In the broadcast booth, the atmosphere was humming with anticipation.
"Good evening, football fans!"
"You are joining us for the first leg of the 2014-15 Europa League Round of 32!"
"It's Wolfsburg hosting Tottenham Hotspur at the Volkswagen Arena!"
"I'm Derek Rae, and alongside me for today's journey into Lower Saxony is Stewart Robson."
"The Wolves come into this one with the luxury of a lighter schedule," Derek continued, "and Dieter Hecking has responded by fielding his strongest possible XI. Veteran poacher Ivica Olić returns to the spearhead of a 4-2-3-1 that has been tearing the Bundesliga apart. All eyes, of course, are on David Qin. After that historic hat-trick against Die Werkself, the world is waiting to see if he can replicate that magic on the European stage."
"Spurs, however, are in the thick of it," Stewart added. "The Premier League's lack of a winter break is starting to take its toll. Injuries and fatigue are creeping in. Pochettino has shuffled the deck, leaving the likes of Erik Lamela and Mousa Dembélé on the bench to start. It's a brave move, but he's trusting his 'young guns' to handle the pressure."
The North Stand of the Volkswagen Arena was a sea of motion. As the club anthem faded, a gargantuan Tifo unfurled, revealing a snarling grey wolf—its jaws agape, its eyes cold and predatory. It was a haunting image, a literal warning to the visitors from London.
BEEP!
The whistle cut through the tension. Wolfsburg's ball.
Olić tapped it to De Bruyne, who immediately swept a pass wide to David Qin. Spurs, despite being away from home, were relentless. Andros Townsend charged out like a sprinter out of the blocks, gesturing for Christian Eriksen to join the hunt.
Pochettino's philosophy was clear: a high press is only as good as its coordination. Without unity, the press is just a sieve, and David Qin saw the gaps. He sensed the trap—Townsend was trying to pin him against the touchline while cutting off the inside lanes.
David didn't panic. He offered a subtle shimmy, carving out half a yard of space before looking to burn down the wing. WHAM! Kyle Walker came flying in with a thunderous sliding tackle. David had no time to dink the ball over; he had to hurdle the challenge to save his shins.
"Is that all you've got?" Walker spat as he scrambled back to his feet, making sure David heard it.
David didn't even give him a glance. Months in the Bundesliga had taught him that some defenders survived on mind games. If he let every taunt get under his skin, he'd be a nervous wreck by halftime.
Their recovery is faster than anything in Germany, David thought, recalibrating. The transition time is non-existent.
On the sidelines, Pochettino's round face was etched with gravity. Wolfsburg was holding the ball with unexpected poise. His eyes locked onto De Bruyne. The Belgian was handling the press with a clinical, "one-touch" efficiency, clearly having learned from Arsenal's recent failures.
In the 10th minute, De Bruyne found his opening. He took a heavy pass from Malanda and, without looking, launched a trademark long ball toward the left flank—dropping it right into the space behind Kyle Walker.
"Qin has the jump!"
"Good heavens, look at the recovery speed from Kyle Walker!" Derek Rae exclaimed. "He's not running; he's low-altitude flying! It's shades of Gareth Bale!"
Walker's hand found David's shoulder. Rather than fight the drag, David chose a sudden, jagged stop. He looked up instantly, and there he was—the Belgian maestro.
"Kevin!"
The ball was back with De Bruyne before the shout had even finished echoing. Paulinho, the Brazilian powerhouse, clattered into him. Paulinho played with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, but as the two men collided, it was the Brazilian who recoiled. De Bruyne absorbed the hit like a tank, stumbled for half a second, and regained his balance.
"Wolfsburg's vertical play is carving them open!" Stewart Robson noted. "Inside, outside, then back to the center—the high press is being dismantled!"
De Bruyne's left-footed through-ball was a work of surgical precision. It sliced through the heart of the Spurs defense. Olić leaned into Jan Vertonghen, falling as he swung his boot.
THUD.
The ball screamed toward the bottom left corner. The stadium held its breath. Then, Hugo Lloris did the impossible. With a feline extension, he got a solitary palm to the ball, tipping it just enough.
CLANG!
The sound of the post rang out like a bell.
"Damn it!" Olić barked, clutching his head. Lloris had no right to save that. David stood frozen for a second, marvelling at the Frenchman's reflexes.
"A save that feels as good as a goal!" Derek Rae shouted. "Spurs have their second wind now! Paulinho to Bentaleb... they're breaking!"
Nabil Bentaleb, the academy product, drove forward two steps before releasing Eriksen. The Dane pirouetted away from Malanda and dinked a delicious ball to the left for Nacer Chadli. Chadli hit the byline in a blur.
Cross!
Harry Kane's predatory instincts were tingling. He wasn't the physical beast he'd later become, but his movement was genius. He ghosted between defenders.
"Watch out!"
Naldo lunged to block, but the cross was at a nightmare height—too high for a foot, too low for a header. The ball fizzed past his waist. Harry Kane arrived at the back post, meeting the ball with a cushioned volley. Benaglio got a hand to it, but the power was too much. The ball defected off the keeper's palm and nestled into the side netting.
"YEAH!!" The away end erupted. The Spurs fans, who had arrived in Germany fearing the Bundesliga's second-best side, were now bouncing in unison. Pochettino pumped his fist. "I told you! Kane's loans have made him a man! He's going to be the best in the world!"
"Fourteenth minute, and Spurs lead!"
"But Wolfsburg aren't folding," Stewart Robson observed. "Look at David Qin. He's already calling for the ball."
"Hey! It's just one goal!" Benaglio roared from his goalmouth, clapping his gloves together. "Just like Leverkusen—they get one, we get two!"
"Let's go!" David shouted, his arms waving. His teammates looked at him and saw something rare: an absolute lack of fear. It wasn't just talent; it was a refusal to accept defeat.
The game resumed at a blistering pace. Spurs tried to tighten the noose, but De Bruyne was a ghost, pulling defenders out of position before slipping a pass through the gap between Paulinho and Bentaleb.
David Qin ghosted inward, receiving the ball on the turn. Because Ricardo Rodriguez had overlapped on the wing, Kyle Walker was caught in two minds. Paulinho lunged in from the side, but David used the Brazilian's momentum, flicking the ball through Bentaleb's legs.
"Nutmeg!"
David saw the opening and unleashed a thunderous strike from distance. It wasn't his usual curled effort; it was a raw, laces-through-the-ball blast. Lloris had to fly again, punching the ball clear with a desperate parry.
"Lloris is in God-mode today!" Derek Rae cried. "Can anyone beat him?"
Don't rush it, David told himself. Stay cold.
"Twelve minutes left in the half!"
"David Qin is isolated on the wing... no, Rodriguez and Gustavo are pushing up! He has the 1v1 with Walker!"
The fans in the front rows leaned over the railings. David stood over the ball, his breathing controlled. He didn't try to outrun Walker. Instead, he started the dance. His upper body swayed, a hypnotic rhythm that felt like Samba in the heart of Germany.
Kyle Walker, for all his pace, was still raw in his defensive positioning. David watched him, his eyes like ice.
A hop. A feint. A cut.
It was a sequence so fast it looked like a glitch in reality. David committed to the inside, then snapped the ball back to the outside. Walker's brain registered the first move, but his feet were already committed to the second. His balance evaporated.
Kyle Walker collapsed to the turf.
"Oh! He's sat him down!"
"Kyle Walker is in a heap, and Qin is gone!"
The roar from the Wolfsburg fans was deafening. David charged along the touchline, leaving the England international behind. He was the center of the universe.
"Middle!" Olić screamed, raising his hand as he dashed into the box. Vertonghen followed him blindly.
David looked to the far post. SNAP. He whipped a cross into the danger zone. Another half-volley height.
"Dummy!"
Following Perišić's sharp shout, Olić stepped over the ball, leaving the defense stranded. Hugo Lloris watched the ball flash past his face, his heart sinking as he turned to see Ivan Perišić waiting.
CRACK.
The Croatian's volley was a rocket. Lloris, for all his heroics, was a spectator this time. The net bulged with violent intent.
"1-1!!!"
"Absolute brilliance! Absolute carnage!" Derek Rae screamed. "Wolfsburg are level in the 34th minute! Perišić with the finish, but the story is David Qin! He didn't just beat Kyle Walker; he sent him to the shops! A simple cut, a shift of weight, and one of the fastest defenders in Europe was left looking for his dignity on the grass!"
Wolfsburg had found their bite. The Wolf was hungry.
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