Quarterfinal Clash

The second match of the bracket opened with heavy midfield pressure. I planted my blunt plush paws across the black game controller, leaning hard against the sofa cushion as the opposing winger charged the box. I didn't panic. One sharp shift of my snout drove the defensive tackle, stripping the ball clean. My dog sat pressed tight against my left side, his breath warm and steady on my arm, eyes tracking every sweep across the bright screen. In the seventy-fourth minute, I spotted a gap on the counter, slammed my chin onto the sprint trigger, and slotted the ball into the lower corner. Two-nil. We advance to the semifinals.