The Coaching System

34th Minute –

Bradford weren't about to sit back and feel sorry for themselves. They had been hit, but they had no intention of staying down.

From the restart, Vélez played a sharp pass to Rasmussen on the right. The winger wasted no time—his first touch took him past his marker, his second pushed the ball forward into space. The Rapid full-back lunged in, trying to slow him down, but Rasmussen skipped over the challenge, never breaking stride.

Jake was already on his feet, urging him forward.

The Allianz Stadion crowd sensed the danger, a ripple of nervous murmurs sweeping through the stands as Rasmussen drove toward the final third.

He glanced up once—Obi was making his run.

The delivery was inch-perfect. A wicked, looping cross, curling away from the keeper and hanging beautifully at the far post.

Obi wanted it.

He surged between two defenders, rising highest, muscles tensed as he launched himself at the ball. A textbook header—his neck snapped forward, directing the ball toward the top corner with power and precision.

For a split second, it looked unstoppable.

But then—reaction save.

Niklas Hedl, Rapid Wien's goalkeeper, exploded off his feet, stretching every inch of his frame. His fingertips barely reached it, but they did. The ball deflected off his glove and looped over the bar, inches away from nestling in the net.

Bradford fans behind the goal groaned, hands on heads. Obi let out a frustrated yell, fists clenched.

Jake just clapped. "That's it! Keep going!"

It was a warning shot.

Bradford weren't backing down.

38th Minute –

Bradford had to stay alert. Rapid weren't satisfied with a one-goal lead—they wanted more. Every time they came forward, they carried an air of danger, their passes sharp, their movement fluid. Bradford's backline, though disciplined, was being stretched, pulled apart by clever runs and quick one-touch exchanges.

This time, it was Greil who orchestrated the threat.

The Rapid midfielder, who had been dictating the tempo since the goal, received the ball just inside Bradford's half. Vélez, sensing the danger, stepped in aggressively, trying to close him down.

Greil saw it coming.

A quick turn—deft, effortless—and Vélez was beaten. One move, and he was out of the play.

The space opened up instantly.

Greil didn't hesitate.

His eyes flicked up, scanning his options. Burgstaller made a clever decoy run, dragging Bianchi out of position. That was all the invitation Greil needed.

He slid a perfectly weighted pass through the heart of Bradford's defense, threading the ball like a needle through fabric.

Oswald was on it in a flash.

He ghosted between Fletcher and Rojas, the gap between them too wide, and met the pass with a first-time strike.

Low. Driven. Arrowing toward the bottom corner.

The Rapid crowd rose to their feet, expecting the net to bulge.

But Emeka was ready.

The young goalkeeper had already shifted his weight, reading the play a second before Oswald pulled the trigger. He pushed hard off his right foot, stretching every inch of his frame, fingers reaching.

Contact.

His fingertips grazed the ball—just enough to alter its trajectory. It skidded past the far post by inches.

A collective groan rippled through the Allianz Stadion.

Bradford fans, tucked in their away section, roared in approval.

Emeka lay on the ground for a second, then slapped the turf in frustration. He wanted to hold that.

But Jake was already clapping on the sideline, his voice carrying over the noise.

"That's why you're there, Emeka! Big save!"

The goalkeeper sat up, nodding, as Fletcher helped him to his feet.

Rapid had a corner, but the moment was lost. Their momentum had been broken.

Bradford had survived—just.

44th Minute –

As the first half neared its conclusion, Bradford carved out one last opportunity—one final push to snatch an equalizer before the break.

Lowe, scanning the field from his deep-lying midfield position, spotted an opening.

Roney had drifted into space on the left flank, his marker momentarily caught between pressing forward and holding his line.

Lowe saw it. He didn't hesitate.

With a crisp swing of his boot, he sent a beautifully weighted diagonal ball floating across the pitch. The flight was perfect, cutting through the Vienna night air like an arrow.

Roney tracked it, eyes locked, body poised.

The ball dropped.

One touch—silky, controlled, barely breaking his stride.

The Rapid full-back scrambled back, backpedaling, unsure whether to close down or hold his ground.

Roney saw his hesitation. He had him.

A quick burst of pace—two strides to the right, then a sharp step inside onto his stronger foot. The defender lunged, but too late.

With space now open, Roney lifted his head, assessing his options.

Obi was near the penalty spot, battling his marker. Vélez lurked just outside the box. But it was Costa who made the decisive move—ghosting into the six-yard box, right between the center-backs.

Roney saw it.

A clever cutback—low, driven, rolling perfectly across the six-yard box.

Costa lunged.

His foot met the ball—but just as he connected, a Rapid defender crashed into him, shoulder to shoulder, doing just enough to disrupt his balance.

The shot lacked power.

The ball trickled harmlessly into the goalkeeper's arms.

Costa let out a frustrated shout, his palms slamming against the turf.

So close.

The Rapid defenders exchanged glances, relieved. A let-off.

Jake turned away on the touchline, exhaling sharply. It had been a well-crafted move, but without the finishing touch, it meant nothing.

The referee checked his watch.

Then, the whistle.

Halftime.

Bradford walked off the pitch, heads high but minds sharp. One goal down, but still in the fight.

Halftime – A Response Needed

Bradford walked off the pitch, their heads up but their expressions tight. They weren't broken, but they knew the truth—this wasn't enough.

One goal down. Still in the fight. But they needed more.

Jake kept his pace steady as he strode toward the tunnel, his mind already dissecting the first half. They'd had moments. Obi's near miss. Costa's half-chance. Rasmussen's dangerous cross. But Rapid had been sharper, more fluid. And that free kick… That damn free kick.

As they entered the tunnel, the atmosphere was tense. The roar of the Rapid fans echoed behind them, while their own traveling supporters sang defiantly in the distance. The game was still there. It was still within reach. But something had to change.

Bradford's Locker Room – Adjustments Needed

The locker room was silent at first. Players dropped into their seats, grabbing water bottles, some shaking their heads. Sweat dripped. Breathing was heavy.

Robert and the coaching staff moved quickly, setting up the tactics board, but all eyes turned to Jake. He didn't speak right away. He let the silence linger, let them sit with the feeling of being behind.

Then, he stepped forward.

"Look," he said, his voice calm but firm, "we knew this wouldn't be easy. They're at home, they've got the crowd, and yeah, they had more of the ball. But we're not here to make up the numbers. We've had chances. We've caused them problems."

He glanced around the room, making eye contact with each player.

"But we need more. More aggression. More belief. More composure in the final third."

He turned toward the tactics board, grabbing a marker.

"They're finding too much space between the lines," he continued, circling an area in midfield. "Greil's drifting into these pockets, pulling us apart. Vélez, Lowe—you've got to close that gap faster. Make it tight. Force them wide."

Both midfielders nodded, still catching their breath.

Jake moved his focus forward.

"And when we win it," he said, "we break fast. Obi, Costa—I need you making those runs earlier. We're hesitating in transition. If we commit, if we're decisive, we can hurt them."

He turned to Roney and Rasmussen.

"You two—be direct. When you get the ball, I don't want hesitation. Take them on. Get to the byline. Deliver quality."

Roney wiped sweat from his forehead, nodding. Rasmussen cracked his knuckles.

Then, Jake's voice softened, just slightly.

"One goal changes everything," he said. "We score, and this place gets nervous. You can feel it. They know we're dangerous."

He looked at each player again, his eyes steady, his tone unwavering.

"We are not out of this."

He clapped his hands once.

"Now let's go prove it."

The energy shifted. Shoulders straightened. Eyes hardened. They weren't beaten. Not yet.

As the players rose from their seats, Robert clapped Jake on the back.

"Let's get to work," he said.

Bradford weren't done.

Not by a long shot.