The Coaching System

70th Minute –

Bradford had the tempo. The control. The belief.

But the net remained untouched.

Jake didn't hesitate.

He spun toward the bench, eyes scanning, mind racing.

They needed fresh legs. Fresh thinking.

"Richter, Holloway, Barnes—get ready."

The three snapped to attention, stripping off their warm-up gear.

But Jake wasn't done. He looked at Ibáñez. Then at Silva.

"Change of plan. You're in."

The fourth official raised the board.

Off: Costa. Lowe. Rasmussen.

On: Richter. Ibáñez. Silva.

The shift was immediate.

Richter jogged to the right wing, barking instructions, demanding the ball.

Ibáñez slotted into midfield, a bundle of energy, pressing high, forcing Rapid onto the back foot.

Silva? He didn't need time to settle. A touch. A glance. A burst of pace down the left, his first involvement already stretching the defense.

Jake clapped once. Hard.

Twenty minutes.

One goal.

77th Minute –

Bradford weren't letting up. The pressure was mounting.

Rapid were backpedaling now, their defensive line deeper, their clearances rushed.

Richter, sharp and involved from the moment he stepped on, sprayed a diagonal switch toward Roney.

The pass was crisp. Precise.

Roney read it early, let it roll across his body, then exploded forward, shifting his weight inside. His marker hesitated—just for a second—but that was all he needed.

A pocket of space opened at the top of the box.

Silva saw it. Made his move.

A late surge. A sprint between defenders. A signal with his hand.

Roney didn't hesitate.

A low pass, driven with pace, slicing through the box.

Silva got there first. Met it with his left foot. Struck it clean—

But a desperate lunge. A defender throwing himself into the path.

The ball deflected. Skidded past the post.

Silva clenched his fists. So close.

The referee pointed to the corner flag.

Rapid were hanging on.

82nd Minute –

Bradford had time, but not much.

Jake wasn't waiting.

He turned to the bench, already knowing the change he needed.

"Walsh. Rin. You're in."

The fourth official raised the board.

Off: Roney, Obi

On: Walsh, Rin

Fresh legs. A final gamble.

Rin jogged on, adjusting his armband, scanning the pitch. Walsh clapped his hands, immediately barking instructions.

Jake stood near the edge of his technical area, eyes locked on the play, voice cutting through the noise.

He knew what was coming.

Bradford had to throw everything forward.

87th Minute –

Time was slipping through their fingers, every second tightening around Bradford like a vice.

Richter sensed it. He had to make something happen.

Silva worked the ball out wide to Walsh, who held off his marker before cutting it back toward the top of the box. Richter was there, waiting. One touch to set, another to shoot.

The strike was pure.

The ball curled viciously toward the top corner, bending past the outstretched arms of the diving goalkeeper. For a moment, it looked destined to nestle into the net, a perfect equalizer—

Then, fingertips.

The Rapid keeper, at full stretch, barely got enough on it. The slightest touch, but enough to tip it onto the crossbar.

The stadium gasped as the ball ricocheted back into play.

Ibáñez reacted first, sprinting onto the loose ball, stretching to stab it goalward—

A defender flung himself in the way.

A desperate block. A cruel deflection. The ball spun away from danger.

Bradford couldn't believe it.

Jake turned away, hands on his head. The players looked at each other, searching for answers.

It just wouldn't go in.

89th Minute –

From elation to devastation—Bradford had thrown everything forward, and now they were exposed.

Richter's strike had come agonizingly close, but as the ball ricocheted off the crossbar and Ibáñez's follow-up was blocked, Rapid reacted first.

Aiwu didn't hesitate. He hooked the ball clear—high, long, and searching.

Bradford were caught.

Greil sprinted onto it, leaving Silva trailing in his wake. Bianchi and Fletcher scrambled to recover, but the Rapid winger had a head start.

One perfect touch on the run, pushing the ball into space.

The Bradford backline was in tatters, stretched and desperate.

Burgstaller saw it unfolding and made his move.

Greil didn't need to look—he knew. A perfectly weighted pass split Fletcher and Bianchi, rolling into the path of Burgstaller, who charged into the box with only Emeka to beat.

Jake shouted from the touchline, but it was helpless now.

Emeka rushed out, arms wide, trying to make himself big.

Burgstaller didn't blink.

One touch to steady himself, then a ruthless, driven strike—low, precise, past Emeka's outstretched foot and into the bottom corner.

The net rippled.

The stadium erupted.

Bradford players froze, the weight of the moment sinking in.

Rapid had punished them in brutal fashion.

Jake turned away, jaw clenched. They had pushed. They had fought. But now, it was over.

90+3rd Minute – Full-Time Whistle

Bradford's final push had no reward. A hopeful cross from Rojas was cleared, the second ball fell to Ibáñez, but his rushed strike sailed over the bar. That was it.

The referee glanced at his watch.

One last breath.

Then, the whistle.

One long, sharp blast.

Full-time: Rapid Wien 2-1 Bradford City.

The Rapid players roared in triumph, fists clenched, arms raised toward their fans. The stadium shook with celebration.

Bradford stood frozen. Some dropped to their knees, others simply stared at the ground, hands on hips, the weight of the result sinking in.

They had fought. They had created. They had dominated for long spells.

But it wasn't enough.

Jake exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. He looked at his players—not in disappointment, but in frustration. Not at them, but at football itself.

They had deserved more.

Yet, football wasn't about what was deserved. It was about what was taken.

The Locker Room – Jake's Message

The atmosphere inside was quiet. Not broken, but quiet. Boots scraped against the floor. A few deep breaths. Costa sat with his head in his hands, Roney stared blankly at the wall, and Obi leaned back against his locker, shaking his head.

Jake stepped in, clapping his hands once—sharp, loud, breaking the silence.

"Look at me."

Heads lifted.

"That was a hell of a performance," he said, voice firm, eyes moving across each player. "I don't care what that scoreboard says—we played well. We dictated the game. We carved them open again and again. We did everything right except put the ball in the net more times than them. That's football."

No one spoke.

"But listen to me—this tie isn't over."

A pause.

"They think it is," he said, nodding toward the walls, as if gesturing to the Rapid players celebrating outside. "They think they're through. But we know better, don't we?"

Roney nodded. Vélez leaned forward. The quiet wasn't sadness anymore—it was shifting.

"You saw what we did to them tonight. Imagine what we do to them at home."

He let it sit.

"We ran them ragged. They were holding on by the end. We go back to Valley Parade, we finish the job. We take what's ours."

A few heads nodded. Costa sat up.

Jake turned to Emeka.

"And you," he said, pointing at the goalkeeper, "That goal? That was a thing of beauty."

A few chuckles rippled through the room. Even Emeka smirked, shaking his head.

"That loss isn't on you. Not on anyone here. We were brave, we played our game, and we made them suffer for most of that match. You understand?"

Emeka nodded.

Jake looked at them all again.

"Hold your heads up. Walk out of here like a team that knows this ain't over."

He stepped back, grabbed a bottle of water, and cracked it open.

"We've got a second leg to win."