"Eighty-eighth minute at White Hart Lane, and Tottenham are moving with real cohesion now. The ball is worked out wide to Andros Townsend!"
"He's a curious case, Derek," Stewart Robson noted. "He holds a rather unwanted Premier League record—the most chances created without a single assist to show for it. Twenty-three key passes and a big fat zero in the column that matters. It tells you everything about his final ball."
"He's skipped past Perišić! Now he's taking on Träsch!"
Townsend, unlike the more mercurial Lamela, looked for the connection. He played a sharp wall-pass with Harry Kane, who held the ball up beautifully before laying it back. Townsend whipped a wicked, curling delivery toward the far post. Lamela, ghosting in with a burst of predatory speed, got the jump on Timm Klose.
"Lamela with the slide!"
The Spurs fans rose as one, hands already in the air to celebrate the winner.
Thud! Diego Benaglio launched himself across the goalmouth, his green-and-white gloves a blur of defiance as he parried the ball away.
"What a save! Benaglio keeps the Wolves in it! But the danger isn't over yet! Who's there for the rebound?"
Luiz Gustavo, his trademark afro bouncing, bulldozed his way through Stambouli. He rose highest, nodding the ball sideways into the path of Kevin De Bruyne. The Belgian didn't hesitate; he killed the ball and surged forward.
"VFL! VFL!"
The roar from the away end became a battle cry, a green-and-white tidal wave crashing back against the North London pressure.
"Stop him! Don't let him turn!" Pochettino bellowed from the touchline, his face a mask of looming dread.
Christian Eriksen was already on it, lunging toward De Bruyne to commit the tactical foul. But De Bruyne, ever the master of the first-time release, slipped the ball to the left flank before the contact arrived.
Ricardo Rodríguez was off. The "Swiss Army Knife" found a gear that rivaled Kyle Walker's raw pace. In the blink of an eye, the Wolves had crossed the thirty-meter line. Rodríguez checked his run, cut inside, and rolled the ball back to De Bruyne.
The conductor was back on the podium. De Bruyne's vision acted like a high-definition radar, mapping every run, every gap, and every heartbeat in the Spurs box. A passing lane materialized in his mind—a beautiful, arcing parabola that dropped perfectly into the path of the overlapping Rodríguez.
Rodríguez shouldered Walker aside, sprinted toward the byline, and fired a low, fizzing cross into the danger zone!
The Spurs defenders threw their hands up, pleading for an offside flag that never came. The whistle stayed silent. Thirty thousand fans held their breath. Every eye was fixed on the towering figure of the Dutch striker, Bas Dost.
What will he do?
They expected a smash. They expected brute force. But Bas Dost found a spark of pure, unadulterated genius. With Jan Vertonghen closing in, Dost back-heeled the ball—a delicate, stunning flick that caught the entire stadium off guard.
"Bas! YES!"
David Qin had already anticipated the magic. He ignited his sprint, a blur of motion toward the loose ball. Stambouli was chasing, desperate, but it was futile. He was chasing a ghost.
David locked onto the target. He took one touch to settle, then unleased a ferocious strike with his right boot!
CRACK!
The sound echoed through the stadium like a gunshot. The Spurs players looked on, faces ashen, as the ball tore through the air, heading straight for the top right corner. Hugo Lloris, a keeper who had spent the evening defying physics, stretched his frame to the absolute limit. He prayed for the familiar clang of the woodwork.
SHREEE-TK!
Instead, he heard the sharp, violent friction of the ball hitting the roof of the net. It was the sound a goalkeeper fears most—the sound of a fortress falling.
2-2!!!
"It's over," Lloris whispered as he crumpled to the turf, the bitterness of defeat washing over him. He knew that the dream had evaporated with that strike.
White Hart Lane fell into a stunned silence for a few heartbeats before the away end erupted in total delirium.
"HE'S DONE IT!" Derek Rae roared. "David Qin has silenced the Lane! It's 2-2 on the night, 4-3 on aggregate! And with two away goals in the bag, the Wolves have put this tie beyond doubt!"
"Look at the buildup, Derek," Robson added, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "There were no step-overs, no solo runs. But it was exquisite. Every player, from Benaglio's save to Dost's genius flick, played their part. It reminds me of the old Shakespearean line: 'Even the humblest role, in the right moment, can cast a brilliant light.' That is the essence of a team."
In the broadcast booth, the commentators were visibly moved. The cameras panned to the away supporters.
"TOR!!!"
The Wolfsburg fans were hysterical, releasing weeks of pent-up anxiety in one singular roar. Bright, abandoning all pretense of ladylike composure, was jumping in circles. Michele watched her, thinking of how a man's talent could captivate so many. She remembered her own three years of silent devotion to De Bruyne. If Caroline hadn't thrown it away, Michele wouldn't be here.
"Michele ! We're going through! Unless Spurs turn into United and score twice in two minutes, it's over! But miracles don't happen twice in one night!" Bright shouted, hugging her friend.
"I know, I know!" Michele laughed. "Maybe now you should think about what kind of victory gift you're getting David."
"Now that," Bright mused, tapping her chin, "is a much harder question."
On the touchline, Tone Lokhoff was acting like a madman. "We've got it, Boss! We've actually got it!" The whiplash of going from the brink of extra-time defeat to the ecstasy of a lead was almost too much to bear.
"The match isn't over. Save the celebrations for the whistle," Dieter Hecking said, though his hand was trembling slightly as he rubbed his brow. He looked out at his team. He hadn't built a team of superstars; he had built a brotherhood. They were like the brightest stars in the night sky, individual points of light that had merged into a magnificent galaxy.
The Spurs players looked like wilted stalks. Lloris kicked his post in frustration, cursing the gaps in his defense. Kyle Walker felt hollowed out, the void of defeat more exhausting than the ninety minutes of sprinting. He knew these two legs would haunt him.
Meanwhile, the Wolves were losing their minds. They swarmed David Qin at the corner flag. David raised his hands to the away stand, soaking in the adulation. He was standing on the grass of North London, yet he felt like he had conquered the world. He looked up at the blinding floodlights and made a silent vow: he would conquer every stadium like this until he reached the very summit.
"David! That flick from Bas—did it have a bit of your flair in it?" the big Dutchman laughed, hoisting David into a bear hug.
"Bas, there's a Chinese idiom: Gua mu xiang kan," David grinned, his teeth white against his sweaty face. "It means to look at someone with fresh eyes. Today, you've made me a believer."
"Haha! I've got one for you too: Jin zhu zhe chi! If you hang around red, you turn red! I've been learning!" Dost roared.
"Lads, we were down a man, but we proved we could do it!" Träsch shouted, waving them back to their half. "Finish this!"
"We weren't down a man, Captain," David corrected him. "We had twelve. Our brothers were with us."
In the tunnel, Robin Knoche heard the roar and poked his head out. When he saw the green-and-white sea in the stands, he knew. He remembered David's promise. You can't judge a man by his age, he thought. David is seventeen, but he has a spine of steel.
"Stoppage time now. Four minutes on the clock!"
"Pochettino throws his final card: Soldado on for Lamela. It's a prayer for a miracle."
"Kyle Walker tries to burst through, but David Qin is all over him! Without his pace advantage, Walker looks like a toothless tiger. David dispossesses him with ease!"
The Spurs attack was dying on the vine. Even with the man advantage, they couldn't penetrate the final third. The cameras shifted back to the stands. Arsène Wenger sat in his suit, his gaze locked on the young boy in the green shirt.
He realized now that simply bringing David to the Emirates wouldn't be enough. If Arsenal's core didn't change—if they didn't trade their obsession with "beauty" for a foundation of resilience and unity—they would remain stagnant. A symphony needs a melody, yes, but it needs the underlying structure to hold it together.
Wenger thought of his favorite piece, Beethoven's Symphony No. 5 in C Minor. The flute was the melody, the driving force. What will be the melody of the future Arsenal?
BEEP—BEEP—BEEEP!
The final whistle echoed through White Hart Lane. Wenger took one last look at the boy on the pitch, then stood and disappeared into the crowd. David looked up, catching a glimpse of a receding silhouette that felt strangely heavy with sorrow. He didn't dwell on it. He turned to his teammates.
"We're through! The Round of 16!"
"Forget the qualification—I'm going to remember these two games for the rest of my life!"
The Wolves were dancing. Ninety minutes of agony had yielded the sweetest prize. Knoche sprinted out to join the huddle, nearly in tears as he hugged everyone.
"Beer and BBQ tomorrow! My treat!" David shouted, exhausted but exhilarated.
He saw Harry Kane sitting alone on the turf, looking dejected. David pulled off his jersey and walked over. "Harry. Trade?"
"Oh... yeah. Sure," Kane said, standing up. He looked at the boy five years his junior. David had just put in a world-class performance, yet there wasn't a hint of arrogance in his eyes.
"We'll be seeing a lot of each other, Harry," David said, draping the Spurs #18 over his shoulder. "I'm looking forward to the next one."
David knew Kane's story—the kid from Chingford who grew up in the shadow of the Lane, the kid who was rejected by Arsenal only to become the heart of Spurs. Loyalty was Kane's religion. David didn't share that faith, but he respected the hell out of it.
"Next time..." Kane started to ask something about the rumors—the talk of Pochettino wanting David at Spurs—but he stopped himself. He just hoped the club's board was paying attention.
Fifteen minutes later, in the press room, the flashbulbs were blinding.
"Our goal?" David smiled at the reporters. "To win the next game. I love playing for Wolfsburg. Even when we're down, we fight for each other. Right now, we feel like we can go toe-to-toe with anyone in the world."
"And your own performance, David?"
He grinned. "I think I did alright."
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