NOVPUBDate: Saturday, 7 February 2026Location: MKM Stadium
The wind at MKM Stadium didn't swirl—it pressed. A low, constant push that made the banners twitch but never fly. Jake stood near the edge of his box, coat zipped to the collar, one hand in his pocket, the other adjusting the strap of his watch without checking the time. He didn't need to.
He could read the tempo from the way Holloway tapped his studs into the turf. From the way Rasmussen moved his arms when he wasn't getting the ball. From the tiny moment before kickoff when Richter rolled his neck once, eyes narrowing—not to intimidate, but to center himself.
This wasn't a storm. It was a test of discipline. Hull were 19th, bruised and brittle, but still dangerous—especially when ignored.
Jake had said it flat in the tunnel.
"They want you to crawl. You run. And when they drop deep, you go through."
It wasn't poetry. It was blueprint.
Bradford lined up in their rotated 4–2–3–1. Silva on the right, Rasmussen on the left. Chapman slotted in behind Richter. Vélez and Lowe shared the base of midfield—one to press, one to sweep.
And behind them, a quiet trust: Bianchi in his first full league start since November. Cox in goal. Young spine, older shoulders. It would have to be enough.
The whistle cut the air, and Bradford moved.
Hull came out narrow, trying to squeeze Chapman into corners and bait Silva wide. It worked for maybe two minutes—until Lowe crushed a second ball, fired it down the right channel, and forced Hull's back line into a nervy clearance.
Vélez took that as a signal.
He dropped, received from Barnes, turned with a glance, and feathered a pass over the top.
Rasmussen caught it on his chest at full tilt—one touch, in stride.
He cut in—twice.
A Hull defender lunged.
Rasmussen ignored it.
Left foot wrapped around the ball like it was muscle memory.
Shot bent high and left.
Keeper stretched.
Too late.
Bradford City 1–0 Hull City – 12 minutes.
Jobi McAnuff's voice cracked through the speakers: "That's class. That's calm. That's pure technique."
Jake didn't speak. Just pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth and exhaled slowly.
He turned slightly to Paul Robert, who murmured, "Didn't even flinch."
Jake nodded. "Didn't have to."
Hull responded. Not with beauty. With defiance.
A long ball launched from the back. Chapman rose but missed the flick. Their No. 10 pounced. Half-volley. Hit sweet and low.
Cox dropped like a curtain—both hands firm, body behind the ball.
No spill. No drama.
Chapman clapped behind him. "Mine next time."
Twenty-two minutes gone. Still 1–0. But the pace wasn't relenting.
By the half-hour, Lowe had taken command. Winning every duel, repositioning Richards with a tilt of his head, barking at Holloway to hold his line.
Vélez moved like oil—slipping between lines, gliding into spaces too narrow to be logical.
Hull's press frayed.
Jake saw the moment Chapman winced and rotated his ankle mid-stride.
No need to wait.
He turned to Ethan Wilson. "You're in. Go where it hurts."
The boy nodded once, sharp.
Thirty-ninth minute.
Rasmussen again—winning a loose ball, not with strength, but instinct.
He slid it to Vélez, who touched once and moved it on like electricity.
Ethan found the seam.
Threaded.
Silva timed his run as if he'd seen the pass coming from the first minute.
Round the keeper.
Tap in.
Bradford City 2–0 Hull City – 39 minutes.
Seb Hutchinson: "Silva adds the sting—and Ethan Wilson… again… with the eye."
Jake folded his arms tighter. Wind biting now, but he felt nothing.
Halftime didn't bring noise in the dressing room. Just quiet movement.
Chapman's boot was off, ankle swelling. Paul handled it.
Jake looked around. Faces calm. No adrenaline spikes. Just breath control.
He spoke as he walked between them.
"Munteanu, stay warm. You'll need games soon."
Then, louder.
"Same control. Same arrogance. Win without showing off."
Second half opened sharper. Not faster—sharper. Cleaner weight on passes. Tighter angles on pressure. But Hull weren't out of ideas. They shifted their striker into half-space, trying to drag Barnes too far wide, bait the back line into overcommitting.
Barnes bit for a moment.
And that was the trap.
But Bianchi had already moved.
His read was two seconds ahead. Feet set. Angle perfect. He didn't rush—just curved into the path, low and clean. Slide in. Laces open. Ball scooped without scraping the player. No foul. No delay. Just the quiet slice of studs through wet grass.
The home end sucked in a breath. Nothing else.
Jake stayed still. No clapping. No fist pump. Just a glance to the far side and a breath through his nose. That one mattered. That was Bianchi not just surviving the rotation—but owning it.
And then came the reminder that games don't breathe evenly.
Fifty-fourth minute. Bradford's corner didn't hit. Hull cleared hard. One pass, two seconds. Their No. 11 already on the break.
Cox was alone now. Midway line behind him. The sprint coming fast.
He didn't flinch. Didn't rush.
He waited.
Adjusted his angle. Stayed tall as the forward approached—shoulders tense, body poised.
Then the final touch came.
That one moment where timing either seals a clean sheet—or buries it.
Cox dropped low, legs wide. Blocked it with the inside of his shin.
No scramble. No drama.
Just a clean, ugly save.
Jake's eyes narrowed, tracking the ball as it bounced away from danger.
"That's his," he muttered to Paul.
Paul didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The message was written already. The kid could handle the stage.
Seventy-first minute.
Silva hadn't seen much of the ball for the last ten, so when he peeled inside from the touchline—just beyond the arc—nobody expected him to shoot. Least of all Hull's midfield, whose spacing sagged just enough to leave a crease.
He took the space.
Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just a clean step onto his right foot.
The strike bent low and quick, skipping once off the turf.
The keeper dove.
But he didn't hold.
The ball spilled forward—just enough.
Richter had already started moving before Silva struck it. That's what made the difference. Not speed. Not luck. Anticipation.
The defenders froze a beat too long.
Richter didn't.
He crashed in with one touch. Laces. No elegance—just violence.
Near post. Net rippled with venom.
Bradford City 3–0 Hull City – 71 minutes.
Seb Hutchinson from the booth, tone low but clear: "Bradford's No. 9 has no off switch."
It wasn't glamour. It was hunger. A striker who lived off moments the rest of the pitch forgot.
Jake didn't react. Just tapped Paul lightly on the arm and spoke without turning.
"Sub now."
Fresh legs came. Silva, job done, jogged off without a fuss. Walsh in—tasked with keeping the structure clean. Roney replaced Rasmussen, injecting late-game unpredictability out wide.
But the tone had changed.
Vélez dropped his tempo by half a beat. Started playing the ball sideways, not forward. Not fear. Control.
Ethan joined him moments later, and the two danced tight possession triangles under pressure like they were still on the training ground.
No rush. No gap.
Out wide, Holloway tucked closer to Bianchi, reading the tempo without needing instruction. He didn't bomb forward. Didn't gamble. Just held. Safe. Solid.
Bradford didn't chase a fourth. They made Hull feel the third—slowly.
Ninety-third minute.
Whistle.
No theatrics. No roar.
Jake shook Paul's hand once. Walked toward the tunnel without looking back.
They'd come to win.
And they'd done it without crawling once.
