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The pressure his players were facing on the field due to Tore Reginiussen\'s red card was immense. The Molde players had fully capitalized on their numerical advantage during the few minutes after the red card. They\'d managed to keep Rosenborg\'s ten men on tenterhooks, leaving them without a single moment for a breather.

Coach Johansen had already noticed that a few of his players were almost out of breath. He could tell that their stamina reserves were close to depletion from their reaction times. He was worried they would slacken and start making mistakes. So, he decided to motivate them.

"Don\'t relax," he yelled at the top of his voice, clapping his hands for emphasis. "Keep on defending. You\'re doing a good job so far. Nicki, stay on the centerline and wait for the ball there. You don\'t need to keep heading back to defend. Your job is to keep their defenders under pressure and scoring when you get an opportunity. Zachary, be sharp and strategic when marking the spaces in front of our defensive third..." He intoned words at the pace of a machine gun while still following the match with rapt attention.

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The tension on the pitch was at a level that tickled at Kristin\'s taught nerves irritably. Like the rest of the Rosenborg fans within the stands of Lerkendal Stadion, she was the image of anxiety itself as she forced herself to continue following the proceedings on the pitch.

The Molde players continued to mount attack after attack on Rosenborg\'s goal at an interval of nearly every two minutes. They\'d switched from their counter-attacking strategy and were now utilizing wing-play to deliver diagonal balls and crosses into Rosenborg\'s box.

With the change, they\'d managed to connect seamlessly with their attacking players, with a fast and relentless playing style that was the trued definition of attack-minded football. That way, they\'d managed to push almost all the Rosenborg players back into their defensive third, leaving only Nicki close to the centerline.

Kristin\'s anxiety mounted with every passing minute as she watched the game. A couple of times, Molde had come close to scoring a third goal through their attacking players. However, Lund Hansen, the Rosenborg keeper, had done a phenomenal job stopping two attempts from Daniel Chima Chukwu, the Molde center-forward, in the 75th and 78th minutes. Furthermore, another shot from Mattias Mostr?m, the winger, had smashed off the crossbar after taking a slight deflection off one of the defenders in the 80th minute.

"Martin Linnes, the Molde left-back, showcases his great technique and produces a teasing cross into the box," Kristin heard Kjell Roar, the commentator, yell out loud. "Oh, my goodness me! Mattias Mostr?m, the Molde winger in shirt number-9, latches on to the accurate cross within the 18-yard box and unleashes a strong shot towards the goal. But Lund Hansen, the Rosenborg keeper, is well-positioned and dives to make an incredible save. What a match we have here! Harald! You\'re quiet! What\'s going on? What is your say on the progress of the match?"

Kristin heard Harald Brattbakk, the pundit for the day, sigh audibly. "Truly unfortunate for Tore, the Rosenborg captain, to get that red card in the 69th minute. The tables have turned due to his sending off—and we now have the Molde players dictating the tempo due to their numerical advantage. Rosenborg is barely hanging on to keep things level here at Lerkendal, and yet six minutes, plus added time, still remain to the final whistle. Truly unfortunate."

"The million-dollar question is one," Kjell Roar said. "Do you think Rosenborg will manage to resist Molde\'s attacks until the final whistle with the way they\'re playing?"

"That\'s a question I can\'t answer at the moment," Harald replied in a flat voice. "This is football, and it\'s highly unpredictable. For instance, in the first half of this game, it was Rosenborg dictating the proceedings. The Troll Kids led by two goals at half-time, and we all thought they were sure to win. But look at the situation right now. That\'s the unpredictability of football. So, maybe, the game will end as a draw or, possibly, a win for Molde. But what we also can\'t rule out is that Rosenborg can also win even if they are at a disadvantage considering numbers."

Kjell Roar chuckled at that. "The Rosenborg fans would go mad if that happened. But let\'s wait and see how the match progresses. We\'re entering the last five minutes of official time. It\'s still all Molde on the field. Emmanuel Ekpo, the Molde right-winger, just got on the end of a diagonal ball from Magne Hoseth, his captain. Oh, he twists and turns—and fires a rocket towards goal. But it\'s a pity that Mike Jensen, one of Rosenborg\'s defensive midfielders, stands in the way. The Rosenborg man manages to block the shot and direct the ball away from the goal. But not far enough..."

Panic surged through Kristin. Her hands became cold and clammy as she watched the deflected ball bounce at the edge of the box—towards Magne Hoseth. The Molde captain had been lurking around the arc of the 18-yard box, completely unmarked. Without losing composure, Magne met the ball on the volley with his left foot—and unleashed a shot towards goal before any of the Rosenborg players could react.

Kristin\'s body went cold with dread as she watched the ball flash through the crowd of players in the box, heading towards the goal like a bullet out of a sniper rifle\'s muzzle. "Please don\'t go in," she mumbled, her hands squeezing into fists. At that moment, she wished for telekinetic powers so that she could will the ball to deviate away from its course. She didn\'t want to see her team lose after holding on to the draw until the last four minutes of the game.

The goddess of luck probably sympathized or maybe took pity on all the other Rosenborg fans in Lerkendal. Lund Hansen, the Rosenborg goalkeeper, jumped high and committed himself to a full-body dive. He just managed to punch the ball away from the goal. With a strong fist, he managed to propel it all the way to the right flank. Rosenborg had survived conceding once more.

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