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... barely rippled the net before the Utrecht bench exploded — players leaping off their seats, fists pumping, voices colliding into a roar that echoed into the frozen night. Even the substitutes who hadn't touched the field were on their feet, shouting, clapping, feeding off the energy that now coursed through the team.

Coach Pronk? Coach Pronk was there with his arms crossed over the chest. He didn't celebrate. No fist pumps. No wild gestures. Just a single nod — slow, satisfied, delibera ...

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