c37: Seeking Death
With a stunning low drive from just outside the box, Vardy broke through Manchester City's defensive line and smashed the ball past David James!
Goodison Park erupted. The crowd celebrated with deafening roars, their cheers echoing like thunder. After enduring nearly 90 minutes of frustration, Vardy's equalizer unleashed a wave of emotion.
Before Vardy could even finish his trademark knee slide, Cahill, Gravesen, and Osman mobbed him, pinning him to the ground like rabid animals let loose. Their howls mirrored the ecstasy that had overtaken the stadium.
For Moyes, it was relief and disbelief in equal measure. Once again, Vardy his wild card, his X-factor had rescued Everton from the brink. He had changed the game in just a few touches, proving Moyes' substitution gamble to be pure genius.
On the other side, Kevin Keegan looked shell-shocked. His side had led from the 15th minute after Anelka's opener and had kept Everton at bay with a solid 4-4-2 block. But in the 89th minute, one lapse one moment of brilliance brought them to their knees.
Keegan's jaw dropped. Thankfully, he wasn't drinking anything, or the replay would have shown a spectacular spit-take.
"Everton's attack seems inefficient," one Sky Sports commentator had just finished saying. "Vardy hasn't had any real impact since coming on. Moyes might regret this move. Surely he doesn't expect this lad to keep performing miracles? Maybe… Oh my God! VARDY SCORES! Everton equalize!"
The timing was unreal. Vardy had just latched onto a precise through ball from Cahill, taken a single touch to set himself up, and rifled the ball into the bottom corner. Manchester City's David James never even moved. The commentator's face turned red, but he quickly flipped to full praise mode, calling Vardy "a born finisher" and "Everton's super-sub."
Indeed, with goals in back-to-back appearances off the bench against Newcastle and now Manchester City Vardy was fast carving out his reputation as Everton's super substitute. Two goals in two games. Two vital points earned. The stats spoke for themselves.
"You've done it again, Jamie!" Osman clapped him on the back. "What are you hiding in those boots, mate? Jet fuel?"
"You've stolen all the headlines again," Gravesen laughed. "You're buying dinner, no excuses!"
"Look at David James man looks like he's aged ten years in five minutes," joked Carsley, pointing at the dismayed City keeper.
Vardy was a mix of proud and embarrassed. On the pitch, he had just saved his team. Off the pitch, it felt like he was being teased to death. "Score a goal, get roasted," he muttered to himself.
The final few minutes were all Everton. They threw everything forward. Even Alan Stubbs pushed into midfield. But Manchester City, desperate not to lose, threw every man behind the ball. Their penalty area became a fortress, a wall of blue shirts packed tighter than a rugby scrum. Not even Rooney could find a way through.
When the whistle blew, it was 1–1. A draw at home.
Under different circumstances, the fans might've booed such a result. But considering Everton had trailed for 74 minutes, this was practically a win. One point from the jaws of defeat and Vardy had delivered it.
Despite only playing for 20 minutes, Vardy was named Man of the Match. His expected goals (xG) tally might have been low, but when you make your only shot count, the numbers don't lie.
He sprinted away from the post-match photo session as soon as he grabbed the Man of the Match champagne, holding it like a trophy. No way was he letting Osman or Gravesen pour it on his head again.
Back in the locker room, the laughter wouldn't stop. Even Moyes cracked a rare grin.
Vardy had scored twice in as many games, both as a substitute, and both in critical moments. The dressing room had crowned him the team's lucky star, and the champagne now safely stashed in his locker was a symbol of his rising legend.
"Don't go home tonight, let's hit the nightclub to celebrate! You're treating us, Vardy!" Gravesen grabbed Vardy by the shoulder, half-dragging him toward the exit like he was afraid his goal-scoring hero would vanish.
Carsley and Osman hooted in agreement from the back of the locker room, already high on adrenaline from the last-minute equalizer Vardy had just slammed past David James.
Vardy gave a bitter smile and scratched his head. "I'd love to, seriously, but I'm not even 18 yet! You know I can't get into any club legally."
Osman waved him off. "Relax, we're going to Decadence. High-end place, members only. No one gives a damn about your age there just flash the badge, and you're in."
That did make Vardy pause. He'd never actually experienced the infamous British nightlife scene his Saturday nights were usually spent watching Match of the Day or trying to stretch his meager weekly wage. He knew Gravesen and the others weren't dragging him out just to drink. There were other things on their mind. But… wasn't this a rite of passage for young Premier League stars?
"Alright, alright. But don't expect me to foot the bill. My entire salary won't last an hour in one of those places!" Vardy said with a helpless shrug, showing his empty palms. At £2,000 a week, he was earning well above average for someone his age in England, but compared to seasoned internationals like Gravesen or Tim Cahill, it was peanuts.
Gravesen pulled him into a half-headlock, grinning ear to ear. "Don't worry, rookie. Stick with the veterans. I've got tonight covered you just enjoy the ride."
Carsley chimed in with a wicked laugh. "We're gonna find Jamie a proper Scouse lass tonight. Big chest, short skirt. Make sure he doesn't forget this night!"
Vardy laughed awkwardly, his cheeks heating up. He didn't dare admit it out loud, but the thought made his heart pound and not just from nerves.
In the end, only four of them went Gravesen, Carsley, Osman, and Vardy. Cahill was a family man and skipped nights like these, while the rest of the team often kept to their own cliques, despite playing under the same crest.
After demolishing a huge post-match dinner, the quartet headed to Decadence, a members-only lounge tucked in Liverpool's nightlife district. The sign out front flashed in rhythm with the music inside, and a wave of bass thumped through the pavement. Girls in stilettos and short dresses clustered at the door, posing for selfies and catching the bouncers' attention.
As expected, the doormen didn't blink twice when Gravesen strolled up. They were through without issue, Vardy's age unnoticed or simply ignored thanks to his company.
Inside, the atmosphere hit like a wave neon lights, pounding beats, and the scent of perfume and spilt alcohol thick in the air. Gravesen slapped down a wad of cash and ordered a round of drinks, proclaiming, "This is where stress disappears, lad. You've earned this."
Vardy sat at the edge of their booth, gripping his glass uncertainly. He'd only tasted wine at team dinners and wasn't used to the fiery burn of stronger drinks. The music vibrated through the floor, and he felt like a fish out of water.
"Relax, Jamie!" Carsley yelled over the music, slinging an arm around his shoulder. "This place is full of world-class assets just look around. No need to be shy!"
Vardy leaned away slightly Carsley's breath reeked of whiskey but nodded. He tried to blend in, but the chaos of the nightclub overwhelmed him. Gravesen and Osman were already prowling toward the dancefloor, laughing and scanning for company.
Before long, the three veterans had left him behind, weaving into the crowd like wolves among sheep. Vardy watched helplessly as they flirted, toasted, and laughed with women in tight dresses and dangerously high heels.
"They dragged me here and ditched me like a newbie at training camp," Vardy muttered, swirling his untouched drink.
Still, part of him was tempted. He scanned the room, wondering if he could channel the same confidence he had on the pitch. After all, he'd just scored an equalizer against one of the richest clubs in the Premier League how hard could it be to chat up a girl?
Just as he gathered the nerve, he spotted Carsley through the crowd. His hand was unmistakably on a curvy blonde's backside, and he was laughing like a man who'd just won the Champions League.
OhMyGod, Vardy thought, feeling both horrified and impressed. That bastard is already scoring again off the pitch this time!
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