Luiz Gustavo sensed the looming disaster the moment the ball left his foot. Under heavy harassment from Firmino, even a veteran's precision can falter, and this pass was clearly overcooked.
But David Qin didn't break his stride. Instead, he kicked into a higher gear, charging toward the ball's trajectory. In his path stood Niklas Süle, a literal wall of a man blocking his progress. Behind him, Sebastian Rudy was closing the gap with a desperate sprint.
It seemed like a tactical dead end. Yet, in a flash of inspiration as the ball plummeted toward him, David didn't attempt to kill the pace. Instead, he lightly lifted his right foot and hooked it backward.
Clack! The crisp sound of the contact caused Süle to hesitate for a fraction of a second. He had intended to pounce the moment David tried to trap the ball. It wasn't too late, he thought, as he adjusted his massive frame to move in for the tackle.
The next second, however, left him utterly bewildered. After the initial backward hook, David immediately transitioned into a second flick—a lob. The ball traced a rainbow arc through the air. Under the blinding stadium floodlights, a frantically retreating Rudy instinctively looked up, only to watch helplessly as the ball sailed over his head.
Inside the Rhein-Neckar-Arena, a silence so brief it was almost imperceptible was followed by a rolling wave of gasps and cheers. It was two simple touches, yet at the feet of this teenager, they were imbued with an inspired, almost poetic grace. The crowd realized they could never quite guess what his next move would be.
"Beautiful!"
"That is the hallmark of perfect ball feel!"
"David Qin used consecutive flicks during the reception. His touch is so refined that he seems to know exactly where the ball will land before it even gets there—he's always one step ahead of the defender!"
"Let's see how he finishes this—"
Liu Jiayuan's final question was redundant. Before the commentator could even finish his sentence, David was already in motion.
Kevin! David called out mentally. As the ball dropped from the air, he used his right foot to push a horizontal pass.
Kevin De Bruyne materialized on the ball's path with the timing of a cold, precision-engineered machine. A single touch to control and drive forward! With David having drawn two defenders away, the path ahead of De Bruyne was suddenly clear.
"Caligiuri is charging up as well! De Bruyne plays a wall-pass with him, then looks for Olić dropping deep to support!"
"Wolfsburg's counter-attack is blistering!"
"Multiple options in the box! This is a massive chance!"
In the blink of an eye, Hoffenheim's disorganized defensive line was shattered by the Wolfsburg surge. A defense without structure is no defense at all. Once Olić held off Bičakčić and laid the ball off as a "cannon mount" for De Bruyne, the Belgian unleashed another clinical "daisy-cutter."
This time, Lady Luck turned her back on Hoffenheim. Even though Oliver Baumann stretched his frame to its absolute limit, he couldn't get a finger to the lightning-fast strike.
Tweet! The referee pointed to the center circle, signaling the goal. The away fans erupted in a deafening roar. De Bruyne broke into a short jog, giving his right hand a casual flick in the air—the sum total of his celebration.
"Amateur... pure amateur hour," David muttered to himself, shaking his head as he recalled the famous quote: World-class goal, Sunday-league celebration. Classic De Bruyne.
De Bruyne saw the expressions of his teammates and guessed what they were thinking, but social anxiety isn't something one cures easily. Unless...
David had a mischievous thought: if Courtois were the one in goal, De Bruyne would probably be ecstatic enough to pull off a knee-slide or some elaborate dance routine.
"Wolfsburg is making a change: Maximilian Arnold comes on for David Qin, and Bas Dost replaces Ivica Olić."
Hearing the stadium announcer and seeing the fourth official raise the board, David pouted slightly. He felt his stamina was still high enough to see out the full ninety minutes. But Dieter Hecking's logic was different: with less than twenty minutes of regulation time left, it was better to shore up the defensive midfield than to keep pressing the attack. Every point in the early stages of the league is vital; he wanted to leave with all three points secured.
"Great shift! Don't overthink it—this is tactical, not a reflection on your performance," Hecking said, patting David on the shoulder. He knew young players today were more sensitive than the players of his generation. It wasn't that one era was better; it was just that the mindset of youth was constantly evolving.
"Boss, can I start the Europa League match next week?" David asked, skipping the humility entirely.
"Haha! I know every young player dreams of playing in Europe. I felt the same way once, though I never got the chance," Hecking laughed. "But I think you're luckier than I was. I'll have you in the squad. Get ready for your European debut, and make sure you maintain this form."
Looking at David, Hecking saw a reflection of his own younger, spirited self—though David was clearly playing at a much higher level than he ever had.
"Thanks, Boss!" David beamed as he returned to the bench, humming a catchy tune.
"Hey kid, it's just the Europa League. Don't get ahead of yourself," Olić said, handing him a water bottle.
"Of course I'm excited! I've never played in a European competition before!" David took a long swig of water, then his tone turned serious. "By the way, Ivica, what did it feel like in 2010? Scoring in both legs of the Champions League quarter-finals and then a hat-trick in the semi-finals?"
David knew the man's history well. Ivica Olić—the "tireless legend" whose hat-trick against Manchester United helped Bayern Munich reach the Champions League final for the first time in nine years. They had only lost out to Mourinho's Inter Milan in the end.
"To be honest? I was just very, very tired. I didn't feel anything special at the time," Olić replied, his eyes clouding with memory as he revisited those glorious days. Then he grinned. "But being called a hero... that part felt pretty good."
David rolled his eyes. No kidding—being a hero in the spotlight must be an incredible rush. He wanted to feel that for himself—the feeling of saving a game when the house is falling down.
"David... my destiny didn't include a Champions League trophy, so I want to win the Europa League," Olić added, a trace of melancholy in his voice. They had lost the 2010 final to Inter, and the 2012 final to Chelsea. Two finals in three years, zero trophies. And then, the year he transferred to Wolfsburg, Bayern finally won it. Fate is a cruel joke, he often thought.
"Don't worry, Ivica! I've had my fortune told," David said, patting Olić on the shoulder with feigned maturity. "I might be lacking in some areas, but I've got plenty of 'championship luck.' I'll take you to the top. We'll start by winning the Europa League!"
"You little brat, you sure can talk!" Olić laughed, genuinely moved by David's youthful energy, which chased away his lingering sadness.
As they chatted, three long whistles sounded across the pitch.
Tweet—Tweet—Tweet!
Wolfsburg had held their nerve and their defense, maintaining the lead until the final whistle.
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