The halftime whistle offered a brief, stormy reprieve, but inside the away dressing room, there was no celebration. The rain beat against the high, frost-fogged windows like a rhythm of war drums. United held a fragile 1-0 lead, but the heavy pitch was draining the players' legs at an alarming rate.
Mourinho stood in the center of the room, taking off his wet coat and tossing it onto a chair.
"They will come out like wounded dogs in the second half," Jose said, his eyes scanning the room, landing on Harry, whose legs were smeared with dark Goodison mud. "Koeman will throw Dominic Calvert-Lewin on to partner Rooney. They will launch high balls, smash second balls, and rely on the crowd. Marcus—you stay high. Do not drop deeper than thirty yards from their box. Keep Holgate and Keane terrified of the space behind them."
Harry nodded, taking a large gulp of electrolyte drink. He looked down at his right thigh; the impact from Holgate’s early tackle had left a deep, dull bruise, but his hamstring felt completely solid.
"If they push high," Harry said, looking over at Pogba, "Paul can release me first-time. Jagielka is playing on a yellow; he can't risk coming out to tackle me in the channel."
Pogba grinned, his white teeth flashing against his dripping beard. "I see you, Marc. Just run."
The second half began in a nightmare of noise. Everton came out of the tunnel with a renewed, frantic desperation, fueled by forty thousand home fans screaming for every throw-in, tackle, and corner.
In the 52nd minute, Ronald Koeman made his move, bringing on the energetic young striker Dominic Calvert-Lewin for Sandro Ramírez. Immediately, Everton shifted to a direct, physical 4-4-2.
Ashley Williams and Jagielka began pumping long, soaring balls into United's penalty box. For twenty agonizing minutes, Manchester United’s backline was subjected to an absolute aerial assault. Eric Bailly and Phil Jones threw their bodies into every duel, while David de Gea had to produce a world-class reflex save to stop a close-range header from Wayne Rooney.
Goodison Park was shaking. The momentum had swung entirely to the home side.
In the 68th minute, United suffered a major blow. Paul Pogba grabbed the back of his left hamstring after making a recovery sprint, wincing in immediate pain. He signaled to the bench and sat down on the wet grass, unable to continue.
Mourinho’s face turned stone cold. He called Ander Herrera off the bench to replace the French midfielder.
With Pogba off the pitch, United lost their primary ball-carrier and press-breaker in midfield. Everton's press grew even tighter, suffocating Herrera and Matić, locking United inside their own half.
Harry found himself completely isolated on the left wing. Minutes ticked by without him touching the ball, forced to do heavy defensive work to help Daley Blind double-team the overlapping runs of Nikola Vlašić.
On the touchline, Koeman waved his arms frantically, urging his team to push higher. Mason Holgate was now stepping deep into United’s half, operating almost as an extra right winger, leaving thirty yards of empty green grass behind his back.
He’s getting confident again, Harry thought, panting heavily, his chest burning as rain poured into his eyes. He thinks because Paul is off, we can't transition. He's leaving the backdoor wide open.
In the 76th minute, Everton earned a corner. Gylfi Sigurdsson whipped a dangerous, dipping ball into the six-yard box. Ashley Williams rose high, powering a header toward the top corner.
David de Gea leapt sideways, producing a finger-tip save to slap the ball off the crossbar!
The rebound fell to Phil Jones, who smashed a panic-stricken, high clearance out of the penalty area toward the left touchline.
The ball arced sixty yards through the rain-soaked sky.
Harry, standing near the halfway line, tracked the flight of the ball. Mason Holgate was sprinting toward him from behind, intent on clambering over Harry's back to keep the pressure alive.
Harry didn't wait for the ball to drop to his feet.
As the ball descended, Harry used his upper-body strength to back into Holgate, absorbing the young defender’s forward momentum, and used the inside of his right boot to flick the ball high over both his own head and Holgate’s.
It was a exquisite, high-skill Sombrero flick.
Holgate over-committed, slipping on the wet turf as the ball sailed over his head into open space.
Harry spun around instantly, his studs digging into the mud, and exploded into a forty-yard sprint toward the Everton goal.
Jagielka, the last defender left, scrambled across frantically from central defense, realization and panic flashing across his veteran face. He was thirty-five years old, carrying a yellow card, and isolated against a nineteen-year-old sprinter running at full speed.
Harry drove straight at Jagielka’s left hip, entering the edge of the eighteen-yard box.
The stadium held its breath. The roaring crowd suddenly fell into a tense, terrifying hush as Harry raised his right boot, setting up the decisive move of the match.
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