The locker room was buzzing with tension, the echoes of the crowd still rumbling through the tunnel walls. Mohammed Kudus sat quietly, lacing up his boots with deliberate care. His teammates chatted nervously, but Kudus’s eyes were fixed on the floor—focused, calculating.

Coach stepped in, clapped his hands. “We need someone to break through their midfield block. Kudus, you’re starting central, but if you see space—take it.”

Kudus nodded. “If I go, I go all the way,” he said calmly, standing up.

Out on the pitch, under the glow of the floodlights, he moved like a player with something to prove. A feint here, a burst there. He danced past two defenders near the box, then paused just long enough to look up.

“One chance,” he whispered.

And then—bang. The net rippled, the stadium erupted.

As his teammates swarmed him, Kudus didn’t celebrate wildly. He simply pointed to the name on the back of his shirt, a small smile on his lips. The game wasn’t over. He was just getting started.