Goal!

Goal!

"Janu Hans's pass! Sheffield United have torn through Portsmouth's back line. Their defending on the left today has been a complete mess, and that was why they conceded the last goal too! Maël is carrying the ball! He's in—can he get a shot away?!"

The Sky Sports commentator in the stadium rose to his feet along with the fans, watching the situation on the pitch. "The best option here would be a side-footed finish with the instep. From close range, make sure the ball rolls steadily into the far corner—that would be the best way.

"But when it comes to Maël, you never know. We all know he likes to solve things with heavy artillery!"

Just as he finished saying that, Maël happened to nudge the ball sideways a short step, opening up his body and preparing to shoot.

No Side-Foot Shot!

That windup had already told everyone that he was going to smash the ball at goal! "A Brutal Long Shot! Asdang can do nothing about it—the ball is in!! Three-nil, and Maël has his second goal of the day!! He struck that beautifully. I could even feel a bit of Batistuta about him—this is a classic Bati-goal!! From such close range, he really dared to hit it! Really dared to blast it!!"

On the pitch, as Maël hammered the ball into the side netting, the stadium boiled over once again.

"Yeah!" The fans' shouts rang to the heavens. Even more people stood to celebrate, and Gareth Speed even threw three straight punches on the touchline.

But what no one had expected was that Michael Brown, who had just chased back, actually pretended he could not stop in time and slammed heavily into Maël from behind.

Maël had not expected this. He was still thinking about his celebration when he was suddenly hit.

His body pitched forward out of control, and the joy and excitement of scoring a Brace instantly turned into anger.

He did not need to look. He could figure out who had hit him with his toes.

After bracing himself on the ground, he sprang to his feet, turned, and walked straight toward Michael Brown.

At a time like this, who cared whether he was already on a card? Since Michael Brown was not worried, neither was he.

"Crawl back into your mother's womb, Old Mudfish!"

He shoved Michael Brown with all his strength. The latter was prepared and only staggered a few steps. "Do you call yourself a man? If you had even the tiniest bit of shame, you wouldn't be the bitch of the football pitch!"

People quickly came over to pull him away, trying to take him from the scene. At first, he did not care and still charged in Michael Brown's direction.

It was not until he saw Gilbert also come over to pull him back, and saw the weight and hatred deep in the other man's eyes, that his attention shifted.

"Gilbert, play properly."

Maël was worried Gilbert would retaliate later and risk suspension. "The bigger the price you pay for a thug like that, the less it's worth it. We'll be the winners."

The referee rushed over then, blowing his whistle. To prevent the situation from escalating, the nearby assistant referee also charged onto the pitch.

Michael Brown started playing dumb. He put on an innocent look, stood there with his hands spread, and did not argue with anyone.

"Give him a yellow, or I'll appeal to The FA!"

On the touchline, Gareth Speed flung his arm and shouted, just short of charging onto the pitch. "Wait for the suspension letter!"

By now, the fans had also realized something was wrong. They slowly stopped cheering and switched to boos and abuse, thousands of arms pointing at Michael Brown and the referee.

It was plain to see that the referee's face was full of pressure and hesitation.

He walked toward Michael Brown several times, then toward Maël, but he did not take out a card.

By the time the best moment to show a card had passed, he lowered his head and walked toward the center circle, giving his final decision in silence.

"Hey! Hey!!"

The discontent in the stadium almost drowned the whole ground. Gareth Speed's complaints vanished into the roar of the crowd; people could only see him constantly flinging his arms, spit flying as he cursed something.

There was no follow-up. The clash ended just like that.

Having calmed down, Maël stood on the left side of the center-circle arc, glancing at Michael Brown from time to time.

No, he was not calm. In his heart, this was not over yet.

"Beep!"

When the referee blew the whistle to restart the match, when Portsmouth's center forward played the ball from the center circle.

Maël clearly noticed that Gilbert charged forward at an unusual speed, going all the way past midfield and toward the area where the forwards were.

"Bang!" Portsmouth's fullback then knocked the ball to Michael Brown, who took it and turned, looking around.

Gilbert suddenly accelerated. His target was very clear: if it was not the ball at Brown's feet, then it was Brown.

Maël's eyes bulged. He knew what was about to happen there. He drew a breath to shout, but it was too late—Gilbert had already gone in.

"Screech!" It was an extremely vicious scissor-leg sliding tackle. Gilbert's two legs clamped and stabbed hard toward Brown's legs, and the latter almost instantly flew up into the air. That was the body's instinctive evasion.

When Brown landed on the ground again, he felt a sharp pain from his ankle, and his whole foot went numb.

"Ah!" A scream rang across the whole stadium. This "hard man" from moments ago clutched his ankle with a pained face, just short of bursting into tears.

Maël froze where he stood, even forgetting to breathe, and the entire stadium fell into one or two seconds of silence.

"Beep!!" The referee's whistle was especially shrill. Only then did people react to what had just happened.

"Oh!" Some people clutched their heads, utterly shocked by Gilbert's choice.

"Good tackle!" Some gnashed their teeth, pointed at Brown, and cursed him, while praising Gilbert.

"That's not a red-card challenge!" Others began pleading for Gilbert in advance, waving their hands wildly.

Portsmouth's medical staff quickly entered the pitch. Their players gathered around Michael Brown, asking about his condition.

More of the Sheffield United players crowded around the referee, urging him not to take out a red card. Gilbert had not meant it.

But whether Gilbert had meant to do it or not, anyone could see it.

"You, off!"

The referee finally pulled out the red card without hesitation, deciding it was a straight red for Gilbert. "Wait for The FA's investigation and ruling."

Gilbert had seen it coming. From the moment he got to his feet, he had never intended to stay on the pitch. He turned and headed straight for the players' tunnel.

Ruining his brother's celebration, and then trying to start something?

Then of course he was getting tackled.

This had started because of him, and it ended because of him.

He left with effortless cool, without looking back or saying a word to anyone.

Michael Brown was eventually carried off on a stretcher, and Portsmouth brought on another midfielder.

At that moment, Gareth Speed, in order to protect him, directly substituted Maël off.

"I want to go back to the dressing room and check on him."

Maël asked Gareth Speed for permission, and after receiving it, he returned to the dressing room early through the players' tunnel.

Gilbert was sitting alone in the corner, taking off his boots. When he saw him come in, he smiled brightly. "Do you want to say I was impulsive? Or that I had no professionalism, that I smashed someone else's rice bowl? I don't think so. If he'd stayed on the pitch, both of us would've been at risk. It would've been fine if I got injured, but if you got hurt because of this, or if you retaliated against him and got suspended, I'd feel even worse."

He said the words he had prepared, hoping Maël would approve of what he had done.

But Maël shook his head, walked over, and sat down beside him. "I wasn't going to say any of that. If I had to comment, I'd say you were really cool just now."

Really cool?

Gilbert looked up and smiled.

Maël placed a hand on his shoulder and quietly waited for the match to end.

After that tackle, the relationship between the two of them became different from before. This would be a new stage.

P.S. Ten Hag's post-match comments were absolutely insane.