"Huntelaar is down again! It looks like Naldo caught him with an elbow!"
"Oof! Huntelaar is back up—is he looking for a duel with Naldo? Their teammates have stepped in to separate them, but the referee isn't playing favorites today. A yellow card for each of them!"
The Veltins-Arena was a cauldron of vitriol. The Schalke 04 faithful hurled curses like they were going out of style: "Son of a bitch ref!", "Damned Brazilian!", "Wolfsburg is buying the league!"
The traveling Wolves fans in the away end, meanwhile, kept their heads down. Three thousand against sixty-five thousand—there was no "numerical advantage" to be found there. They weren't fools; if the shouting escalated into a riot, the Schalke ultras wouldn't hesitate to throw hands. People had died in these rivalries before.
Clatter! Clatter! Lighters, keychains, and plastic cups rained down on the roof of the dugout like hailstones. Riot police tightened their perimeter, wary of any fanatic attempting to vault the barriers.
It took three full minutes for the chaos to simmer down. When the match finally resumed, Kevin-Prince Boateng immediately sent Kevin De Bruyne somersaulting through the air with a shoulder charge that completely ignored the ball. The scent of gunpowder, which had just begun to dissipate, hung heavy over the pitch once more.
"That's a yellow card, sir! If you cannot control your temper, the next one will be red! If you want to leave the pitch, just keep it up!" The referee was reaching his breaking point.
De Bruyne rubbed his hip, grimacing. Glad I'm single right now, he thought wryly, I'm not sure I could handle any more pounding.
"Careful out there," David Qin said, pulling De Bruyne to his feet.
"Next time, I'm not even looking at the ball," De Bruyne muttered. He was a stubborn breed—quiet and stoic off the pitch, but a volatile, explosive force on it. Behind that relatively calm mask, he had reached that dangerous level of "cold fury" where anger only sharpened his vision.
"Just don't get yourself injured," David urged. He didn't care what happened to Boateng; he just needed his playmaker in one piece.
Wolfsburg's free-kick was played short, shifting the focus back to the right flank. Ivan Perišić was having a stellar day, and now that he was finally seeing more of the ball, he was operating at full throttle.
"Beautiful! He leaves Fuchs in the dust—he's looking for the cross!"
"So close! Höwedes slides in to deflect it behind for a corner!"
Derek Rae's voice surged over the international broadcast: "Wolfsburg with a corner from the right! De Bruyne stands over the ball."
Inside the box, it was sheer anarchy. Shirts were being tugged, elbows were flying; David Qin nearly went down under the pressure, only staying upright by grabbing the goalpost. Suddenly, a whistle shrieked from somewhere in the stands.
The Schalke defenders froze, momentarily confused by the phantom whistle. They began to turn to one another to reorganize their marking. But Kevin-Prince Boateng's eyes nearly bulged out of his head as he looked at the far post.
Wait... when the hell did he get there?
Before he could scream a warning, David and De Bruyne locked eyes. De Bruyne didn't hesitate; he whipped a low, zipping ball toward the near post. David stepped into the space and clinically turned it into the net before anyone could react.
1-2!!!
The referee pointed emphatically to the center spot: goal stands. David grinned, leaping onto De Bruyne's back. "Kevin, we stole it! They're going to lose their minds!"
Compared to a standard screamer, David found a perverse sort of joy in this kind of "sneak attack." De Bruyne's smile was equally devious.
But while they were celebrating, Schalke 04 imploded. Players swarmed the referee, arguing that the goal was illegal because of the fan's whistle. Di Matteo was practically vibrating as he berated the fourth official. The stands were a riot of fury.
"Thief! You filthy little thief! That goal shouldn't count!"
"You're a dead man, Qin!"
"Can't beat us fairly so you have to play dirty tricks!"
David heard the vitriol and only smiled wider. If he wasn't worried about inciting a literal stadium riot, he would have made a face at the Ultras. He decided against it; he wasn't particularly keen on being lynched today.
"I did not stop play," the referee told the protesting Schalke players. "They took the corner and scored. It is a legal goal. Your lack of focus is not my concern."
Whistles from the stands were common in high-stakes matches, as were laser pointers. Usually, the fans responsible were banned, but the goals they inadvertently caused were almost never overturned.
"Dammit! That kid is... I've never met anyone so shameless," Schalke keeper Fährmann hissed through gritted teeth.
"Forget it. It's done. Let's just play," his teammates urged.
Young Leroy Sané stared at David. Seeing that effortless, cocky smile filled him with a searing jealousy. Why him? Sané wondered. Why does he get the spotlight while I haven't even found the back of the net? Sané's idol was Messi; he wanted to be the player who defined an era. How could he lose to a kid younger than himself?
The match restarted amidst a storm of boos. David noticed that every time he even glanced at the stands, he was met with a forest of middle fingers. Schalke 04 officially hated him.
"Wolfsburg is playing with immense composure now that they have the lead," the commentator noted.
"In the 67th minute, Dieter Hecking makes his move. Bas Dost is on for Olić, and Josuha Guilavogui replaces Malanda. Like-for-like changes, though Guilavogui is a classic 'destroyer' in the pivot—clearly an attempt to shore up the interior defense."
"Schalke responds immediately: Matip for Kirchhoff, and Höger for Sané."
On the pitch, Sané looked at the LED board in disbelief. Number 19. Him. He hadn't even had the chance to prove himself yet, and he was being hauled off. Di Matteo's logic was simple: Sané was fast, but he wasn't linking up with the veteran core. Marco Höger was more versatile and, crucially, a much better defender to help neutralize David Qin on that side.
Sané slunk off the pitch like a wilted plant. Di Matteo didn't even look at him.
"Both teams are throwing everything into it now! The tempo is through the roof!"
"Clean tackle from Knoche! Choupo-Moting is denied!"
The ball was hoofed upfield by Rodríguez. De Bruyne glanced back at Boateng. He didn't even look at the ball falling from the sky; instead, he braced himself and threw his weight backward into the charging midfielder.
Thud! The sickening sound of muscle hitting muscle echoed. Boateng felt a sharp pain in his chest as he was sent reeling backward onto the grass.
"Kevin! You like hitting people so much? Get up and try again!" De Bruyne roared, standing over him.
David, watching from a few yards away, actually felt a shiver run down his spine. Malanda was right—on-field De Bruyne was an entirely different animal. The shy, introverted Belgian had officially become a live wire.
Boateng was stunned. He started to scramble up to retaliate, but seeing the referee sprinting toward them, he thought better of it.
De Bruyne wasn't done venting. As David and his teammates dragged him away, he was still shouting his favorite line: "Let me talk!"
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