Nineteen minutes gone, and Belgrade stuttered.
It wasn't silence yet. But the chants had dropped half a register. The flares still burned behind the goal, but now the smoke hung heavier, slower, like it wasn't sure where to go.
Partizan had the ball at the edge of Bradford's box, working triangles with forced patience. One touch. Two. Then an extra one—too many.
Daniel Lowe stepped. Not rushed, not reckless. He read the moment like a man waiting for a misplaced word. He didn't tackle. Just angled in, cut the lane, and poked the ball into space.
His next touch was forward. Instinct.
Ethan Wilson met it first—half-turned, already knowing where the weight of the game had shifted. His first touch angled the ball into the center. Vélez ghosted in between the lines, perfectly timed.
One man tracked him. Too slow.
Vélez didn't hesitate. He turned with the grace of someone who didn't need space—just angles—and slotted the pass wide, flat and quick.
