Kickoff Under Pressure

You said it started. No more drills. I locked my blunt paws around the grips of the black controller, sitting upright on the sofa rug. The opening whistle blew through the monitor, sharp and piercing. Opponent pressed high immediately. I didn't flinch. I absorbed the contact, drove my snout down onto the pass trigger, and pinged a low through-ball straight into the open wing. My dog sat riveted beside my ribs, his chest rumbling a low war hum with every defensive clearance. Stoppage time loomed, 0-0. I executed a brutal feint, tapped the shoot bumper with my chin, and rattled the crossbar in. One-nil, first round secured.