The second half began before the whistle even blew. In their heads, in their breath, in the way Barnes nudged Rojas slightly forward before stepping back himself. Everyone knew what was coming.
And it didn't take long.
Forty-six minutes in—Partizan came surging, like a match tossed onto oil. Their front three pressed as if they'd been starved of oxygen for the entire break. High line. Wide spacing. They didn't want possession—they wanted panic.
A long diagonal screamed past Taylor's shoulder. Cross incoming.
Cox didn't wait.
He punched through traffic, knuckles first, sent the ball skimming beyond the arc. Barnes cleared with no ceremony—laces through leather, upfield, away. Rojas spun and barked at Silva, motioning him back. No luxury now. Shape first, flair later.
