Chapter 88: FA Cup Final [3]

Chapter 88: FA Cup Final [3] Chapter 88: FA Cup Final [3] Saturday, May 15, 2010 As Max hit it clean. A rocket, with all heart and fire. The ball tore toward goal. The ball clipped Čech’s glove.. then clanged off the post and spun wide, out past the line. The referee pointed to the corner flag. But the roar had already swallowed the moment. Max stood frozen, chest heaving, eyes locked on the net that had just denied him. His shot. His chance. Inches from making history. Now just silence in his chest and a roar around him he could barely hear. Thiago was first to reach Max, steadying him with a hand on his back. "We’ll get the next one," he said softly, though he was breathing hard too. Max didn’t reply. He just nodded once quiet and empty his eyes still fixed on the post. That goal could’ve changed everything. From the sideline, Niels shouted, "Get your heads up! This isn’t over, fight for every second!" His voice sliced through the noise like a wake-up call in the chaos. Baxter jogged back to the corner, wiping sweat from his face, glancing at Max. "We’ve got them on edge." Max nodded again, this time firmer. Baxter placed the ball by the corner flag. The referee glanced at his watch, one last chance. Max charged into the box, fire in his eyes, Terry dogging his steps. Thiago hovered at the edge, Luka coiled near the arc ready. Baxter raised his arm, swung the ball in. It curled fast and tight through the air Bodies surged forward, arms tangled together. Max jumped but just missed the ball. Luka stretched out his foot but didn’t connect. The ball bounced once, twice, before Lampard blasted it away with a powerful kick. Peeeeeep! Halftime: Crawley 0-0 Chelsea The halftime whistle blew sharply through Wembley, like a heavy curtain dropping. A roar rose up part triumph, part relief. Chelsea fans exhaled, while Crawley fans stood tall. On the pitch, Crawley’s players sank down, shoulders heavy, kits soaked, lungs burning but still unbroken. Max paused, heart pounding, then lifted his head with fierce eyes and turned toward the tunnel. Čech had made one save, but the fight wasn’t over. This was far from finished. The locker room was a furnace air thick with the sting of liniment, the burn of sweat, and the cold bite of exhaustion. The score was 0–0, a miracle carved from grit and blood. Chelsea had thrown everything at them Drogba’s thunderous shots, Lampard’s curling strikes, Malouda’s constant pressure but they held firm. Fletcher’s hands were like steel, and Crawley’s defense gave everything. Max collapsed onto the bench, his captain’s armband soaked, his breath ragged. The stone in his pocket might as well have been shouting: For home. His shot, that rocket in the 45th minute, had been inches from glory Čech’s fingertips had turned it just enough, the ball slamming off the post and spinning wide. The sound still rang in his ears. He slammed a fist into his palm, jaw clenched. "Next time," he muttered. Thiago paced like a caged panther, ribbon soaked with sweat, fire still in his eyes. "We’re still alive, mate," he growled through clenched teeth. Luka sat motionless, boots half-unlaced, sketching lines on a crumpled napkin like a general plotting battle. His voice was quiet, razor-sharp. "They’re leaving space on the switch. We exploit that." Fletcher’s gloves hit the floor with a thud. His voice, cracked and tired, still carried weight. "We survived the first storm. That’s more than they expected." Outside, the crowd’s roar was a living beast. Chelsea’s "Chels-ea! Chels-ea!" pounded like thunder, shaking the walls. Crawley’s red corner fought back, raw and defiant: "Craw-ley!" From the stands, Ollie’s voice pierced the noise, faint but feral: "Max, we believe in you!" The squad was a wreck. Harry’s shins were purple from Ballack’s strike. Jamal clutched a screaming shoulder from Anelka’s hit. Baxter’s chest heaved, still feeling Malouda’s pace. But their eyes burned, every glance molten, every jaw clenched with defiance. Niels stood in the heart of the room, jacket tossed aside, red wristband stark on his wrist. His presence was steel an anchor in the storm. A water bottle hit the floor and rolled. No one moved. Only the sound of heavy, broken breathing. From the stands, Crawley’s chant surged louder. A girl’s sign flickered in memory: "Max, lead us!" Chelsea’s jeers bit back "League Two amateurs!" But in the red section, a boy raised a painted pebble just like Max’s and sparked the cry: "Craw-ley! Fight!" The locker room was boiling with pressure. The air heavy with belief, pain, and the fight still ahead. They’d made it through 45 minutes. They had 45 more to win. Niels stepped into the center, his shadow flickering under the harsh lights. His voice was low and sharp, cutting through the heat like a blade. "You know you missed the golden chance, Max. Inches from history. But that’s not where this ends. You all held strong. 0-0 at Wembley against Chelsea that’s your blood, your guts, your heart." He locked eyes with the whole team Max’s clenched fists, Thiago’s restless pacing, Luka’s cold stare, Fletcher’s tight grip on his gloves. "We’re not here to just survive. We’re here to fight. Max, keep breaking their backline. Thiago, Nate, rip their wings apart. Luka, break their rhythm. Adam, you’re our wall." Max’s jaw clenched tight, eyes blazing. "They won’t stop us. I will score, that’s my promise." Thiago’s grin flashed sharp as a knife. "We’ll dance through them." Fletcher slammed his gloves on the locker. "Nothing gets past me." Niels’ mind flashed back to earlier days, when Crawley was just a dream fighting to grow, early struggles, hard-fought wins, and moments that showed promise. Max’s scrappy header against Barnet, Thiago’s electric run in the FA Cup semifinal against Villa, Luka’s rocket against Notts County those sparks had built the fire. Now, here in Wembley’s furnace, facing Chelsea’s empire, he saw that same fire in his squad’s eyes raw, unyielding, unbreakable. He crouched, voice dropping to a fierce whisper, "You’ve already shocked the world, lads. Getting here, holding Chelsea scoreless that’s Crawley’s soul. But we’re not done. We’re not a footnote. We’re the story. Finish it." The whole squad roared in unison, voices rising fierce and raw: "For Crawley! For glory! For the win!" Niels gripped Max’s shoulder, voice a vow. "Lead them, Max. Burn them down." The room pulsed, their fire a living thing, ready to explode. Across the tunnel, Chelsea’s locker room was tense but focused. Ancelotti’s voice was sharp and commanding. "This is unacceptable. We’re Chelsea, Premier League Champions. Take them down." He slammed his clipboard on the table. Drogba paced, eyes fixed and serious. "That keeper’s a problem." Lampard shook his head, frustration clear. "We’ve got to finish our chances." Terry tightened his grip on the armband. "No more mistakes now." The bench was filled with calm but determined players. Their fans’ chants "Drogba’s king!" echoed like a steady drum. Ancelotti’s eyes burned with steady fire. "This game is ours. We control it, and we finish it." The first half had seen near misses Drogba’s powerful shots, Lampard’s precise curls, Anelka’s attempts off the post all stopped by Fletcher and Crawley’s defense. A staff muttered, "They fight hard for League Two." Ancelotti cut him off cold. "They’re nothing. We end this now." Outside, Chelsea’s fans chanted louder. "London is blue!" Flags waving like a wave of confidence. But Crawley’s red corner shouted back. "Craw-ley! Red Devils!" The difference was clear—Chelsea’s stars, their Premier League titles, and big-money players were rattled by a League Two team fighting tooth and nail. Ancelotti’s tactics were precise, but Niels’ game plan had disrupted them, and Max’s near goal hurt their pride. The crowd’s roar shook the walls Chelsea fans demanding a breakthrough, Crawley fans refusing to back down. A girl in the red corner waved a scarf, her sign shining bright: "Thiago, dance!" A boy held up a painted pebble, like Max’s stone, sparking the chant: "Craw-ley! Kings!" The halftime clock ticked down, the stadium burning with tension the second half promised to be a battle. Crawley’s locker room burned. Max tightened his armband. "We’re not here to survive, we’re here to fight, for Crawley!" Thiago grinned, "Let’s tear them apart." Niels’ voice rang out, "Chelsea’s on edge. Max, mark Terry tight. Thiago, take down Cole. Luka, strike at their core. Second half, let’s own it." They stacked hands. Max’s roar shook the room, "For our town!" Outside, the crowd responded Chelsea’s "Chels-ea!" clashed with Crawley’s "Craw-ley!" A pebble held high sparked a new chant, "Max, lead us!" The tunnel was dark and heavy. Boots hit the concrete with steady beats. Chelsea appeared Drogba towering, Terry fierce, their fans roaring like waves. Crawley’s red kits shone under the lights. They walked strong, fire in their eyes. Niels leaned in to Max, whispering, "This is it. The real fight starts now." Max gripped his armband tight, feeling his promise like a heartbeat. "We’re ready." The crowd’s noise crashed around them. The pitch waited under bright floodlights. The trophy glimmered far away. Crawley were the underdogs, small team against giants, but their hearts burned fierce Max’s leadership, Thiago’s speed, Luka’s focus. The second half was here. The battle was about to begin. The whistle blew. Everything was on the line. Who would win? Who would lose?