The clock ticked to the 19th minute. Karim Bellarabi was a hurricane on the right wing, his extreme pace tearing through the air. Unlike Son Heung-min, whose speed was a fusion of ball control and movement, Bellarabi possessed pure, explosive velocity.
35.28 km/h (21.92 mph)! That was the terrifying figure he had clocked last season, a stat that placed him at the very top of the Bundesliga's speed charts. He even held the record for the fastest goal in league history.
However, the man tasked with containing him was Ricardo Rodríguez. The Swiss international had arrived at Wolfsburg for 8.5 million euros and won over the fans within eighteen months. He even shared a prestigious nickname with the greats: "R-Ro." In the footballing world, anyone associated with that name—be it Ronaldo Nazário, Ronaldinho, Cristiano, or James—usually possesses a level of talent that needs no further explanation.
"R-Ro" did not panic. When Bellarabi's touch grew slightly too heavy, Rodríguez pivoted and expertly stepped in front of him, shielding the ball out of play with veteran composure.
"Sophisticated defending!"
"The throw-in goes to Luiz Gustavo, a cushioned header from the Brazilian!"
"De Bruyne spreads the play!"
After a sequence of slick passes, the ball found David Qin's feet. Having been humiliated earlier, Giulio Donati lunged in with visible frustration, his movements aggressive and reckless. David watched the Italian approach with cool detachment before his right foot snapped into action like a coiled spring.
Donati, expecting a pass, instinctively reached out to intercept—only to realize a split-second too late that he had been baited. With a crisp thwack, the ball zipped through his open legs. For a fleeting second, Donati felt a phantom chill between his thighs. He turned in a mix of shame and fury, but despite his quick recovery, the advantage was gone. He could only watch David's silhouette recede.
Nutmegged and toyed with twice in under twenty minutes... he wondered if a rainbow flick was coming next. He sprinted back desperately, intent on reclaiming his dignity.
"David Qin is remarkably fast as well!"
"Those long legs are like revolving wheels, propelling him forward with incredible force!"
"Lars Bender is dropping deep to cover..."
"Beautiful! David doesn't linger; he squares it to the center for De Bruyne to orchestrate!"
In Kevin De Bruyne's vision, the chaotic stadium seemed to shift into slow motion. He saw Daniel Caligiuri making a darting run and Bas Dost lurking in the box. In an instant, his brain calculated the optimal path.
Snap! His right foot pointed toward the left flank, unleashing a pinpoint long ball. It wasn't for Caligiuri on the right, but back to David Qin on the left.
"Perfect service!"
David killed the ball dead, needing no adjustment before charging toward the byline. Leverkusen's right center-back, Tin Jedvaj, kept his hands behind his back, braced for an imminent cross or a shot. David ignored him, simply shifting into a higher gear.
The fans were momentarily confused. He was running out of space to cross—or at least, he would be forced onto his weaker foot. In the next breath, their confusion was replaced by awe.
With a display of supreme balance and flair, David wrapped his right foot behind his left standing leg, striking the center of the ball with a fierce flick.
The Rabona!
The ball traced a vicious arc through the air, heading straight for Bas Dost at the edge of the six-yard box. The Dutchman barely had time to process the delivery, but his striker's instinct took over. He rose, snapping his head forward.
Bang! The ball buried itself in the back of the net, causing the white mesh to bulge violently.
1-0!!!
"Tor!" The roar of thirty thousand Wolfsburg fans echoed through the arena like a great bronze bell, igniting a fire in every heart. David's dreamlike Rabona assist had left their souls trembling. At this moment, they truly felt David was a magician; his movements were so unpredictable and daring that no one could guess his next move. Having such a player was a gift. They poured out their gratitude in a relentless storm of applause.
Dieter Hecking high-fived his assistant before punching the air. Creative players like this were rare treasures.
"Boss, tell Volkswagen to open the checkbook. We have to keep him. Maybe..." The assistant coach felt that with David's potential paired with De Bruyne, they could build a world-class team around this duo within three years.
"It's never as easy as you think," Hecking murmured, his smile fading into a silent sigh of reality.
On the pitch, Dost didn't celebrate alone. He eagerly pulled David toward the corner flag and dropped to one knee, gesturing for David to rest his boot on his thigh. David laughed and accepted the tribute.
"David, I'm absolutely in love with your feet!" Dost shouted as he mimed a shoe-shine.
"Okay, okay... that's enough," David laughed, quickly pulling his foot back. Seeing the manic glint in Dost's eyes, he couldn't help but find the situation a bit surreal.
"Don't get the wrong idea! I mean, I appreciate the technique, but I'm strictly into girls' feet," Dost grinned, rubbing his bald head. "But if you keep serving up assists like that, I might make an exception."
"Get out of here!" David ran off, pointing toward De Bruyne. "Go love Kevin's feet instead; his passing is way better than mine!"
De Bruyne: "..."
The Wolfsburg players erupted in laughter, jokingly debating whose feet were the most aesthetic. David kept his distance; he had no interest in their locker-room banter. Between the grueling training sessions and the inevitable sweat, a professional footballer's feet were rarely a sight to behold.
A short distance away, Son Heung-min tugged at his hair, his expression dark. His girlfriend was in the stands, yet he was being outshone on the biggest stage.
"Wake up! Attack! Attack, do you hear me?" Roger Schmidt roared from the touchline. He knew his defense was a shambles; their biggest flaw was a total lack of marking awareness against wing-play and central runs. That was why he played such an open, attacking style—to mask the defensive rot with offensive pressure.
The Leverkusen players nodded, unfazed by the goal. They were used to conceding; it was the price of their philosophy. Upon the restart, they immediately pushed high, using their numerical advantage to advance.
"Hakan Çalhanoğlu's style is very similar to James Rodríguez—the one who made a name for himself at the World Cup," the commentator noted. "He links the play beautifully and creates space for Son."
"Here they come!"
Leverkusen suddenly shifted gears. A quick horizontal pass from Çalhanoğlu was followed by a sharp line-breaking ball from Castro. In a flash, the ball was at Son Heung-min's feet. He executed a series of stutter-starts, shaking off Vieirinha before slicing into the box along the left half-space.
This time, Naldo didn't dive in; he stayed goal-side but ceded the outside lane. Son didn't hesitate, driving to the byline and whipping a cross in with his left foot for Josip Drmić.
It wasn't that he didn't want to attempt a Rabona... it was just that performing such a move at that velocity was nearly impossible.
Robin Knoche remained laser-focused. As the Swiss striker rose for the header, Knoche leaned in, legally disrupting his balance. Drmić's header sailed harmlessly wide of the frame.
---------
Hope you guys are digging the story so far! If you are, drop a comment or a review. And don't forget those power stones! Appreciate the support