The sun scorched the gritty field as Kratos laced up his Nike Mercurial Superfly CR7 football cleats, their white Flyknit uppers with a black swoosh built for speed, the carbon-fiber plate and Air Zoom unit fueling his relentless charge. The micro-textured NIKESKIN overlay with All Conditions Control ensured deadly precision. His white Nike football socks with a black swoosh, white t-shirt, and black shorts completed his war-god look. At 6 feet, 195 pounds of chiseled muscle, Kratos was a terror on the pitch, known for crushing opponents with shoulder barges, brutal bumps, and cleats that left marks.
Kratos had studied the opponent team for days, picking apart their weak defense and shaky keeper. He knew three goals were in the bag. He also knew his buddy Jake didn’t have a grand to his name, and Kratos had a plan for him from the start. Before the game, Jake, lean and cocky, sauntered up, grinning. “Yo, Kratos, my man, let’s make this fun. This team’s a wall—no way you’re scoring three goals. If you do, I’ll pay you a grand. If you don’t, you owe me. Bet?”
Kratos smirked, his confidence ironclad, already plotting. “You’re on, bro. Start saving that cash.”
They fist-bumped, and Kratos knew Jake was walking into his trap.
The whistle blew, and Kratos hit the field like a storm. First half, he locked onto number 8, a defender loafing with the ball. Kratos smashed into him with a shoulder charge, sending the guy to the dirt. “Get up, punk,” he growled, towering over him. “You think you can stop me? Weak.” The defender scrambled up, face flushed, as Kratos snatched the ball and powered to the goal. He unleashed a vicious shot past the keeper. 1-0. He spun to Jake, pointing. “Yo, bro, you got that grand ready? I’m just warming up.”
The crowd buzzed, some hyped, others grumbling about Kratos’ dirty play. He didn’t care. Mid-second half, number 12 stepped in his way. Kratos plowed through with a shoulder, dropping the guy to the ground. “Stay down, loser,” he sneered. “You’re out of your league.” He weaved past another defender, faked left, and buried the ball in the net. 2-0. He strutted to Jake. “That’s two, man. Start digging for that cash, ‘cause three’s coming.”
Jake laughed, nervous. “Chill, bro, you ain’t there yet.”
Kratos’ grin was pure menace. Ten minutes left, he stole a pass and bulldozed number 5 with a casual bump, sending him sprawling. “What’s wrong, kid? Can’t keep up?” he taunted, voice low and cold. He charged the goal, feinted, and slammed the ball home. 3-0. Kratos roared, arms up, then jogged to Jake. “That’s three, my man. Pay up, or you gonna cry about it?”
Jake groaned, hands on his head. “Damn, bro, you’re a tank. Gimme a sec, alright?”
Kratos smirked, but 3-0 was too easy, just as he’d planned. He was bored. In the final seconds, he saw his moment. Number 7, a wiry guy, was about to hit the ground, the ball near his face. Kratos sprinted, cleats flashing, faking a kick at the ball. As the referee’s whistle shrilled for time, Kratos “missed,” slamming his 195 pounds onto number 7’s face, driving his head into the dirt with a brutal crunch.
Number 7 screamed, clutching his face, blood seeping through his fingers, his cheek split open. Pain seared through his skull, vision blurring, the crowd’s shouts fading to a hum. Humiliation burned hotter than the wound, the memory of Kratos’ cleat crushing him etched deep. Blood trickled down his chin, pooling in the dirt, the coppery scent mixing with the grass.
The field erupted. Two of number 7’s teammates charged Kratos, fists swinging. Kratos dodged one punch and kicked the guy in the gut, dropping him. The second backed off, eyes wide. Kratos stood tall as the referee sprinted over, shouting, “Break it up!” The game was done—no cards could be issued. The ref jabbed a finger. “Reckless, Kratos. You’re lucky time’s up.”
Kratos shrugged. “Accident, ref. Just playing hard.” He walked to number 7, still groaning, and yanked him up. The crowd thought he was helping, but Kratos whispered, “Stay outta my way next time if you wanna stay alive,” crushing his hand until he winced, then let go.
Kratos sauntered to Jake, who looked pale, fumbling with his empty wallet. “Yo, man, time to pay,” Kratos said, clapping his shoulder hard. Jake stammered, “I, uh, don’t have it on me, bro.”
Kratos leaned in, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that froze Jake’s legs in place. “I knew you didn’t have the cash, Jake. Been planning for this. You stay right here till everyone’s gone, and you wait for my orders. Try to leave, and you saw what I did to number 7.” Jake nodded, eyes wide, rooted to the spot, fear locking his knees.
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