The weight of the man disadvantage began to feel like a physical burden as Tottenham's frantic press amplified. Every space on the pitch felt claustrophobic.
"Seven Spurs shirts are pushed across the halfway line! They've abandoned all caution!" Derek Rae's voice was electric. "Bentaleb with a searching ball... Lamela looks to cut inside. No! He's slipped it through to Harry Kane!"
The White Hart Lane faithful rose as one, a wall of white noise demanding the equalizer. Inside the box, Harry Kane remained an island of tranquility. He was a player with "ice in his veins," a man whose breakout season had felt like a script from a Hollywood movie. From his 89th-minute winner against Villa to his strikes against the giants of the league, he thrived in these moments.
He knew this was the kill shot. He couldn't afford to waste it.
Kane feigned the shot, waiting for Timm Klose to commit to the block, then delicately rolled the ball to the outside with his studs.
Crack! Only then did he unleash the fury. Benaglio, rooted to the spot, could only watch as the ball tore into the side netting.
2-1!!!
Spurs had overturned the deficit on the night. The aggregate was leveled.
"COME ON YOU SPURS!"
The stadium erupted, the sheer volume threatening to lift the roof off the stands. Fans were red-faced, lost in the primal ecstasy of the comeback. The anthem began to swell from the shelves: The Kings of White Hart Lane! Kane was a man possessed. At just twenty-one, he was already becoming the master of the big occasion. A brace today. The media had spent weeks fawning over David Qin, and while Kane wasn't the jealous type, the pride of a young lion demanded he remind the world that London had its own prodigy. He pumped his fists toward the crowd, igniting a fresh wave of passion.
"One more!" they screamed. "No extra time! Finish them now!"
Kyle Walker was the first to reach him, his face a mask of vindication. He had been a "meme" for the last two games, a recurring background character in David Qin's highlight reels. But if they won, those embarrassments would be buried. History only remembers the victors; the losers are just footnotes.
On the touchline, Mauricio Pochettino embraced his staff. He had sensed this goal coming since Knoche's red card, but the reality of it sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through him. A comeback like this could be a catalyst for a trophy run—much like Chelsea's resilient march to the 2012 Champions League title.
Across the technical area, Dieter Hecking removed his glasses and rubbed his face vigorously.
"We need a goal," he muttered. "Now."
Spurs were ascending; Wolfsburg were drowning. The only way to stop the bleeding was to strike back.
"Boss..." Tone Lokhoff started, but the words died in his throat. The bitterness was palpable.
"It feels over," Michèle whispered in the away end, her voice small.
"Not a chance!" Bright yelled back, her voice raspy but defiant. "They're going to win. I know it!"
She wasn't alone. Slowly, the pockets of green and white began to find their rhythm again.
"Are you going to let a young girl out-sing you? Move your mouths!" an old supporter roared. "Fight like men! VFL! VFL!"
The sound reached the pitch, and David Qin felt a shiver run down his spine. The magic of football wasn't just the winning—it was the struggle. He looked at his teammates. They weren't the most expensive stars in the world, but they were pieces of a puzzle that, when locked together, created something formidable.
As Hemingway once wrote: Courage is grace under pressure. If a team can only play when the wind is at their back, they will never reach the summit.
"Let's go!" David roared, his voice cracking. "Believe!"
"Keep it tight at the back," De Bruyne commanded, his eyes scanning the field with clinical precision. "Their intensity is dropping—they're running on fumes after that West Ham match. We weather the storm until the sixty-fifth, then we strike."
His assessment was spot-on. Spurs had poured everything into the first hour, and the cracks were starting to show. Wolfsburg, compact and disciplined, had finally adjusted to the onslaught.
In the 61st minute, Eriksen tried to find Walker, but David Qin was there like a shadow. Walker, never the most technical under pressure, fumbled the reception. Paulinho tried to salvage it, but Luiz Gustavo barged him off the ball with a thunderous shoulder challenge.
"The Wolves have found their bite!" Robson shouted. "The counter is on! Oh, Gustavo's ball is just too heavy for Perišić. Possession back to Spurs."
Five minutes later, Danny Rose and Träsch tangled near the touchline. Rose managed to squeeze a ball inside to Bentaleb, who didn't even look before lofting a pass toward the red-hot Harry Kane. But Benaglio was out of his cage in a flash, punching the ball clear with both fists.
The second ball fell to De Bruyne. He rolled Paulinho, dropped his shoulder, and threaded a signature "KDB" ball—a low, curving through-ball that bypassed the entire midfield.
"Chance!" David Qin saw Walker caught too far forward. He was in space. He took the ball in his stride and ignited the afterburners.
"Foul him! Take him down!" Pochettino screamed.
Fazio didn't need the instruction. He lunged, ignoring the ball entirely, grabbing David's jersey and shoulder. Both men went tumbling into the turf.
David scrambled up immediately, looking at the referee. Yellow card for Fazio. It was a cynical, tactical takedown. David wiped the blades of grass from his face and signaled to De Bruyne. It was time for a set-piece.
"Kyle! Stay back! Don't you dare push up again!" Pochettino bellowed at Walker. If Fazio hadn't committed that foul and David had scored an away goal, Spurs would have needed two more just to survive.
Walker retreated, looking chastened. He wanted a moment of glory, but his manager had just reminded him of the stakes.
The tide was turning. The "Rule of Three" was taking effect: a team's momentum eventually exhausts itself. Spurs were beginning to look leggy.
"Spurs are wasting chances now. The passing is getting sloppy," Derek Rae noted. "Pochettino is going to the bench. Townsend for Chadli, and Stambouli for Paulinho."
"Stambouli is a defensive specialist," Robson added. "He's there for one reason: to act as a human shield against David Qin. Townsend is the fresh legs to keep Kane fed."
By the 75th minute, the tension was so thick it felt like a physical weight. Wenger, his hands deep in his pockets, never took his eyes off David. He didn't want a "luxury" player; he wanted a disruptor, someone who thrived in the teeth of a gale.
81st minute. Stambouli tried to find Lamela, but De Bruyne stepped in, his Premier League-ready frame overpowering the Argentine. The transition was violent. De Bruyne flattened Eriksen in the process, sending the crowd into a frenzy of boos.
"Wolfsburg are playing without a traditional number nine, yet the movement is seamless!" Rae cried. "De Bruyne looks up... what a ball! Over the top!"
"Qin!"
The stadium held its breath. David had timed his run to perfection. Walker's pace allowed him to recover, forcing David to check his run and kill the ball. But David's "second start" was lightning. He feinted the stop, then exploded again.
Walker recovered again, using pure athleticism to cover for his lack of positioning. David sensed Fazio closing in. He stomped the ball to a dead stop—a 180-degree Cruyff-style drag.
"Watch him!" Lloris screamed.
David cut inside. Fazio went to the ground, a desperate sliding block. David unleashed a curling effort that deflected off Fazio's shin, spinning toward the bottom corner.
"Oh, so close!" Rae groaned. "A coat of paint away! It's clipped to the outside of the post!"
The away end was a chorus of agonized groans.
"Again! Again!" David yelled, his teeth bared in a defiant grin.
Wolfsburg didn't commit men forward for the corner; they couldn't risk the counter. De Bruyne played it short. David received it, and Stambouli came at him like a freight train.
David didn't move. He crouched low, then exploded like a coiled spring.
Shhh-tk! The ball seemed glued to his instep. Stambouli saw it, reacted to it, but his body couldn't match the speed. David skipped past, his knees screaming under the torque of the turn. He twisted his torso into an impossible angle and unleashed a ferocious, dipping strike toward the far corner.
Lloris took flight, his fingers clawing at the air.
CLANG!
The sound of the ball hitting the crossbar was the sweetest music Hugo Lloris had ever heard. To the Wolfsburg fans, it was the sound of a heart breaking. It felt like destiny was conspiring against them.
"Damn it!" David punched the air in frustration. He was in the zone. That shot was headed for the top bin. It was a matter of millimeters.
"David! Keep your head!" De Bruyne arrived, grabbing his shoulder. He was just as stressed, but he knew they couldn't lose their cool.
"I'm fine," David panted, his eyes locked on the white netting. It was so close he could almost taste it.
---------
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!