On February 25, 2015, David Qin and his teammates boarded a flight bound for London. The air in the cabin was thick with the quiet intensity that preceded a knockout second leg.
"So, Kevin, is London actually any fun?" David asked, leaning across the aisle toward Kevin De Bruyne. Of the entire squad, only the Belgian had lived in the English capital during his ill-fated stint at Chelsea.
"It's alright, I guess," De Bruyne replied, his voice devoid of any real warmth.
London was a city of ghosts for him—a place where his potential had been stifled and his ambitions mocked. Returning now felt like a homecoming to a house he never wanted to visit again. The memory of José Mourinho's dismissive critiques still burned like an old wound that refused to scar over. He didn't just want to win; he needed to prove that the "specialist in failure" had been wrong about him all along.
"Anyway, Bright messaged me. She's coming to the match," David said, flashing a mischievous grin as he tried to pump his friend up. "You better put on a show for her."
De Bruyne rolled his eyes, a rare smirk breaking through his stoic facade. "You say that like you aren't the one starting on the wing. Worry about your own highlights."
David laughed. He noticed that De Bruyne was opening up more these days. The brooding, silent playmaker who seemed to care only for the ball was slowly being replaced by a man who actually enjoyed the life that came with the game. It was a good look on him.
Upon landing, David checked his phone and saw that Tottenham had stumbled over the weekend, held to a 2-2 draw by West Ham. To make matters worse for the Londoners, Harry Kane had picked up a minor knock.
"Lady Luck is wearing a Wolfsburg kit this week," David muttered to himself. He noted that only three days after their clash with the Wolves, Spurs were scheduled to face Chelsea at Stamford Bridge—a high-stakes London derby. Pochettino was caught between a rock and a hard place: prioritize the Europa League or chase a top-four finish in the domestic league. Given that Mourinho's Chelsea sat twelve points clear at the summit, David suspected Pochettino would throw everything at the European trophy.
"Don't get cocky," Diego Benaglio cautioned as they boarded the team bus. "They have the home advantage. White Hart Lane is a notorious cauldron."
"It only holds thirty-six thousand," David countered with a shrug. "That's barely more than our place."
As the bus wound through the streets of North London, the scenery shifted. Passing through Holloway, the massive, gleaming structure of the Emirates Stadium loomed into view. David stared at the bronze figures guarding the gates: Herbert Chapman, Tony Adams, Dennis Bergkamp, and the King of Highbury himself, Thierry Henry.
"I heard they've got a bust of Wenger inside, too," De Bruyne noted.
"I'd love to see a match here sometime," David said. He had grown up watching the Premier League on a flickering screen; being this close to the hallowed ground of the Invincibles felt surreal. "Kevin, can you score some tickets?"
"Shouldn't be a problem. I'll ask around," De Bruyne said. He didn't have many friends left in London, but Thomas Vermaelen, the former Arsenal captain, was a fellow Belgian. Of course, following the Great Arsenal Tradition, Vermaelen had been sold to Barcelona the previous summer.
David thought about the list of captains Arsenal had offloaded since 2006: Vieira, Henry, Gilberto Silva, Gallas, Fàbregas, Van Persie, and Vermaelen. Seven leaders sold, yet the club had barely recouped £100 million in the process. Most had simply walked away for next to nothing. As they passed a group of Gooners holding "WENGER OUT" placards, David felt a pang of sympathy for the Frenchman. To pour one's soul into a club only to be met with such vitriol was a bitter pill to swallow.
"That's the English game for you," De Bruyne said, his jaw tightening. "Results are the only thing that buys you loyalty."
They checked into their hotel near the Seven Sisters station. After dinner, David noticed a crowd gathering outside—mostly Asian faces, likely Chinese students and expats living in London. He grabbed a pen and walked out to meet them.
"One of us?" a student asked, eyes wide.
"One of us," David confirmed with a smile. "You want the signature in German, Chinese, or English?"
"Can we... have all three?"
David spent the next hour chatting and signing, fueled by the genuine adoration in their eyes. It was a reminder of why he played. Later that night, Bright messaged him, asking if he wanted a quick tour of the city. He had to decline. The mission was too important, and the second leg was only forty-eight hours away.
The following day, during the stadium walkabout at White Hart Lane, the Wolves crossed paths with the Spurs squad finishing their own session. The air was thick with unresolved tension from the first leg.
Kyle Walker glared at David, his expression a mask of barely suppressed rage. The memory of being turned inside out at the Volkswagen Arena was a stain he intended to bleach white tomorrow night. Pochettino had promised him the start, and Walker had spent the last week obsessively rewatching David's highlights, treating the teenager like a personal nemesis.
Pochettino, ever the diplomat, offered David a small, knowing smile. Hecking noticed it immediately. "That man is still trying to poach our talent," he grumbled to his assistant.
The training session was light—just a feel for the grass and some basic warm-ups. In the age of drones and high-definition cameras, tactical drills were kept behind the closed doors of the hotel.
"How does it feel to play here, Kevin?" David asked, juggling a ball near the center circle.
"I wouldn't know," De Bruyne quipped. "Mourinho never even put me on the bench for the away games here."
David quickly changed the subject. "You think any other Prem scouts will be in the stands tomorrow?"
"Doubt it. They're usually too busy with their own drama," Kevin replied.
"I bet they show up," David said, his voice brimming with a quiet, earned confidence.
"Why's that?"
"Because tomorrow night, two of the best players in the world are going to be on this pitch." David punctuated the sentence with a sharp fist-pump. He wasn't sure if it was true, but he needed to believe it.
"Damn right," De Bruyne smiled, mirroring the gesture.
Thursday night. Seven o'clock.
White Hart Lane was a sea of shimmering white under the floodlights. The North London air vibrated with the roar of the faithful.
"Glory, Glory, Tottenham Hotspur! And the Spurs go marching on!"
The anthem, set to the tune of The Battle Hymn of the Republic, rolled off the stands in thunderous waves. In the tunnel, David felt the heat of the atmosphere. He looked at his teammates. Christian Träsch, the captain, was back in the lineup after a long injury layoff. Josuha Guilavogui had stepped in for the late Malanda to anchor the midfield.
"Let's go!" David hissed, more to himself than anyone else. He followed Träsch out onto the pitch. The noise was a physical force, a tidal wave of sound that made his pulse thud against his ribs.
The International Broadcast
"Welcome to a cold but electric night in North London," Derek Rae's voice cut through the stadium noise. "I'm joined by Stewart Robson for the second leg of this fascinating Europa League tie. Wolfsburg hold a 2-1 lead, but that away goal for Spurs could be the deciding factor tonight."
"It's all about the start, Derek," Robson added. "Pochettino has gone with a very attacking 4-2-3-1. Lamela and Danny Rose are in to provide width. They have to chase the game, but they have to be careful of the counter-attack. David Qin and De Bruyne are lethal in transition."
"Indeed. And keep an eye on Christian Träsch. The Wolves captain is back, and his leadership could be vital in this cauldron. We are underway!"
Spurs started like a whirlwind. They didn't just want a goal; they wanted blood. Danny Rose surged down the left, overlapping with intent. He latched onto a disguised through-ball from Eriksen and whipped a low, fizzing cross into the box.
Harry Kane acted as the decoy, dragging Naldo toward the near post. The ball sailed over them toward the far side. Erik Lamela, the heir apparent to the Argentine throne, met it with a ferocious scorched volley.
The ball clipped Knoche's shin, taking a wicked deflection toward the six-yard box.
"MINE!" Benaglio roared, throwing his entire frame onto the ball an instant before Kane's boot could make contact.
"Come on you Spurs!" the fans screamed, the noise reaching a crescendo.
David felt his eardrums throb. He called for the ball from Ricardo Rodríguez, turned his man with a drop of the shoulder, and surged toward the half-space. Hecking's plan was clear: control the center. David tucked inside, acting as a secondary playmaker to draw the Spurs' markers away from the wings.
Paulinho was glued to him, nipping at his heels.
"Spurs have clearly done their homework on David Qin," Derek Rae noted. "They're condensing the space, terrified of the De Bruyne connection."
Suddenly, David spotted a gap. He mimicked De Bruyne's signature body shape—hips open, eyes disguised—and whipped a curving ball meant to bypass Danny Rose. It was a bold attempt at the "Ginger Peeler's" trademark arc, but the execution lacked that final bit of magic. The ball didn't curl enough. Ivan Perišić lunged for it, but Rose recovered just in time to poke it out for a corner.
"Close!" David muttered, running a hand through his hair. That level of technical precision was still just out of reach.
De Bruyne caught his eye and gave a knowing, silent smirk. Nice try, kid, the look said. But that one's still mine.
Despite the failure, the Spurs defenders were visibly rattled. Wolfsburg wasn't just here to defend a lead. They were here to take the game to them.
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