Chapter 221: 13 Goals + 10 Assists, Double Double Achieved!
Li Ang's bold joke about "wanting to face Bayern in the Champions League knockout stage" exploded like a depth charge in the footballing worlds of England and Germany.
When it came to Li Ang, fans and the media had long since stopped brushing off his words.
Yes, he'd said it half in jest.
But Chelsea fans, upon seeing the quote, collectively felt a chill.
They flooded his social media comments section with prayer emojis, begging him to stop tempting fate with lines like that.
Bayern fans were just as shaken.
After all, Bayern and Manchester City were locked in a neck-and-neck battle for top spot in Group D.
Both had four wins and one loss after five rounds. The final group match—Bayern vs. City—would decide who finished first.
For Chelsea, who had already secured first in their group, the only way to meet Bayern in the Round of 16… was if Bayern lost to City and dropped to second.
And now, here was Li Ang casually saying he wanted to draw Bayern next?
The confidence was one thing. But for superstitious Bayern fans, it was something else entirely.
"Somebody shut him up! Dear God, he's cursing Bayern!"
"Oh no… It's the Li Ang curse. We're done for."
"Stop freaking out! He was just joking. Whether we win or not depends on us."
"Second place? Who cares! Let's get Chelsea! I want to see us crush Mourinho and Li Ang!"
...
Once the drama made its way onto Chinese forums—courtesy of the online translator squads—it became an instant hit.
Back in London, Li Ang quickly felt the ripple effects of his mouth.
The next morning, when he arrived at the training ground, he was immediately bombarded by teammates "pleading" with him to shut up.
It was like déjà vu from his Real Madrid days—every time he said something about facing a strong team early, the dressing room would erupt.
"I was just joking, seriously. I obviously want an easier draw.
But I can't say I'm hoping to draw Olympiacos or Zenit—that sounds weak!"
The only response he got was a bunch of skeptical stares.
And before he could protest, Chelsea's squad unanimously agreed to ban him from giving any more interviews about the Champions League draw until it was over.
Helpless, Li Ang raised both hands and promised he wouldn't run his mouth again.
"But if Bayern actually do lose to City, and we end up drawing them…"
Hazard trailed off, only to be immediately silenced by David Luiz and Terry who slapped their hands over his mouth.
After a round of laughter and teasing, assistant coach Holland came to call the team for physical check-ups and massage therapy.
There was no training scheduled for the morning—just recovery.
Players had the option to hit the gym or rest. It was up to them.
Li Ang and Zlatan spent the first 30 minutes doing balance exercises in the weights room.
Feeling good, Li Ang then dove into an hour of intense lifting—so loud and relentless that even Hazard and Bertrand quickened their pace to avoid being dragged into the grind.
After all, last time Lukaku made the mistake of saying hello while passing by, Li Ang hauled him into a one-hour workout session on the spot.
Hazard knew his skinny frame couldn't survive that kind of torture. Better to escape early.
Mourinho, after hearing Holland's briefing from the medical team, was fairly satisfied.
The game against Southampton had been exhausting, and with only three days of rest before their December 4th away match against Sunderland, recovery was key.
If too many veterans were fatigued, Mourinho would be forced into major rotation.
Fortunately, thanks to the rest they'd gotten earlier, even after such a tough match, the team's physical condition was solid.
Still, Mourinho decided to rest Terry and Lampard in the next game.
Then he asked Holland to bring Li Ang into the office.
When Li Ang walked in, curious, Mourinho greeted him with that familiar smile.
"Thanks for the hard work, Little Lion… Next match, I need you to run more. Hold the midfield together for the youngsters, alright? You're the fittest guy we have…
Don't worry, I'll give you some rest after that. Promise."
It was the same old motivational fluff.
Li Ang didn't even bother complaining anymore.
If only he'd switch up the phrasing, maybe he could at least pretend to believe it.
Still, he slapped his chest and agreed without hesitation.
His body was fine—he still had one recovery boost left to use if needed.
And besides, he was sitting on 13 goals and 9 assists across all competitions.
Just one assist away from hitting his self-imposed midseason double-double target.
Even someone like Li Ang, who always put the team first, couldn't help but feel the excitement.
Because in the current top four European leagues, not even Messi or Ronaldo were as close to reaching a double-double this early.
When he'd decided to leave Real Madrid, even in the face of doubt and criticism, he hadn't said much.
His ambition and goals had always been buried deep in his heart.
He'd only said it out loud once—to Florentino Pérez, when he left:
"I want to be the kind of player who leads a team, not follows."
Back then, no one understood.
Now, his stats were speaking for him.
This early double-double wouldn't mean much to Messi or Ronaldo.
But for Li Ang, it was the first true milestone on his journey.
For him, this was proof.
Proof that he could compete on the same track as the world's best.
From double-double… to double-twenty… to double-twenty in the league—
He was just getting started.
Li Ang had always held himself to extremely high standards and had a crystal-clear plan for his future.
If he didn't hit a goal this season? No problem. He'd go harder next season.
When it came to the Premier League title, domestic cups, or the Champions League, he had clear, staged targets.
Every step on the journey had to be earned and completed—one goal at a time.
With that fire burning inside, Li Ang chatted with Mourinho for a while longer about the team's short-term objectives, then left the manager's office feeling satisfied and reinvigorated.
And seeing how driven Li Ang still was—how hungry he remained even with the team on top—Mourinho felt reassured enough to finalize the squad rotation plan for the next league match.
December 4th — Chelsea traveled to the northeast of England to face the Black Cats, Sunderland.
With December now underway, temperatures in Sunderland were averaging around 10°C.
Kickoff was set for 7:45 p.m., meaning it'd get even colder once the match started.
During the pre-match warmup, Mourinho had the entire squad go through an extended session—ten extra minutes just to be safe.
It wasn't cold enough to wear gloves, but under their kits, Chelsea players had all slipped on thermal training base layers.
Just ten minutes into the game, a light drizzle fell across the Stadium of Light, and Mourinho silently thanked himself for insisting on the extended warmup.
The slick pitch and low temperatures immediately started affecting the match.
Chelsea, who pushed forward aggressively from the start, found themselves frustrated.
Despite being physically competitive in duels, the wet surface dulled their usual technical sharpness.
Between the 10th and 20th minute, Hazard slipped twice trying to cut inside—his signature move—ending up on the ground both times.
In contrast, Sunderland opted for long-ball counterattacks and made the most of the conditions.
They used their strong striker Jozy Altidore as a target man to lay the ball off to arriving midfielders.
Those fast breaks, and especially the long-range efforts that followed, won Sunderland several corners.
And on multiple occasions, they nearly scored from them.
The game had barely begun, and Mourinho's good mood was already souring.
With Terry rested and out of the matchday squad, Chelsea's aerial defense was inevitably weaker.
Yes, both Gary Cahill and David Luiz were excellent in the air, but neither could dominate the box the way Terry did.
Worse still, David Luiz seemed to be reverting to old habits—rushing forward and losing defensive shape.
Sunderland were taking full advantage of Chelsea's rotation.
The situation wasn't desperate enough to make substitutions yet, but Mourinho was visibly on edge.
When Sunderland won yet another corner, he shouted out, instructing David Luiz to listen to Gary Cahill's guidance.
Better to be conservative. Even if Luiz pulled back slightly, he and Cahill together should still be able to handle Sunderland's aerial threats.
Seeing the tension build, Li Ang made a call of his own.
He dropped deeper into the box and positioned himself alongside David Luiz in the central zone.
Ivanović and Matić were already marking the near post.
Li Ang and Luiz took the middle.
Cahill and Zlatan anchored the far post.
With six defenders in the box, Li Ang refused to believe Sunderland could win a header through all of them.
He focused on marking Sunderland's center-back John O'Shea.
As the ball came flying in, he and O'Shea grappled so tightly that neither could get a proper leap.
But the cross didn't drop centrally—it sailed straight to the far post.
Altidore and Cahill leapt simultaneously, heads clashing with the ball midair.
Somehow, Cahill got more behind it, and the ball flew clear of the box to relieved gasps from the Chelsea supporters.
Mourinho exhaled sharply… but tensed up again almost instantly.
Just outside the box, Sunderland full-back Phil Bardsley was loading up for a volley.
"Block the shot!" Mourinho's voice rang out from the sideline.
Li Ang heard it—but he was still tangled with O'Shea inside the area. He couldn't close down fast enough.
Čech's vision was blocked. Too many bodies.
The Czech keeper yelled at his defenders to clear out—but it was already too late.
The shot flew through the crowd like a bullet, slicing through the rain, and slammed into the back of the net.
"Damn it!" Mourinho cursed, punching the air.
He wasn't blaming his players. He was cursing the damn weather and rotten luck.
Li Ang slapped his forehead and shook his head.
There was nothing Chelsea's defense could've done.
No one could've predicted where Cahill's clearance would land.
Chelsea had six men in the box and two more—Ramires and Bertrand—just outside the area.
And yet, the ball floated just beyond the arc—exactly where no one was.
And Bardsley's first-time hit somehow made it through everyone.
Lady Luck was smiling on Sunderland tonight.
As the Stadium of Light erupted in celebration, Li Ang grabbed van Ginkel by the arm.
"Marco! Go play higher. Shift to attacking mid. Control the ball, distribute. Don't panic. Just focus on defense, got it?"
Van Ginkel blinked—then nodded.
He knew Li Ang had full tactical freedom during matches. If Li Ang said switch, he switched.
Besides, if Mourinho had any complaints later, everyone in the squad knew Li Ang would take the heat.
"We focus on defending, boys!" Li Ang shouted, clapping loudly.
"They love these set-piece plays. Stretch our shape! Don't give them open lanes to shoot!"
Chelsea's defensive reorganization began immediately.
And after the restart, when Sunderland came surging in waves—
They ran straight into Li Ang and Matić.
Sunderland's old trick of fast transitions and early shots to force set-pieces was suddenly rendered useless.
Li Ang was not a green, inexperienced Van Ginkel.
His massive coverage radius, relentless pressing, and quick interceptions completely snuffed out Sunderland's momentum before they could even reach Chelsea's defensive third.
With Matić covering behind him, Li Ang's ball-winning was viciously effective.
Anyone who slipped past him was quickly met by Matić's impenetrable wall.
The Sunderland fans at the Stadium of Light, who had been singing and cheering just moments ago, fell silent.
All that was left was a suffocating pressure from Chelsea's midfield lockdown.
Unable to push forward and pinned defensively as well, Sunderland were forced into a full-on bunker mentality.
But just before manager Di Canio could finalize his plan to reinforce the back line, Li Ang sprang forward from the back and launched a blistering carry through midfield!
The sudden burst of tempo made Di Canio panic. He instantly changed his mind.
"Double him! Cut off Li Ang! Force him back!"
He barked at his players to swarm Chelsea's talisman.
To him, this was a sign of desperation—maybe even recklessness.
If Li Ang was now pressing forward instead of holding, Sunderland could try to win the ball off him and counter quickly.
With both Li Ang and Van Ginkel high up the pitch, only Matić would be left back.
It might even be a chance to extend the lead before halftime.
That was the idea… but Li Ang didn't give them the opening.
After a slick one-two with Van Ginkel, Li Ang passed the ball ahead to the retreating Zlatan before Sunderland could even get close.
Then he cut wide to the right, dragging Ki Sung-yueng with him.
But Zlatan didn't give it back—instead, he fed the ball in the opposite direction to Hazard.
In just two passes, Chelsea's front trio had pulled Sunderland's entire defensive shape apart.
Zlatan made a menacing run into the box, forcing Ki to abandon Li Ang and fall back.
Hazard, having learned from his earlier slips, slowed the tempo and used his silky control to protect the ball.
He backed into a defender, shielded the ball, and laid it off for Van Ginkel.
The young Dutchman didn't hesitate. Seeing Li Ang signal, he pinged a pass diagonally toward the right side.
The ball skimmed across the turf.
Li Ang moved first, sprinting toward it.
Sunderland's Jack Colback and the recovering Giaccherini closed in from both sides.
Even if they couldn't win the ball, they wanted to make sure Li Ang couldn't turn.
But they never expected him to release the pass the moment he made contact with the ball.
As the ball rolled toward the edge of Sunderland's box, Li Ang spun out of the pressure like a bullet—bursting through the line and tearing open their midfield block.
Hazard, timing it perfectly, had also drifted inward.
He met the ball in stride and, without holding it too long, slid it horizontally right back into Li Ang's path.
That was all Li Ang needed.
Now past two defenders and at full speed, he tore toward the Sunderland penalty area.
Heart pounding, but vision clear, he crashed through Bardsley's shadow defense.
Bardsley, defending deep in the box, didn't dare get too physical.
He knew if Li Ang went down, it could be a penalty.
Li Ang didn't need anything fancy.
As soon as he had reached Sunderland's box, his goal had been clear:
Get to the byline and either shoot or deliver the killer pass.
When O'Shea left Zlatan and charged over, Li Ang made his choice.
He flicked the ball with a sharp ankle snap—over O'Shea's head and toward the middle of the box.
And there was Zlatan.
Charging in.
He rose like a titan, muscling past West Brom's aging Wes Brown and hammering the ball home with a thunderous header.
Brown was sent flying.
Sunderland's keeper Mannone barely moved. His raised hands looked more like surrender than a genuine save attempt.
Li Ang's heart soared as the net rippled.
"It's in!"
Sky Sports' commentators erupted.
"GOAL!!! The Milan Brothers link up again to bring Chelsea level!"
"That's Li Ang's 8th league assist—his 10th of the season across all competitions!"
"13 goals, 10 assists—Li Ang becomes the first player across Europe's top four leagues to achieve the double double this season!"
"Chelsea's all-purpose core—absolutely deserved!"
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