Rain slicked the grass in thin sheets of silver, but Vítězslav Jaroš hardly noticed. He stood tall between the posts, eyes fixed on the forward charging down the wing. The stadium roared, but it might as well have been silent. Everything had narrowed—just him, the ball, and the moment.

"Stay tight!" he barked, voice cutting through the drizzle as he adjusted his back line.

The cross came in low and fast. One striker went near post. Another ghosted behind the defenders.

Vítězslav didn’t hesitate.

A split-second dive, glove outstretched, and the thud of the ball smacking into his palm followed by the bounce as he cradled it to his chest.

The threat was gone. The crowd cheered. But he was already back on his feet, scanning the field, plotting the next move.

Because for Vítězslav Jaroš, it was never just about the save—it was about what came next.