The Final Whistle – Champions
The referee raised the whistle to his lips.
One long blast.
Full-time.
Tottenham 0-2 Bradford City.
For a moment, Jake didn't move.
He just stood there, frozen, staring at the scoreboard as if waiting for it to change.
It didn't.
Then it hit him.
They had done it.
Bradford City—EFL Cup Champions.
Jake's knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the Wembley turf, hands on his head, overwhelmed.
A second later, Silva and Barnes sprinted toward him.
Barnes grabbed him first, shaking him, yelling something Jake couldn't even process.
Silva wrapped his arms around him, lifting him back up before Jake could react.
The rest of the team followed.
Ibáñez. Vélez. Novak. Okafor. The substitutes. The entire squad.
They mobbed Jake, hugging, screaming, losing themselves in the moment.
Bradford's section of Wembley had turned into a sea of madness.
Flares went off. Fans were in tears, jumping on each other, waving scarves in the air.
