The rain hadn't let up for hours. Thick, cold sheets of it hammered the pitch and the dugout, soaking suits, banners, and every inch of exposed skin. Ethan Carter didn't feel it. Couldn't. His eyes never left the scoreboard.
85:42FC Kaiserslautern – 1Schwarzburg Leipzig – 0
Five minutes.
Just five.
And then, maybe… redemption.
The away fans screamed themselves hoarse. They couldn't believe what they were seeing. Schwarzburg Leipzig—unbeaten in twenty-one, reigning champions, league giants—were losing.
Not to Bayern. Not to Dortmund.
To Kaiserslautern. The bottom-feeders. The doomed.
To him.
To Ethan Carter.
The man everyone had laughed at.
Ten years.
Ten years of ridicule, memes, and sarcastic think-pieces.
Every club he managed—spiraled.
Every interview—mocked.
Every tactical move—ripped apart by analysts who'd never held a clipboard in their lives.
They'd named podcasts after his failures. "The Curse of Carter" trended every time he got sacked.
Tonight wasn't supposed to be any different.
And yet—here they were.
Rain trickled down his forehead and pooled beneath his collar. His suit clung to him, soaked and heavy. Still, he didn't move. Didn't blink.
On the touchline, he was a statue—hands in his pockets, jaw clenched, breath shallow and visible in the cold.
The pitch was chaos. Schwarzburg were throwing everything forward now. Two fresh attackers. Their back line nearly halfway up the pitch.
It was do-or-die for them. And Ethan could feel it—momentum shifting, pressure tightening.
Markus Reinhardt, his assistant, rushed to his side. "We need to shut this down," he shouted over the storm. "Throw in another centre-back. Park the bus."
The textbook move. Logical. Cowardly.
Ethan didn't respond. His gaze drifted to the bench.
A wiry frame sat at the end, bouncing his legs nervously.
Lukas Richter.
Barely twenty. No appearances. No expectations.
Ethan turned. "Lukas. Get warm."
Markus stared at him like he'd grown horns. "You're joking. A striker? With five minutes left? Against the league leaders?"
"Just trust me."
The substitution board went up. Hofmann off. Richter on.
Booing rippled through the stands. Fans in the first row threw their hands up.
"What is he doing?!"
"This is why he never wins!"
Commentators buzzed over the airwaves.
"Carter has lost it.""This is managerial suicide."
But Ethan saw it—saw the crack forming.
Schwarzburg had committed everything. Their structure was gone.
If one clearance fell right…
88:37
Schwarzburg attack again. A looping cross, angled deep.
Kessler, their battering ram of a striker, rose high and smashed a header—
Clang!
Off the crossbar.
The ball bounced violently in the six-yard box.
Defender Bergmann lashed it clear.
And that was it.
The gap.
Midfield was empty.
And there—alone in the center circle—was Richter.
He didn't hesitate.
Richter tore up the pitch, boots slicing through waterlogged grass. The chase was on. Two Schwarzburg defenders turned in panic, realizing too late they'd left him.
The goalkeeper charged out, screaming.
Richter didn't slow.
One touch to settle. One look up.
Then—he chipped.
The ball rose like a feather.
Time froze.
Ethan's heart stopped.
The ball curled delicately over the keeper's outstretched hands…
Dropped…
And kissed the net.
2–0.
The stadium exploded.
Ethan didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Just stared.
Players mobbed Richter in the corner.
Markus screamed into his face.
"You did it! You did it!"
He heard none of it.
The sound dulled, like water flooding his ears. A low hum. A single, echoing drumbeat.
His own heartbeat.
90:00
The final whistle blew.
He had done it.
After a decade of ridicule, of late-night resignations, of press conference tears, of being the joke of football—
He had save a team from relegating, he did not relegate a team after joining them in their first season.
The crowd chanted his name.
"ETHAN CARTER! ETHAN CARTER!"
And then—
It hit.
A bolt. Deep and sudden, straight through the center of his chest.
Ethan gasped.
The pitch swayed.
Markus reached for him again, but he staggered away.
Hands trembling. Knees buckling.
He couldn't breathe.
The lights blurred. The rain felt colder.
The scoreboard flashed red again.
Kaiserslautern 2 – Schwarzburg Leipzig 0
His mouth opened but no sound came.
His legs gave out.
He fell.
The pitch greeted him with a wet slap. Grass in his mouth. Mud on his cheek.
Voices shouted.
"MEDICS! NOW!"
Someone dropped to his side. Pressed on his chest. More voices.
But Ethan wasn't there anymore.
He floated above it all. The roar of the crowd, the sting of the rain, the fear in Markus' voice—it all drifted.
Only the scoreboard remained.
Burned into his mind.
Victory.
His final breath escaped in a soft whisper.
Then—
Darkness.