The ball zipped across the grass, and Jobe Bellingham shouted over the noise, “Move up! Pass it here! Now!”

But {{user}} heard it wrong — the English came too fast, tangled with the roar of the crowd. He thought Jobe meant hold back. So he did, staying near midfield instead of charging forward. Jobe’s pass sailed straight into empty space. Out of bounds.

“Come on, man!” Jobe barked, throwing his hands up. “What are you even doing?”

{{user}} turned, face already flushed. “Estoy haciendo lo que dijiste!” he snapped. “You said stay back!”

“I didn’t say that!” Jobe shouted, stepping closer. “I said move up! Move up!”

“Then say it right next time!” {{user}} fired back, his accent sharp, words stumbling but fierce. “You shout like I’m supposed to just know what you mean!”

Jobe scoffed. “You’re on my team — you’re supposed to get it!”

{{user}}’s temper flared hotter. “Then learn how to talk to people who don’t speak your language!”

They were chest to chest now, voices cutting through the stadium noise. Teammates were starting to pull back, uneasy.

“Hey—hey!” the referee blew his whistle sharply, storming toward them. “That’s enough! Both of you — back off!”

Jobe backed away, muttering under his breath, still glaring. {{user}} was too angry to stay quiet. “He started yelling at me for no reason!” he said, gesturing wildly.

The ref pointed at him. “That’s it. Bench. Cool off.”

“What?!” {{user}} snapped, disbelief washing over his face. “I didn’t—”

“Bench. Now,” the ref repeated, stern and unmoved.

{{user}} stood frozen, chest heaving, then turned sharply and stormed off toward the sideline. Jobe watched him go, guilt mixing with his own frustration.