Bellamy blew a long whistle.
Match stopped.
Everyone on the pitch froze.
A few Yellow Team and Orange Team players came jogging over toward the striker straight away.
Trafford was closest. He dropped down beside him — no panic, no shouting. Just checked — head, nose, blood still coming. Then he called out.
"Medic."
From the sideline, two medical staff were already moving.
Miller hadn't moved.
His feet were still in the follow-through from the shot.
He watched all of it — Trafford checking the striker over, the medics coming on, blood still dripping onto the grass — but his mind had stopped at one thing.
That smile.
On the sideline, Kompany hadn't moved either. Hands still behind his back. Eyes on the striker — tracking every small movement from the body that had just been face down on the turf.
His jaw tightened.
Just slightly.
Bellamy didn't wait.
He came onto the pitch.
His stride was quick — not a run, but fast enough that everyone knew this wasn't normal.
He crouched beside the medics, looked the striker over himself. Head. Nose. Blood still running.
"How many fingers." He nodded toward the medic.
The medic held up three fingers in front of the striker's face.
The striker looked at them.
One second.
"Three."
His voice was rough. But clear.
Bellamy held his gaze for a few more seconds — making sure.
Then he stood.
Slightly slower than usual.
He didn't say anything.
But his shoulders came down a fraction.
Miller turned away.
He walked slowly — away from the goalmouth, past a few players who were still standing around waiting.
Outside the Orange Team's penalty box, Guðmundsson was standing on his own. Both hands on his hips. Head tilted back, eyes closed for a moment — like someone trying to settle themselves down.
Miller stopped beside him.
A few seconds with nothing said.
"Who is he? Really."
Guðmundsson opened his eyes.
He looked at Miller — then frowned.
"You... don't know him?"
Not mocking. More like — genuinely couldn't believe it.
Miller didn't answer.
Guðmundsson let out a slow breath, glanced over toward the striker still surrounded by the medics.
"Top scorer in the Championship last season." He paused. "Not just top scorer — he broke the record. The all-time record for that league in the modern format."
He shook his head.
"Burnley got promoted comfortably because of him."
Miller didn't answer straight away.
His eyes went back to the striker.
Still bleeding. Still sitting on the grass.
Guðmundsson kept going.
"57 goals." He raised his eyebrows. "One season."
Miller's brow creased.
"50 in the league."
Guðmundsson continued, like he couldn't believe he was still having to explain this. "Rest in the cups. One season, Miller. One season."
He shook his head again.
"People started calling him The Next Messi."
He gave a small shrug.
"But look at him. Messi wouldn't headbutt a post just to stop a ball in a training session. He's... something else."
Miller still had that frown on.
Guðmundsson glanced at him from the side.
"You genuinely don't know him?"
Silence.
"Where have you been? That madman is the reason we got promoted." Quieter now. Not dramatic — just stating a fact. "Without him, we're probably still in the Championship."
Miller didn't answer straight away.
"I didn't have time for things like that."
Guðmundsson looked at him for a second.
"Media always overhypes young talent."
Miller glanced at the striker again.
"He won't last long playing like that."
Guðmundsson went quiet for a moment.
Then cleared his throat.
"57 goals." He repeated the number — flat, no drama. "Ask any media outlet which one made that up."
He paused.
"And as for how he plays —" he turned slightly toward Miller, one corner of his mouth going up, "— how long have you been here?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
Just turned and walked away — slow, easy, like the conversation had already ended a while ago.
Miller didn't say anything.
His eyes followed Guðmundsson briefly — then went back to the striker.
Still on the grass. Medics still around him.
"Can you carry on?" Bellamy asked.
The striker didn't answer straight away.
He wiped the blood from under his nose with the back of his hand — once, slow.
Then looked up at Bellamy.
Then that smile came back.
Wide. A small laugh came out of him — not because anything was funny. More like... he was enjoying it.
Bellamy looked at him for a few seconds.
Didn't smile back.
One of the medics moved quickly — clean cloth pressed to his nose, holding back the blood. The other checked the head, fingers moving carefully over the area that had already started to swell.
A few seconds passed.
The one checking his head cleaned the wound with gauze — quick but careful. A specialist plaster went on, covering a cut that wasn't deep but had bled enough.
The other was still holding the cloth to his nose.
"Head back a little."
The striker did it.
A few seconds.
Blood stopped.
Then the concussion check. Simple — name, date, how many fingers.
The striker answered everything without hesitating.
The medic looked at Bellamy.
"He's okay to continue. But needs monitoring."
Bellamy didn't respond straight away.
Eyes still on the striker.
A few seconds of silence — like he was weighing something up.
He turned toward the sideline.
Kompany was in the same position. Hands behind his back. His eyes had already found Bellamy before Bellamy looked over.
A few seconds, the two of them just looked at each other.
Then Kompany gave one small nod.
Bellamy took a short breath.
"Carry on."
He turned and walked off the pitch. The medical team followed.
The striker stood up.
Slow — but he stood.
Trafford was the first to pat his shoulder. Not hard. Just once.
Al-Dakhil came over from the other side — said something that made all three of them laugh. Not loud, just the laugh of people who've known each other a long time.
O'Shea came over too.
Didn't say anything.
Just put a hand around the back of the striker's head — gentle, like an older brother watching his younger one fall out of a tree and get straight back up.
Then he smiled.
Small. Genuine.
The striker laughed quietly.
After that, the players moved into the Yellow Team's box.
Miller took his position at the near post.
Amdouni at the far post. Obafemi just outside the box, ready for the second ball.
On the other side, Yellow Team spread out — O'Shea on Amdouni, Al-Dakhil on Miller, Cullen outside the box covering, the striker also outside ready to break on the counter.
Guðmundsson picked up the ball. He walked to the corner, set it down, stood for a second — scanning.
Far post crowded. Near post — Miller, with Al-Dakhil tight beside him. Obafemi outside the box. Free.
Bellamy blew the whistle from the sideline.
Guðmundsson didn't go into the box.
He played it flat — hard, low — to Koleosho standing at the edge of the penalty area.
Ball came right to his feet.
One touch to control.
Then Koleosho turned — quick, body spinning inside, Connor Roberts caught half a step out.
Half a step was enough.
Koleosho released — flat, aimed at the top right corner.
Trafford moved.
Body flew left.
He got both hands to it and pushed the ball away — clean, well out to the side.
Ball flew out of play.
Another corner.
Trafford landed hard. His knee hit the turf.
A second there — heavy breathing, hands still open.
Then he got up.
"YES JAMES!"
O'Shea shouted, fist clenched.
Two steps to Trafford.
Chest to chest. Hard.
Once.
That was enough.
Second corner.
This time Koleosho taking it.
Inside the box — Amdouni at the far post, Miller at the near post. O'Shea tight behind Miller, Al-Dakhil on Amdouni. Obafemi outside, Ramsey slightly deeper ready to anticipate.
Miller read his position.
There was space in front of him.
He raised his hand. One short signal to Koleosho.
Koleosho looked at him.
Then his eyes moved to the middle.
He swung the ball in toward the penalty spot — not to Miller.
Amdouni jumped — headed it down, straight at the middle of goal.
Trafford read everything.
He caught it clean with both hands. No drama.
Didn't hang around.
Without looking, he launched it — hard, long, down the middle.
Ball flew high.
And in the centre of the pitch, one person was already standing there.
The striker.
Waiting.
Ball coming down toward him.
The striker smiled — wide, like someone who'd just been handed exactly what they wanted.
One touch off the chest.
Ball dropped perfectly to his feet.
He ran.
Ekdal came first — big frame, long stride, cutting the angle.
The striker didn't slow down.
He accelerated — then cut sharp right, one step over that sent Ekdal sliding half a step the wrong way.
Half a step.
Enough.
The striker was through.
Inside the box, Miller watched all of it.
Beyer had already set his position — unhurried, waiting.
The striker came straight at him.
Spin right.
Beyer didn't bite — moved right with him, ready.
But the striker cut left.
Beyer read it. Weight already shifted, closing left.
Then — spin right again.
This time Beyer was late.
Already leaning left, and the striker was past his right side before Beyer could recover.
"Damn."
Beyer shook his head slowly — still standing in the same spot, weight still half-shifted left.
Murić stepped forward — off his line, cutting the angle.
One step. Two.
Big frame, hands wide open.
Shooting angle getting smaller.
Left — closed.
Right — barely anything.
Murić watched the ball.
The striker smiled.
His right foot swung — full, hard, like someone who'd already made up their mind.
Murić read it.
For half a second he almost bit — weight slightly going right.
But he corrected. He threw himself down — slide, foot sweeping toward the ball.
The striker pulled it back — one touch backwards, out of Murić's reach.
Murić on the ground. Foot swept through nothing.
The striker had seen everything he needed.
His heel came up — ball lifted, floated slowly over Murić's body still on the floor.
Rainbow flick.
The striker was already in the air.
He jumped — not to get away, but to chase his own ball he'd just lifted.
Ball floating slowly up there.
The striker landed.
Eyes followed it coming down.
His chest met it — one soft touch, ball bounced up slightly.
He didn't wait.
His head met the ball straight off the bounce from his chest.
It went in. Bottom right corner.
Goal.
Then the striker turned and looked across at Miller — arms spread wide, smile taking over his whole face. Like he was enjoying something no one else in the world could understand.
Murić still on the ground.
He watched the ball go in — stayed quiet for a second, then dropped his head, face just touching the grass.
One second.
Then he got up. No fuss. No protest.
Outside the box, Beyer was still in the same spot — hands on hips, staring at the goal.
Nothing this time.
From the Orange side — Amdouni clapped once, loud. Obafemi shook his head with a small smile — the look of someone who'd just watched something that made no sense but happened anyway.
Miller hadn't moved.
Eyes still on the striker.
No clap. No nod.
Just watching.
On the sideline, Bellamy stood upright. Hands behind his back — same as Kompany, same expression.
He checked his watch.
First half was done.
But he didn't blow the whistle straight away.
Let the moment sit.
A few seconds passed.
Then — a short, flat whistle.
First half of the 11 v 11 was over.
On the sideline, Kompany hadn't moved.
His eyes followed the striker walking off the pitch — plaster on his head, dried blood still under his nose.
Then Kompany smiled.
Quietly, to himself.
"Even a lion becomes prey… when the hunter doesn't miss."
He wasn't looking at anyone.
"What a talent..."
"Mateo Ríos."