(A/n: My childhood friend just left me man. He fking d!ed. It ain't even any natural cause. He d!ed due to doctor's negligence and hospital's mismanagement. HE WAS GIVEN MEDS TO LOWER HIS HEART RATE AND BLOOD PRESSURE BUT HE DIDN'T HAD ANY HEART AILMENT. HE WAS ADMITTED DUE TO INFECTION IN PANCREAS. His heart went into a cardiac arrest due to that and he just left me. I still need time to process all these shit man. It hurts)
...
Halftime, away team's locker room.
Oliver lay on his back on the medical bed, as the team doctor carefully unwrapped the thick bandage on his forehead, which was already soaked with blood. Every slight touch made him gasp, and his clenched teeth made a grinding sound. The wound on his forehead was exposed under the bright light; it was a gash, horizontally across his brow bone, with tissue still visible from the edges of the congealed scab.
The team doctor, with a solemn expression, took out instruments to prepare for suturing, and the sensation of the needle piercing his flesh made Oliver's entire body involuntarily tense up. Nagelsmann stood by the bed, his young, sharp face now devoid of all composure. He pressed his lips together, his brows furrowed, his eyes slightly red, suppressing a violently churning emotion.
He looked at the wound, at his beloved disciple's face, twisted in pain yet enduring without a sound during disinfection and suturing, and at his hands, veins bulging from the pain, gripping the edge of the bed. A mix of unspeakable heartache, intense anger, and deep admiration for this stubborn child impacted him.
Nagelsmann couldn't help but reach out, not as a coach, but like a brother or father, firmly grasping Oliver's uninjured right shoulder. He conveyed support and strength.
"Oliver…" Nagelsmann's voice choked a little; he cleared his throat, "Listen to me, child, this isn't the time to show off, in the second half, you…"
"Coach," Oliver's voice was weak from pain, but exceptionally firm; he even pulled the sutured muscles to force a smile, a strange sense of ease on his pale face.
"I'm fine, this little cut just looks scary, and it doesn't affect my ability to think about passing routes or kick the ball, hiss…" The pain of the suturing interrupted him; he took a breath and said, feigning nonchalance, "At most, it's just… ketchup spilled on my forehead."
Oliver's forced humor made the expressions of his teammates, who had gathered around, solemn and complex. Vogt's eyes were red, while Maguire slammed his fist against the wall.
Gnabry handed him a bottle of water, his voice tight: "Oliver, don't push yourself…"
Oliver took the water but didn't drink it, just held it in his hand, looking up at his teammates surrounding him, his gaze still sharp:
"Guys, I'm really fine. We still have 45 minutes; anything can happen. We haven't lost yet." He said with a smile.
"As long as the ball can roll, I can kick it. In the second half, we need to work together to get this damned rhythm back! Let's fight for another 45 minutes!"
…
The second half began.
Nagelsmann's adjustments were immediately apparent. Grillitsch dropped back to form a double pivot with De Jong, while Amiri, like a beast unleashed, began to frequently surge forward to support Oliver on the right wing. Hoffenheim's offense, for the first time, truly found its direction and generated sustained pressure. Oliver became the magic engine of the entire right wing.
In the 55th minute, a moment ignited the hopes of all Hoffenheim fans. Amiri successfully intercepted the ball in midfield and immediately passed it forward to Oliver on the right wing. Oliver received the ball near the sideline; facing him was Real Madrid's experienced full-back, Carvajal. Carvajal lowered his center of gravity, eyeing him like a tiger.
Oliver didn't hesitate at all, feinting his body to the left while quickly pushing the ball to the right with his right foot. Carvajal's center of gravity had just shifted when Oliver instantly connected with his second move, feinting a burst to the right, but skillfully pulling the ball to the left with his left foot! With just two quick ankle movements, he performed a continuous 'roulette' to the left and right in an extremely small space!
Carvajal was completely deceived by this continuous change of rhythm, his body twisting as he lost balance and fell awkwardly to the ground.
"Oliver! On the right wing!!! Facing Carvajal!!! Oh my god!! Continuous feints! His footwork is too fast!! Carvajal is down!! He's been faked out!!" The Commentator's astonished cry echoed through the live broadcast.
Oliver did not slow down after getting past Carvajal, dribbling at high speed along the sideline. Real Madrid's defensive alarm instantly sounded. Ramos immediately rushed over from the center to assist in defense, and Modric and Casemiro also quickly retreated to that side!
Three white walls of steel instantly surrounded Oliver near the edge of the penalty area! Oliver, now heavily surrounded, had already penetrated deep near the byline, his space almost zero.
The three completely blocked his routes for passing to the middle and cutting inside. Just as the three-man trap was about to close, in the nick of time, Oliver, still dribbling at high speed, didn't even turn his head; his body, while sprinting, supported itself on his left foot, and his right foot lifted backward like lightning. His heel precisely struck the rolling ball with force!
"It's a backheel!!!" The Commentator's shriek almost tore through the microphone!
The ball, as if enchanted, passed through the gap left by Carvajal's fall, and incredibly, it shot out between Casemiro's not-yet-fully-closed legs! At an absolutely unpredictable reverse angle, it diagonally pierced Real Madrid's final defensive line formed by three players. Straight into the unmanned zone on the left side of the penalty area!
"It went through!!! The ball went through!!!"
Gnabry, lurking on the left flank of the penalty area, shot forward like an arrow from a bow, taking a quick step to catch up to the ball before the versatile Vázquez could clear it. Without hesitation! His left foot was arched and straightened, a powerful shot!!! The ball whistled like a cannonball towards the top near corner of the goal!
"Gnabry!!!! Shot!!!!!"
A moment of life and death! Goalkeeper Navas once again displayed a miracle! He leaped up, his arm stretched to its limit! His fingertips pushed upwards with all his might.
"Navas makes a miraculous save! His fingertips touched the ball, and the ball grazed the top of the crossbar and flew out of bounds! God!!!! So close!!! Oliver's backheel through three players' legs was simply imagination from another dimension! Gnabry's powerful shot was also strong enough! What a pity!!"
The Commentator's voice was filled with incredible regret and admiration for the skill. The Bernabéu was filled with a deathly silent gasp, followed by a huge roar of relief. Zidane's face was grim as he loudly directed positioning from the sidelines.
Oliver stood in place, hands on his hips, sweat dripping onto the grass. He watched the ball fly into the stands, his gaze icy, showing no frustration, only stronger aggression. He knew that the offensive gap had been torn open. Once a gap is stubbornly chiseled open, it won't easily close.
In the 68th minute, Hoffenheim's defense patiently passed the ball to resolve a Real Madrid counter-attack. De Jong received the ball near the center circle, observed, and without hesitation, quickly launched a long pass with his signature left foot to switch play! The ball traced a super-long arc, precisely finding Nordtveit, who was surging forward on the left wing at high speed!
"Long pass switch!!! De Jong!!! Found the left wing! Precise!"
Nordtveit didn't trap the ball; facing the defense, he calmly laid it back to Gnabry, who was converging in the middle to receive it. Under the pressure of his opponent's close marking, Gnabry couldn't turn and break through, so he went with the momentum and made a horizontal pass, sending the ball to Oliver, who had surged from the right flank into the central arc of the penalty area.
At this moment, Oliver was about 25 meters from the goal. Casemiro, that moving wall, had already rushed over, shadowing him. He shifted his entire body weight to Oliver's left side, blocking the route for cutting inside and shooting, while his legs spread like hinges, expanding his defensive area.
In a flash!
Oliver made no adjustment; he knew that even a slight hesitation, even for a fraction of a second, and Casemiro's legs would close like iron tongs! He lightly pulled the ball with his right foot to his left-rear, not a breakthrough, but a convincing feint. Casemiro's body was instinctively drawn by this pull-back, his center of gravity instantly shifting to the right.
The moment Casemiro's center of gravity shifted, Oliver's supporting foot was firmly planted on the grass. His knee slightly bent to stabilize his body, which was almost off balance from the fierce confrontation, and his right foot lightning-fast wrapped around from behind his supporting leg!
The inside of his instep cupped the lower-middle part of the ball! He didn't look at the goal. Only relying on muscle memory and a top striker's intuition. His right foot unleashed all its power, curving a perfect out-swinging arc!
"Oliver!! Receives the ball! Casemiro! Feint! Pull-back! He's shaken him off!! Shot!!!!!" The Commentator exclaimed.
The ball spun violently in the air. It carved a deadly arc that surpassed Casemiro and even the goalkeeper's judgment limit. With a strong outswing, it bypassed all the white figures inside Real Madrid's penalty area, heading straight for the top right corner of the goal. An absolute dead angle! An absolutely extreme curve!
Navas leaped up, his body stretched to the absolute limit of human physical ability in mid-air! His fingertips almost touched the ball. But that arc was simply too strange and tricky. A perfect combination of power and spin! The ball spun past his desperately outstretched fingertips, stubbornly continuing its rotation, hugging the absolute dead angle between the inside of the post and the crossbar. It whistled into the net!!!!
"GOOOOOOOOOALLLLLLLL!!!!! 2-2!!!!! Hoffenheim!!! Hoffenheim!!! Oliver—!!!!!" The commentary booth went completely wild, the sound practically tearing off the roof,
"Oliver scored a world-class goal at the Bernabéu!! An unparalleled world-class goal!!! At the Bernabéu!!!! In the Champions League semi-final battle! With blood streaming down his face! He pierced Real Madrid's goal with an invaluable outside-of-the-foot curved shot! This is not just a goal! This is a miracle! An artwork forged from iron will! Casemiro was completely fooled by his feint! Navas could only watch!!! Oliver, with his right foot, from 25 meters out, wrote an epic chapter for the dark horse!!" The Commentator was completely immersed.
The entire Bernabéu fell into an eerie silence. Only the small blue block of away fans in the stands erupted in hysterical joy, their voices piercing the sky! Oliver stood in place, his chest heaving violently, his right hand clenched into a fist, striking his chest. The white bandage on his forehead now became his most dazzling medal. He pointed towards that blue ocean in the stands, towards his teammates.
Nagelsmann was as excited as a child, jumping and punching wildly on the sidelines, tears streaming down his face!
Zidane's face was ashen, chewing gum at an astonishingly fast pace.
Oliver's Father was wildly waving his fists in the stands, tears finally uncontrollably gushing out as he roared his son's name; Shuwen covered her face, tears streaming between her fingers, but this time, her face was no longer filled with fear, but with endless pride.
2-2!
Hoffenheim had actually equalized the score at the Bernabéu! However, Real Madrid's terrifying depth is often fully unleashed only in desperate situations. Just seven minutes later, in the 75th minute, Zidane's team delivered a powerful counter-punch in their most characteristic and brutal fashion. Real Madrid won a corner kick on the right side. Kroos stood at the corner flag, his gaze sweeping the penalty area like a hawk. The whistle blew, he took a short run, and his left foot curved a precise half-high arc, flying straight to the near post.
"Corner kick! Real Madrid's chance! Kroos sends it to the near post!!!!"
In the crowd, a white figure sprang up like he had springs attached. Ramos. He pushed down Uth, who was trying to jump, and got to the ball first! Not a direct shot on goal! But a fierce header towards the center of the six-yard box! A tactical flick-on! Bale, lurking at the second point. At this moment, the Welshman took flight! His entire body was airborne, back to the goal, his right leg swinging back like a battle-axe. He performed a perfectly breathtaking bicycle kick in mid-air!
"Ramos at the near post! Header flick-on!! Bale!! Bicycle kick!!!!!" The Commentator shouted.
The ball, as if struck by a lightning bolt, With incredible speed, it tore through the air, darting straight into the top left corner of the goal! Goalkeeper Baumann's vision was completely blocked by the crowd at the near post; the moment he saw the ball's trajectory, he had no time to react whatsoever. The ball grazed half a meter above his fingertips, as if welded into the corner of the crossbar and post, slamming fiercely into the net.
3-2!!
"GOOOOOOALLLLLLL!!!!! Real Madrid!!!! Bale! An incredible bicycle kick! A Puskas worthy goal!!! 3-2!! In the 75th minute of the match, Real Madrid takes the lead again, Ramos's flick-on!! Bale's ultimate artistry, this is the King of the Champions League! At the most critical moment, he responds in the most shocking way!" The Commentator exclaimed.
Bale slid on his knees wildly at the corner flag. The Bernabéu erupted like a volcano. The roar was almost enough to tear off the roof! Zidane clenched his fists, looking up to the sky and roaring! Oliver looked at the wildly celebrating white figures, pressing his stinging forehead again, his eyes showing no retreat. He bent over, hands on his knees, breathing heavily, sweat flowing into the corners of his eyes, bringing a sharp, stinging pain.
He shook his head vigorously, straightened his back again, and roared at his somewhat dazed teammates, who were disheartened: "Heads up! There's still time! 15 minutes! We can do it!!!"
Time became Hoffenheim's most fatal enemy, and their final battle drum. Every second felt like a grindstone on their heart. Oliver was no longer confined to the right wing; he roamed the entire field like a madman.
In the 87th minute, Cristiano Ronaldo held the ball on the left, facing Nordtveit's defense, and forcefully cut inside. Oliver furiously tracked back from the rib area, sprinting tirelessly to the edge of his own penalty box to assist in defense. Just as he tried to extend his leg to interfere with Cristiano Ronaldo's cross. From the side! A figure lunged over, like an out-of-control heavy truck!
Casemiro! With immense impact, he executed a fierce, flying slide tackle that spanned almost the entire penalty box line. His gleaming studs struck Oliver's supporting right thigh firmly on the outer side!
Time seemed to stand still. Oliver didn't even have time to let out a scream; his entire body, like a baseball hit, instantly flew into the air. Then, twisting at an unnatural angle, he crashed heavily onto the wet turf! Oliver clutched his right thigh, his body curled into a ball, the sudden pain instantly contorting his face.
He gritted his teeth, veins bulged on his forehead, and his entire body's muscles uncontrollably spasmed and trembled from the intense pain in his right leg.
"Red card! That is absolutely a red card! Oh my god! Casemiro's flying tackle on Oliver!!! He kicked Oliver down! An absolute red card offense!!!!!! The referee ran over, wait... he... showed a yellow card?! Only a yellow card?? What!! You can't beat the allegations with moments these!! Bernabéu saved Casemiro, this is simply absurd, this is absolutely a red card offense, too malicious. Poor kid!" The Commentator's voice was filled with anger and disbelief.
(A/n: Homage to two reds somehow becoming one yellow)
The camera focused. Oliver's outer right thigh, near the back of his knee, where the studs had struck, turned purplish-red at a visible rate, and the surface was already slightly broken and bleeding.
Hoffenheim's team doctor, Marcus, rushed onto the field again. Vogt and Maguire ran towards Casemiro and the referee to demand an explanation; they couldn't understand why such a tackle wasn't a red card.
"Fxxk off, Casemiro, you use this kind of challenge against a player who just turned 18, do you even have the face to stand on the field?" Maguire, covered in sweat, yelled back at Casemiro.
Maguire and Vogt cursed at Casemiro, while also constantly closing in on him, and more and more Hoffenheim and Real Madrid players gathered around. The two sides were on the verge of a brawl. Even the Hoffenheim fans in the Bernabéu's away section were shouting curses at Real Madrid. De Jong, Gnabry, and others quickly went to check on Oliver; Ramos, Cristiano Ronaldo, Kroos, and others also came over.
Oliver lay on the ground, his whole body trembling slightly from the pain, gasping for air, trying to calm the sensation. This pain came from the immediate impact on the skin and muscles; it hadn't penetrated to the bones or ligaments. The injury probability reduction card truly worked.
Although Oliver's injury looked frightening, it was still considered a "surface wound," only the pain came so suddenly that he found it difficult to adapt in a short time. Marcus performed a preliminary examination and made an extremely firm gesture to the anxious Nagelsmann on the sideline:
[Substitution]
The fourth official held up the electronic board: No. 19 Ochs on! Replacing No. 17 Oliver! A mix of boos and applause erupted at Bernabéu. Nagelsmann painfully covered his mouth for a moment, the moisture in his eyes no longer suppressible. He raised the substitution board. However! Just as the fourth official held up the board, and Ochs was about to run onto the field.
That blue figure lying on the ground, Oliver. He used all his remaining strength, his hands gripping the wet turf tightly. Under the astonished and horrified gazes of everyone, including the referee, teammates, opponents, and even the team doctor. He stood up!!
"I... won't leave the field, never!!!"
Oliver screamed at Nagelsmann on the sideline, at the fourth official, using every last bit of air in his lungs.
His voice was a mix of pain and will: "Coach! Don't substitute! Look at the time! We don't have time left!! Less than two minutes!!!"
He yelled, pointing at the glaring time on the scoreboard:
[87:36]
"My leg can move! It can run!! Don't stop the game!! Keep playing!! Let them continue!!"
Oliver's gaze was like a red-hot iron, fixed on Nagelsmann's face. His eyes seemed to say: If you substitute me, all this effort will be completely wasted! Let me finish these last few minutes! Nagelsmann's raised substitution board hung in mid-air, his fingers trembling slightly. He looked at his disciple's face, distorted by pain yet still stubborn, and at his bruised, but still supporting, injured leg...
The last trace of struggle in his eyes was completely burned away by that resolute gaze!
"Put it down! Put it down!" Nagelsmann almost screamed at the fourth official, waving his hand vigorously to signal Ochs to return to the bench.
He yelled with all his might towards the field: "Oliver!!! Listen to me!!! Don't push yourself!!! Stall for time with Real Madrid, don't attack anymore, I can allow you to stay on the field, but I will never allow you to attack again!"
After the team doctor briefly sprayed pain-relieving cold spray, he forcefully and vigorously massaged his thigh muscles a few times, trying to activate them. Then, dragging his injured right leg, he limped towards his defensive position. With each step, a barely concealed twitch flashed across his face; it was from the pain.
Sweat and mud from the turf mixed together, sliding down his face. Bernabéu fell into an almost suffocating silence. The entire stadium. No, the entire world. At this moment, tens of millions of fans worldwide watching this match had their eyes fixed on Oliver's figure. Even Zidane stopped giving instructions, pressing his lips together, deep respect in his eyes for Oliver.
Shuwen leaned on Jules in the stands, already sobbing uncontrollably, yet unable to tear their gaze away from her son's struggling movements for even a second.
Time reached the 89th minute.
Hoffenheim's goalkeeper Baumann, with his last ounce of strength, launched the ball with a big kick towards the front. This was their last chance! Near the center circle, Uth, with his last bit of strength, fiercely wrestled with Ramos, jumped up forcefully, and won the first header! A blurry backward flick. The ball's landing spot was precisely where Oliver was trudging along the halfway line. The ball dropped.
Oliver looked up. He didn't even need to see clearly; his brain, like a high-speed computer, made a judgment based on his last remaining consciousness and his ingrained memory of the field, solely from sound and a blurry heat map of the pitch. Casemiro and Ramos.
These two white reapers, like shadows, once again pressed in on him from left and right, like two storms. They blocked all of Oliver's routes for advancing or handling the ball. For anyone else, even a healthy player, at this moment, the only choice would be to pass back or make a forced error. But Oliver, at this moment, was a warrior whose will burned to a boiling point, squeezing every potential to the extreme.
His right leg was injured and swollen, and every muscle movement was excruciatingly painful. Just as the ball dropped, and Casemiro ferociously lunged to block the passing lane. In that extreme state where it was difficult to perform standard movements. Oliver's supporting left foot pushed off the ground fiercely, enduring the pain from his thigh muscles to stabilize his center of gravity. His injured right leg, in extreme agony, forcefully exploded. It wasn't a controlled movement, but more like an unconscious twitch driven by intense pain. Oliver's ankle, calf, and thigh muscles underwent violent spasms in immense pain.
"Look, Oliver's leg!!!" The slow-motion camera faithfully captured this moment.
Oliver's outer right thigh muscle violently twitched and convulsed when he exerted force. This was a sign of impending cramps. Amidst this twitching, Oliver's right foot, with its outside instep, seemed to have a life of its own. Relying on the instinctive rebound from muscle spasms and his deeply ingrained passing touch, he completed a graceful flick-pass while his body was almost losing balance!
The ball, lightly lifted off the ground. With an absolutely precise arc.
It soared over the tip of Casemiro's foot, who had lunged to block. It bypassed the shiny head of Varane, who had stepped up to defend but was half a beat late.
That was no longer just a pass. That was the spark of will. The ball precisely cut through the air, landing in the large open space behind Varane. Behind the center circle arc! Grillitsch, like a silent assassin, had already unleashed all his speed the instant before Oliver touched the ball! Offside trap beaten! Success!!!
"Grillitsch! One-on-one! Chance!! Hoffenheim's last hope!!!!"
Grillitsch strode into the penalty area with the ball! Facing Navas, who had come out of his goal! He chose the safest option, a push shot! Navas's diving block was half a beat late! The ball skimmed the turf, cleverly rolling into the bottom right corner of the goal.
"Goal! 3-3!! Grillitsch! Oh my God!!! They've equalized!! 89 minutes!! Oliver! It's Oliver! With an injured leg! He delivered this precisely guided pass from nearly 45 meters! A miracle reappears at Bernabéu!!"
The corner where the Hoffenheim fans were went wild! However, the immense joy lasted for less than three seconds, the linesman's flag went up. VAR intervened. Bernabéu was dead silent. Everyone held their breath, staring at the big screen. Slow-motion replay: A still frame of Grillitsch's initial movement, zoomed in, with precise lines drawn. A cold red line.
The exact moment Oliver passed the ball.
An abnormal extension in Grillitsch's toe, just extended past Varane's heel... by a single centimeter. A matter of millimeters. So close, yet so far. VAR finally confirmed: Offside, goal disallowed!
(A/n: Kinda like the Lewandowski's long boots against Real Sociedad in Oct-Nov 2024)
"Offside!!"
The referee made the gesture to disallow the goal. Bernabéu went wild again! The white wave of survival after the scare engulfed the disappointed Hoffenheim. Despair instantly crushed Hoffenheim's last bit of energy! Grillitsch painfully clutched his head and knelt, weeping. Oliver stood near the center circle. When he saw the VAR's final confirmation gesture for the disallowed goal, his body swayed violently. That string of will, which had been taut, burning, and forcefully supporting him for almost the entire second half.
At this moment, it completely snapped.
The throbbing pain in his forehead, the piercing pain in his right leg, the extreme exhaustion from overexertion, the unwillingness and regret of losing the match, all engulfed him like an avalanche. The final whistle of this match blew precisely on time, without a single second of added time. Because even the referee couldn't bear to watch any longer.
The 3-2 scoreboard, like a red-hot iron, was seared into the heart of every Hoffenheim player.
After a draw in the first leg, and being eliminated by Real Madrid in this leg, Hoffenheim's Champions League dream finally ended. The moment the whistle blew, the unyielding flame in Oliver's eyes, which had burned for ninety minutes, finally extinguished completely. He took one last look at the glaring scoreboard, the light in his eyes fading, leaving only boundless exhaustion and emptiness.
A powerful sense of collapse instantly drained all his strength; his utterly exhausted body could no longer support itself for a moment. Oliver, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, fell straight back, silently, crashing heavily onto the cold, damp turf of Bernabéu. In the last moment before his consciousness plunged into boundless darkness.
Before Oliver's eyes were the dazzling lights of Bernabéu stadium, the roaring "Hala Madrid" in his ears, the excruciating pain of his forehead wound rubbing against the turf again, the pain in his right thigh...
And anxious shouts coming from all directions...
"Oliver!!!!"
Oliver finally closed his eyes, "I can rest now."
...
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