Harvey Alonso's long pass sailed perfectly to Kuyt on the wing.
Kuyt took position quickly, eyes locked on the defender closing in—a young Black player who couldn't be more than fifteen or sixteen.
What's his name again?
Benitez had introduced the opposition before kickoff, but Kuyt felt a little guilty—he genuinely couldn't recall this kid's name.
The boy didn't care what Kuyt was thinking. As soon as Alonso's pass took flight, he was already moving.
"Don't let anyone past you!"
Ethan's instructions echoed in Hassan Ali's mind. That was his job—hold the line, deny entry.
Kuyt was ready to control the ball with his chest and either take on the defender or recycle it back to the middle for Gerrard to build the attack.
His plan was clear, but the moment the ball touched his chest, he felt a strong nudge from behind.
"You've got to play smarter!"
Ethan's voice lived in Hassan's head—he'd heard that one so many times it was basically gospel now.
So what was a smart move?
This. Right here.
Hassan checked the referee and the linesman's positions. Then, as he leaned into Kuyt, he subtly bumped him with his chest—hands up, clean as a whistle. No foul. Just enough pressure to disrupt Kuyt's control and force the ball loose.
"Ball! Quick!!"
Hassan darted to the touchline, waving to the ball boy.
The caddie reacted instantly—Luton's throw-in was taken with no hesitation.
Kuyt had half a mind to protest, arms already half-raised—but the quick restart caught him off guard. He scrambled to recover.
"Brilliant, Hassan!" Ethan shouted from the sideline, eyes gleaming.
This was it. The break.
Drinkwater received the throw and immediately switched it down the left to Adam White.
Adam was flying—he took the ball and drove forward, slicing past Arbeloa before the full-back could blink.
Arbeloa lunged, trying to pull him back, but couldn't even grab a shred of his shirt.
"Go on, Adam!!"
The commentator Letkinson rose from his seat in the booth.
The crowd roared—cheers clashing with boos as Adam flew down the wing.
Benitez jumped to his feet. Adam White's pace was terrifying. Arbeloa was no slouch, but this was like a tractor racing a Ferrari.
Ethan's grin widened.
This. This was the counterattack.
Adam wasn't just fast—he was faster. Like he'd found another gear. 15% faster than usual? Ethan believed it. The lad looked like he could line up for the Olympic 100m final.
But this wasn't a sprint race.
As Adam reached the final third, Carragher had already shifted over, cutting off the central lane.
Adam adjusted—he didn't need to cut inside. He could pass.
Near the edge of the box, he whipped in a low cross.
Vardy darted to the near post—Scott followed him step for step.
Both leaped.
Scott—bigger, stronger—edged it. He cleared it behind for a corner.
"Oh... what a lethal counter by Luton!" Letkinson exhaled.
In the stands, Liverpool fans sat back down, some clutching their chests.
Benitez wiped sweat from his brow. He knew Luton were a counterattacking team, but this was something else.
Adam White was a problem. A big one.
Abeloa jogged back into position, still trying to catch his breath. He looked over at Adam—lean, wiry, and impossibly quick. That kind of acceleration didn't make sense.
Even though they didn't score, Luton had won a corner.
Benitez noticed something else.
Neither of Luton's centre-backs came forward.
They were holding back. Preparing for another break.
"Watch the counter!! Keep possession!!" Benitez shouted.
Ethan heard him and smirked.
Still worried about the last one? Mr. Benitez, you should be.
Because this game—it's not just about defending and countering.
We've got more.
Ethan decided not to send his two center-backs forward for the corner—he was wary of Liverpool's blistering counterattacks.
After all, defending against Liverpool's buildup play was already tough for Luton, let alone when they broke at speed on the counter!
So, only a few Luton players crowded the box for the corner. But that didn't mean Ethan was ready to give up the set piece altogether.
Adam jogged over to take the corner but played it short to Drinkwater, then darted around him into space.
Drinkwater returned the ball with a quick layoff.
Adam, light on his feet, danced past Xabi Alonso, who had dropped back to cover, and started driving laterally along the edge of the box.
By the time he reached the top of the D, he was shaping up for a shot—only to be scythed down by Mascherano!
"Beep!"
The referee blew his whistle—foul!
Mascherano sprang to his feet, protesting furiously. "I got the ball!"
On the touchline, Ethan exploded. He leapt up, waving his arms.
"Come on! That's a red!" he bellowed, trying to put pressure on the official.
But the referee wasn't even reaching for his pocket. No card—probably because it was Mascherano's first foul of the match.
Ethan shook his head in frustration. Before the game, he had planned to exploit Adam's dribbling ability to draw fouls and create dangerous set-piece chances. Ideally, he wanted to get Liverpool's defenders on early yellows.
Still, it was a free kick in a great position—just outside the box, dead center. Perfect for a curler.
The only problem? Luton didn't have a recognized free-kick specialist…
Ethan smacked his lips in frustration. Damn... if only I had someone with a real dead-ball card...
But just as Ethan turned away in regret, Kevin Keane stepped up.
He took a deep breath, lined it up—and curled a beauty!
The ball arced over the wall, nicked the inside of the post, and rippled the back of the net before the keeper could even react!
1–0 Luton!
For a heartbeat, the stadium was stunned into silence…
Then—boom! The Luton fans erupted!
Ethan raised both fists into the air, grinning ear to ear.
Across the touchline, Rafa Benítez stood frozen, arms crossed.
Ethan couldn't resist a glance his way.
We're not just about parking the bus, Mr. Benítez.
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