The Volkswagen Arena was a cauldron of noise. Fans waved caps emblazoned with the snarling wolf, their roars sustaining a fever pitch as they celebrated the equalizer. Near the corner flag, Ivan Perišić blew kisses to the cameras.
"Look at him, showing off again," David Qin muttered to De Bruyne. He expected a dry retort, but the Belgian was lost in thought.
"Hey, Kevin. Don't tell me you're planning to copy that? Don't. You'll ruin your 'Sunday League amateur' persona if you start doing heart gestures."
"I know, I know," De Bruyne replied, a hint of bashfulness creeping into his voice. As an introvert, public displays of affection weren't exactly his forte. Maybe that's why my ex did what she did? he wondered briefly before snapping back to reality.
"Did you see that finish? Was I clinical or what?" Perišić asked, slinging an arm around David's shoulder.
"Was my nutmeg on Walker clinical?" David countered with a smirk.
"Filthy! I couldn't even see your feet before he hit the deck. Absolute comedy!" Perišić laughed, giving a hearty thumbs-up.
David glanced back and caught Kyle Walker's gaze. The Englishman was fuming, his eyes burning with a mix of embarrassment and rage. David simply smiled and turned away. He wasn't one for verbal taunts after a successful dribble—his football did the talking.
But Walker saw the smile as a direct provocation. Damn it! How did I make such a rookie mistake? He refused to credit David's skill, choosing instead to blame his own lapse in concentration.
"Forget it," Hugo Lloris called out, though his voice held a sharp edge. "Treat it like the game just started. And for heaven's sake, wait for cover next time instead of diving in."
Walker glared at his captain. Lloris had seniority, so he bit his tongue, but the sting of responsibility for the goal remained.
On the touchline, Dieter Hecking clapped softly. "His growth rate is frightening. If I didn't know better, I'd think the boy who showed up for trials was a different person entirely. Same style, but the execution... it's worlds apart." He felt a surge of vindication. Back then, the recruitment team had offered him several prospects, but he'd picked David primarily because the kid spoke German. It turned out to be the best hunch of his career.
Across the technical area, Mauricio Pochettino was rubbing his temples. He had been an elite defender himself—scouted by Marcelo Bielsa as a teenager when the legendary coach reportedly broke into his home at midnight to inspect his legs while he slept. Pochettino knew a "perfect pair of legs" when he saw them, and he had faced the best, including Ronaldinho.
The way David had just sat Walker down... it was hauntingly familiar.
"Paulinho, tuck inside! Andros, drop deeper! We need to double up on that flank!" Pochettino barked, waving his arms frantically.
BEEP!
The game restarted. Spurs remained undeterred, sticking to their high-octane script. Pochettino's front three were granted total creative freedom to feed Harry Kane, rotating and interchanging positions to drag Wolfsburg's defenders out of their zones.
"Watch the movement! Don't just ball-watch—stay in your zones!" Hecking countered. The Wolves had learned their lesson; they stayed compact, refusing to be lured into the traps set by Eriksen and Chadli.
"Five minutes of regulation left in the first half," Derek Rae noted as the pace settled into a tense stalemate. "It's become a bit of a chess match, hasn't it, Stewart?"
"Indeed. Both sides are adjusting," Stewart Robson replied. "Spurs are technically gifted, but The Wolves have matured significantly this season. The battle is in the engine room. Every time Spurs move laterally, they leave a pocket in the center. And we know exactly what Kevin De Bruyne does with pockets of space."
As the clock ticked into three minutes of stoppage time, Harry Kane dropped deep to link up with Eriksen, bypassing De Bruyne with a neat exchange. He unleashed a signature long-range effort—the kind British tabloids compared to Alan Shearer—but it lacked the necessary venom. Benaglio gathered it comfortably and immediately scanned the field.
BOOM.
A massive goal-kick sought out David Qin on the left. David felt a heavy thud against his back before the ball even arrived. He didn't need to look; he knew Walker was there. He braced himself, cushioning the ball with his chest while using his elbow to create a buffer against the defender's physical pressure.
David flicked the ball over his own head. Walker, blinded by the sun or perhaps just his own desperation, overcommitted. By the time the defender turned, David had already killed the momentum with a dead-stop, leaving Walker flying past him.
"Pathetic! Absolutely pathetic!" Walker's internal monologue was a scream of frustration. The Wolfsburg fans added to the sting, showering him with derisive whistles.
Losing his head, Walker lunged from a side-rear angle with a reckless slide tackle.
"Look out!" Ricardo Rodriguez screamed.
David couldn't see the danger. He felt a sharp clip on his trailing foot, his balance vanished, and he went sprawling onto the turf.
"You dirty bastard!" "Red card! That's a red!" "Send him off!"
The stadium erupted in fury. The Spanish referee, Alberto Mallenco, sprinted over, blowing his whistle frantically to prevent a brawl. He reached into his pocket and flashed a yellow card at a protesting Walker.
"If your studs were a centimeter higher, you'd be down the tunnel," Mallenco warned, scribbling the number 2 into his book. "Keep your head, or you're gone."
"I got the ball! He's diving!" Walker lied through his teeth.
"Chao ni ma!" David spat as he walked past, using a choice Chinese insult he knew the ref wouldn't understand. If he'd used English, he'd likely be cautioned for dissent, but the sheer luck of not being injured left him with a bitter taste in his mouth.
Do I need to change how I play? David wondered, a flicker of post-collision fear entering his mind. This style invites the hatchet men. But then he remembered the system backing him. Nah. Let's dance.
"You okay, David?" the squad gathered around him.
"I'm fine. Don't worry about me," he said with a grin, before whispering behind his hand, "Keep targetting him. He's tilted. We can get him sent off if we're smart."
The halftime whistle blew at 1-1.
"A fascinating first half," Derek Rae summarized. "Kane and Perišić with the goals, but it's the contrast in styles that's captivating. Harry Kane is the ultimate 'all-rounder'—he's strong, smart, and covers every blade of grass. He's the perfect modern striker, but he lacks a certain... flair."
"Exactly," Stewart agreed. "Kane is the industrial product of a top-tier academy. David Qin, however, is a throwback. He plays with an infectious, liquid grace. He reminds me of a young Ronaldinho—that 'Football Elf' quality where every touch feels like an invitation to watch something special."
The break passed quickly, and the players returned to the pitch. Spurs started the second half with their trademark intensity. Eriksen combined with Chadli before lofting a ball toward Kane in the box.
"Mine!" Naldo roared, fulfilling his halftime instructions to shadow the Spurs talisman. Kane's hurried effort under pressure only found the side netting.
"He misses those occasionally," Derek noted. "But Kane's efficiency is remarkable for a 21-year-old. His goals-per-shot ratio is closing in on the likes of Messi and Ronaldo."
"And what about David's stats?" Stewart asked. "He's averaging a goal every 3.9 shots. That's because he doesn't just shoot; he eliminates defenders first to ensure he's in the clear. It's terrifying efficiency for a seventeen-year-old."
"Speaking of which... here come The Wolves on the left!"
Ricardo Rodriguez surged past Townsend and looked up. Seeing David tightly marked by Walker, he recycled the ball to De Bruyne in the center.
"Close him down!" Bentaleb screamed, but De Bruyne had already pinged it back. The fans were confused—why slow down a good break?
But Hecking, adjusting his glasses, knew exactly what was happening. Spurs thrived on chaos and speed. By forcing them into a slower, lateral rhythm, Wolfsburg was exposing the cracks in their defensive discipline.
Sure enough, after a series of sideways shifts, the Spurs' left flank opened up. De Bruyne received the ball and, without even looking, unleashed his trademark.
SNAP.
The ball hissed across the grass, a low-trajectory curve that bypassed Paulinho's shadow.
"De Bruyne with the signature zinger! David Qin has it!"
"Walker is too far off! David is into the box!"
David watched Walker's approach. He could see the panic in the defender's eyes. David shifted his weight to the right, opening his body as if to lace a shot across the face of goal.
Walker, desperate to make amends, bit on the feint and threw his leg out to block.
It was a fatal error.
David didn't shoot. His right foot glided over the ball, dragging it back and out in one fluid motion. Walker was left stumbling, his momentum carrying him toward the goal-line as David skipped past him, leaving the England international in the dust once again.
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