Under the Belgrade fog, seventy-one minutes in, the rhythm shifted again.
Soro had barely been on the pitch a minute. His hair was still damp from warmup, jersey clinging slightly from the cold. The ball popped loose off a heavy Partizan touch in midfield—Soro read it like a textbook. First touch, clean. Interception complete. The second, a short pass to Ethan, simple but sharp. The third—pressure came fast. He held his body over the ball, arms wide, bracing the contact. The foul was obvious. The whistle came late. Soro didn't flinch.
Michael Johnson's voice cracked through commentary: "He's eighteen, but plays like he's thirty. Calm in chaos."
Jake didn't even look up from his crouch.
Three touches. Three statements.
By the seventy-fourth minute, the game tilted again.
Partizan had rotated their front three. New legs, fresh speed. Their right winger darted into space behind Holloway, a long switch catching Bradford mid-shuffle.
