Taking Hits

Is it a coincidence?

Blaise Atkinson heard Alain Prosser's triumphant yell, and wondered if it's just a coincidence that both left wingers said the exact same thing, while doing the exact same thing.

Maybe it's a confident left winger thing?

Kudos to him however, they indeed weren't able to stop his strike. Unlike the first guy who yelled those words out.

Goal!

The home stand was stunned, as Alain Prosser slid and punched the corner flag right in front of the most rabid home supporters. He celebrated without any care about the possible retaliation of the hostile crowd.

A barrage of boos, whistles, and insults immediately engulfed him and the celebrating Sheffield players. But, they don't care about that shit.

2-2! They have leveled the score!

"You little shit! What was that wizardry!"

"Punk! Shake that ugly grin off ya face!"

"No way that was intended!"

"It's fine! Praise me more, guys!" Alain loved the plaudits.

"Can't deny that the entire run and strike was wondrous!" Blaise laughed and slapped his friend's back. Alain had the ball from the midfield, all the way to the box, and was never dispossessed. The shot was sublime, making even Blaise admit it was a shot of beauty.

"You! Don't patronize that fucker!"

"I bet this guy loses his next take-on attempt against that wingback." Hearty laughter brightened the tense atmosphere Sheffield had earlier.

They've gotten back level, and now, it's time to turn the game around.

***

Seventy-eight minutes into the game, Doncaster made an inconspicuous substitution of players. They replaced their struggling striker with a guy that had thick knitted eyebrows, a frowning face, and a body built like a fucking tank. He's not tall at all, instead he's a full head shorter than Blaise, however when he jogged to the middle of the field, Blaise felt a terrifying killing intent he absolutely could not forget.

This fucker?

How could he be here?

Unbeknownst to Blaise, that ever since he passed the exit trials, the footballing world had undergone unprecedented changes from the one on his memories.

The small ripple that his decision to join a League One side made, is enough to cause a tsunami of widespread changes in this world.

Including this one.

Blaise was stumped. He might've missed this guy's name on the team sheet. After all, he knew this guy all too well.

Benjamin Price.

Less than a minute after he came in, Blaise found himself face to face with someone he considered among the hardest to stop with the ball on his feet. He's a freight train, a forward stuck inside a linebacker's body.

Price had a disgusting blend of core strength, deceptive speed, and efficient dribbling— that pretty much allowed him to wreak havoc through Premier League, and La Liga defenses for a long time.

Blaise wondered if this young, unknown version of him had already mastered those skills.

Benjamin Price's first touch was exquisite, despite his body twisting at an almost unnatural angle. There was almost no delay from his first touch, to him going full speed at Blaise Atkinson's side.

Of course, he wouldn't let him go just like that. Behind him, his defense was reorganizing from a goal kick. He had to give him his money's worth.

Blaise threw caution to the wind, as he put his tired body on the line against this hulking beast with his fresh legs. He managed to hang with him, through sheer will and adrenaline, when he noticed that Price didn't look as intimidating with the ball on his feet.

Nor is he fast…

He was still sent to the grass after the quick tussle, as Price forced his way through him just from his overwhelming advantage in strength.

He might be eating dirt, but Blaise was smiling.

I see, he isn't good enough yet. That's why he's a benchwarmer, but why is it he's introduced this late?

Up ahead, James Patton stopped him easily, before launching the ball upfield.

That was Blaise's cue to move again. If they are to clinch a winner, it has to be now. He doesn't need to think about Ben Price right now.

Damian Potts chested the ball down wonderfully, before shuffling it to his teammates.

Sheffield United's legs were tiring, but their spirits continued burning bright. Their possession game was calm, slow, and steady— moving their formation as sure as their passes allowed. Less than ten minutes remained in the game, so this collected approach to the goal might well be their last controlled chance.

Blaise Atkinson had been the target of five yellow card tackles tonight, and this long possession was no reprieve for him. As much as he wanted to impact their attacking build-up in a more concrete way, the man marking on him has never ceased from the start of the half.

The Doncaster boss even subbed in a defensive specialist to man mark him as tight as possible.

As the ball was sent to him for the nth time this possession, he noticed that the entirety of Doncaster had been pinned to their own half defending. Ten players back, against Sheffield's eight.

He had his back to the goal, and despite the defender trying his best to dispossess him, he sent the ball to his vice captain Trent Hastings— whose small run in the middle opened up a path. He ran after it, taking his defender off-balance.

The simple give and go took out three defenders on the play, and broke the structured defense down. Their movements hooked the central defenders in, and threw the line in chaos. Of course, the Sheffield players surged forward as if answering the call.

Six quick, short passes further compromised the Rovers defense, as the Blades had taken over the rhythm of the game completely. Once Blaise got the ball back just outside the box, the disoriented defense gave him a clear sight to the goal.

Should I shoot?

Before he could finish his thought, he was on the ground. He didn't even have time to react to the blow that knocked him down. He lay there for a moment, stunned, trying to figure out what had happened. He felt a sharp pain on his ankle, before it vanished.

The referee's whistle came, and the perpetrator was flashed a yellow card for the dangerous tackle.

Damn, it was Benjamin Price… no wonder it hit me like a fucking truck… it's also the same bloody ankle…

That was the sixth yellow card given for tackling him.

"Lad, you alright?" Captain Potts approached him as he limped back up. "We still have a sub, I can call for it."

"I can still go. I'll persevere." Blaise wanted to take the free kick he earned. He doesn't want to go out like this.

With six minutes remaining in regulation, Blaise Atkinson and Alain Prosser lined up for a pivotal free kick just outside the area. An eight man wall stood to impede the kick.

"Just this once, I won't fight you for it." Alain proclaimed. "You earned it."

"Thanks, I don't have plans to concede it to you anyway." Blaise said flatly.

"HAHAHA, fuck you."

In situations like these, Blaise was proud of his ambidextrous feet. It always kept his opponents on their toes. Using his left foot, on the right side of the pitch, the struck ball cleared the jumping wall with ease. The keeper cursed inwardly as he mistimed his jump.

Blaise smiled, knowing his job here is done.