal!” "He's back! The Lucas we've been waiting for!"

  Laughter and joyous shouts mingled with the sweat and dust of the pitch. Lucas raised his hands towards the heavens, as if wanting to show someone above that he had kept his promise.

  But on the other side of the pitch, a stark silence had fallen. Takefusa Kato stood frozen, his eyes unblinking, his breath heavy but steady. Sweat beaded on his temples, not from exertion, but from sheer shock. He stared at Lucas from afar, as if unable to reconcile the man who had been consistently outpaced with the one now celebrating as a hero.

  "That… that wasn't the same Lucas…" "In the early minutes, he didn't even dare to chase the ball… But now…" "What has changed you…?"

  Slowly, his gaze drifted towards the Bradford bench, a chill of unease creeping down his spine as he registered the faint smile on the young manager's face. He then clutched his jersey tightly in his fist. Anger, disbelief, and – for the first time in a long time – a flicker of doubt surfaced behind his cold facade.

  Takefusa lowered his head, staring at the grass beneath his feet. For someone who had grown up believing that talent and strength were everything… today, he had been defeated by something far deeper.

  After Lucas's second goal, Bradford City pyed as if a long-held restraint had finally snapped. Every line right, left, and center moved with the unstoppable force of a tidal wave. Gone was the fear, repced by a burning determination and passion to overwhelm their opponents. And in the dying minutes of the first half, they did it again.

  Mike, Bradford's young right wing-back, was on fire. He surged infield from the right fnk with a blistering dribble, slicing through the air like a knife, leaving Leo and Mikhail in his wake. He was tearing apart Wimbledon's left side, seemingly driven by a desire to outshine even the resurgent Lucas.

  [Commentator 1] "Look at Mike! He's past one, two pyers! This isn't a defender anymore; this is a bloodthirsty attacker!"

  Then… a sharp through ball, a testament to clear vision, pierced the heart of the Wimbledon defense. There, the ball rolled invitingly towards Harry! Harry, like an arrow loosed from a bow, darted through Wimbledon's backline, who now looked like slow, slumbering giants. The towering Wimbledon defenders couldn't keep pace with Harry's speed.

  The crowd leaped to their feet, tension reaching fever pitch. Now, Harry was through, one-on-one with the keeper, who advanced, ready to block the shot. But instead of shooting, Harry executed a clever fake, sending the keeper sprawling. With composure, Harry shifted the ball to his left, where Mathias stood unmarked. The Wimbledon defenders, caught in the illusion, had all chased Harry, forgetting the true danger lurking beside him.

  Mathias, showing no mercy, swung his right foot.

  THWACK!

  The ball smmed against the inside of the top corner of the goal –

  CLANG!!

  Then it bounced downwards and in.

  GOAL!!! GOAL!!! GOOOOOOALLLLL!!!

  The stadium erupted once more.

  [Commentator 2] "OH MY WORD! WHAT. A. FINISH! MATHIAS!!! MATHIAS!!! BRADFORD CITY HAVE UNLEASHED A FURY!" "They are carving through Wimbledon like the Red Sea!"

  The drumming intensified. The cries of overjoyed supporters filled the air.

  But on the other side of the pitch, Harold Hinsley, the Wimbledon manager, exploded. His hat was flung to the ground in fury. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING!? THAT'S THREE GOALS IN TWENTY MINUTES!" His face was crimson with rage. He pointed a trembling finger at his central defenders, roaring like a wounded lion. "DON'T JUST STAND THERE! YOU'RE HERE TO FIGHT, NOT TO TAKE A STROLL!"

  The Wimbledon pyers simply hung their heads, offering no response. For the first time this season, they were utterly lost, completely out of their depth. They had come to win, but now… they were being attacked from every conceivable angle.

  And amidst the deafening roar, the camera zoomed in on Lucas's face, a small, knowing smile pying on his lips as he gnced towards the tribune. It wasn't just the smile of victory… it was the smile of a man reborn.

  As the halftime whistle blew, inside the dressing room, Reinhart, as was his custom, sternly pointed out the numerous errors made by the Bradford pyers before begrudgingly praising a few individuals who had performed exceptionally. Lucas, despite being on the receiving end of much criticism, didn't appear disheartened.

  Instead, a look of pure joy radiated from his face, a testament to Reinhart's faith in him, the manager who had given him the chance to chase his dreams once more. In that moment, Lucas resolved to dedicate his future to Bradford City and to his enigmatic manager, Reinhart.

  The second half saw no tactical changes, only a few substitutions. Harry was repced by Kojima, while Duvant, Lucien, Eden, and Mathias made way for Ollie Iron Lehn, Anderson Kame, and Camara.

  However, despite the wholesale changes in the attacking line, Bradford City maintained complete control of the tempo. The substitute pyers seemed determined to prove their worth.

  And so, the nightmare continued for Wimbledon. One by one, Kojima, Ollie, and Kame found the back of the net, turning Wimbledon's first-half lead into a humiliating defeat. In the second half, Wimbledon's key attacking strategy, relying on their wingers, was completely nullified.

  Besides the obvious drop in morale, the performances of Lucas and Mike were nothing short of astonishing. Ultimately, Wimbledon cked a leader capable of turning the tide, of snatching victory from the jaws of even the most dire circumstances.

  Finally, the long whistle blew, bringing the one-sided affair to an end.

  Bradford City 6 : 2 AFC Wimbledon