"I've got him!" Federico Fazio roared, lunging forward to close the gap.
But David Qin was already a step ahead. He had synthesized the entire sequence before the Argentine even left his feet. A sharp shift of the hips, a powerful swing of the leg—and the strike was away.
Since November of the previous year, David had been obsessing over his "weak" left foot, spending grueling extra hours on the training ground to balance his game. Now, it was time to collect the dividends of that labor.
CRACK.
Fazio, a man who had stood atop the podium as an Olympic gold medalist with Argentina, could only watch in helpless silence as the ball shrieked past him. Even the world-class Hugo Lloris, for all his feline agility, was rooted to the spot.
2-1!!!
"He's done it! The boy has done it again!"
Derek Rae's voice went hoarse as he screamed into the microphone. "It's liquid football! He's dancing out there—a simple feint, a shift of weight, and the defenders are left chasing ghosts! A magician on the green pitch!"
"There are nicknames that flatter and nicknames that fit," Stewart Robson added, his voice full of awe. "But 'The Magician' is pure truth. Every move he makes is functional, every flourish is for the sake of the result. It's the 56th minute, and The Wolves have turned this tie on its head!"
"That's David Qin's fifth of the Europa League campaign," Derek continued. "He surged into third place in the scoring charts, trailing only Salzburg's Alan and Villarreal's Vietto. At this rate, the Golden Boot isn't just a dream—it's a target. Remember, just six months ago, we were celebrating the mere fact of a Chinese player scoring in this competition. Now, he's hunting for the top!"
On the pitch, David watched the ball ripple the top corner of the net, bulging the white mesh with violent beauty. A fire ignited in his chest.
BOOM.
The adrenaline surge sent him sprinting toward the corner flag. He threw his arms wide, soaking in the roar of the Volkswagen Arena. The frustration of his earlier long-range effort being saved by Lloris evaporated in a single moment of catharsis.
"Yes! Come on!" David pumped his fist at the stands, stoking the fire of the home support.
The stadium was a boiling pot of green and white. "I told you he was a genius!" one fan screamed. "Look at the Englishman—Walker nearly broke his own ankles again!"
"Is this the best the Premier League 'Big Six' can offer?" another jeered.
On the touchline, Dieter Hecking ripped off his glasses and punched the air. "Beautiful! Simply beautiful!" He had been fretting over the tactical stalemate, but the combined brilliance of De Bruyne's vision and David's execution had provided the answer. They never let him down; they only ever surprised him with how high their ceiling could go.
The Wolfsburg players swarmed David. "Perfect, Qin! The movement, the strike—everything!"
"Finally, we put one past that Frenchman!" Perišić laughed, slapping David on the back. "The 'fastest fullback in England' is now officially part of your highlight reel. I think you've sat him down three times today, haven't you?"
"Who's counting?" David grinned. He realized now that trying to out-sprint Kyle Walker was a fool's errand. But playing with the rhythm? That was the key. To a physical, high-speed player like Walker, a technical dribbler with a shifting tempo was absolute poison.
"If I were playing on that left wing today, I'd be having a nightmare," Perišić admitted. "My game relies too much on pace—I wouldn't have the tools to pick him apart like you did."
"Let's get one more!" David shouted, waving his teammates back. "This is our house—let's make it a fortress!"
He knew the value of the away goal. Harry Kane's strike meant that if the score stayed 2-1, a mere 1-0 win for Spurs at White Hart Lane would see The Wolves eliminated. They needed a cushion.
Across the pitch, Kyle Walker felt like his face had been dragged across sandpaper. The embarrassment was physical. He couldn't believe how easily he'd bitten on the feint, handing David the outside lane on a silver platter.
"Kyle, settle down!" Lloris barked, his voice cold. "We aren't dead yet. Remember what the gaffer said. Paulinho, get over there and help him. Don't let him into the danger zone. If you have to, take the foul!"
Lloris was clearly losing patience, but he kept his criticism professional to avoid a mid-match meltdown.
Seconds later, the fourth official held up the board. Tottenham substitution: Number 2, Kyle Walker, OFF. Number 3, Danny Rose, ON.
Walker took a deep breath as he trudged toward the touchline. He knew exactly what this meant: Pochettino had lost faith in his ability to contain David. With a yellow card hanging over him like a guillotine, one more lapse would have meant a red and a suspension. It was the logical move, but it didn't make the sting of David's radiant smile any less agonizing to witness from the bench.
"Danny Rose is the reigning Young Player of the Year from his time at Sunderland," Derek Rae noted. "He's naturally a left-back, but Pochettino is desperate. He's shifting things around just to stabilize the defense. He can't afford to let David Qin run riot anymore."
By the 68th minute, the game entered a grinding phase. Every time David received the ball, Danny Rose was in his face, Paulinho was shadowing him, and even Townsend was dropping back to triple-team the teenager. David was forced to recycle possession, the lanes to goal suddenly becoming narrow and treacherous.
In the 73rd minute, Hecking countered. Bas Dost came on for Olić, and Christian Träsch replaced Malanda. Träsch, the man once dubbed "Ballack's Successor," brought a veteran stability that Wolfsburg desperately needed to close out the game. Joachim Löw had once described him as the "unending battery."
Benaglio handed the captain's armband to Träsch with a smile. "Careful out there, Captain. We finally got you healthy—don't go breaking again."
"Not a chance," Träsch replied, snapping the band onto his arm. "I'm not missing the most promising season this club has had in years." He had watched the team's transformation from his injury bed, seeing them go from a heavy loss against Bayern to outclassing a Premier League giant. He had seen David's meteoric rise, and he wanted to be part of the history.
Träsch immediately made his presence felt, crunching into a tackle on Nacer Chadli that sent the crowd into raptures.
"Träsch is exactly what's needed," Stewart Robson observed. "The right flank is a vault now. Oh, and here come the Spurs changes: Soldado for Kane, and Lamela for Townsend. Pochettino is going for broke. He wants that second away goal."
Pochettino, a student of the "Madman" Marcelo Bielsa, didn't have "parking the bus" in his DNA. With fresh legs on the pitch, Spurs reignited their high press. Erik Lamela, once hailed as the "Successor to Messi," began weaving through the Wolfsburg lines. Only a desperate block from Knoche prevented the Argentine from finding an equalizer.
"Lamela again!" Derek cried. "He turns Gustavo, gets to the byline—Rabona cross!"
"Ooh! But it's too close to the keeper. Benaglio plucks it out of the air. Shades of David Qin's Rabona assist there, Stewart!"
"Similar skill sets, certainly! Lamela is bringing the flair back to Spurs."
The clock ticked toward the 88th minute. The high intensity of Pochettino's training was showing; despite their busy schedule, the Spurs players were still sprinting. Wolfsburg, by contrast, was beginning to flag.
Roberto Soldado, the former Real Madrid man, looked to make his mark. He found space in the box and unleashed a snap-shot, but it lacked the conviction of his La Liga days. Benaglio smothered it.
"Wasteful from Soldado," Stewart grumbled. "Pochettino looks livid on the touchline."
As the game entered four minutes of stoppage time, tensions boiled over. Lamela, frustrated by his lack of impact, squared up to Ricardo Rodriguez. The two stood forehead-to-head like angry bulls. David ran over to pull his teammate back, but Rodriguez was immovable.
"This isn't London, and this isn't the Premier League," Rodriguez spat, shoving Lamela back. "Take your antics elsewhere."
The Wolfsburg veteran had had enough of Spurs' cynical fouls. He had looked at David's jersey—it was caked in mud, and a dark bruise was already forming on the boy's thigh. In Wolfsburg, David was the protected little brother. If Rodriguez wasn't worried about a suspension for the second leg, he'd have given Lamela something real to cry about.
"Come on, let's go!" David urged, pulling Rodriguez away as the referee reached for his pocket.
93rd minute. One last chance.
Träsch intercepted a ball from Eriksen and pinged it forward. De Bruyne, with Bentaleb pinned to his back, sensed David's run. Without looking, he flicked the ball through Bentaleb's legs—a sublime back-heel nutmeg.
The crowd gasped.
"Don't let him through!" Vertonghen screamed at Paulinho. The Brazilian stayed glued to David, showing exactly why Barcelona would later pay a fortune for his services. David, feeling the pressure, flicked the ball wide to Perišić and charged into the box.
Perišić dived past Ben Davies, hitting the byline and lofting a cross toward the shining bald head of Bas Dost. Jan Vertonghen, perhaps the best Belgian defender of his generation, rose highest, imperiously heading the ball out of the danger zone.
"Who's on the second ball?"
"It's David Qin! He's read it perfectly!"
Paulinho lunged in, clattering into David as he tried to strike.
THWACK.
The ball rose high, sailing over the crossbar and nearly taking out a camera behind the goal.
"Lost my footing," David sighed, shaking his head at his teammates. Twenty minutes ago, he might have shrugged off the contact and buried it. Now, his legs were made of lead.
Shortly after the goal kick, the whistle sounded three times.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!
"Full time at the Volkswagen Arena! It's Wolfsburg 2, Tottenham 1!"
"Goals from Perišić and David Qin have given The Wolves the advantage, though Harry Kane's away goal keeps the flame alive for Spurs. But if you're looking for a Man of the Match, Derek, surely it has to be Hugo Lloris. Without those two world-class saves, Spurs would be heading back to London with a mountain to climb."
"Seven days until the second leg at White Hart Lane," Stewart added. "It's all to play for!"
The stadium was a sea of waving flags. The Wolves had missed chances to bury the tie, but they had the win. David, however, lingered on the pitch, staring at the scoreboard. 2-1 felt fragile. But then again, in football, no lead is ever truly safe. Milan had lost a three-goal lead; United had scored two in two minutes.
Anything could happen.
"Bring it on," David muttered, a sense of clarity washing over him. He'd left everything on the pitch. No regrets.
---------
If you want to read ahead, head over to: [email protected]/ HappyCrow
As always, thank you for the support, the comments, and those precious power stones!