Chapter 186: The Wound

Trailing by two goals at home, Inter stopped playing with composure and began playing out of pure urgency. A giant club playing with its back against the wall is always a dangerous proposition.

Leonardo threw caution away completely. Both full-backs pushed deep into the German half. Sneijder dropped into a deeper pocket to get more touches on the ball, Cambiasso pushed up alongside him, and the entire blue wave tilted forward. Attack after attack crashed against the compact white block Schalke had formed.

Over on the touchline, Magath was off the bench, pumping both hands down toward the grass and shouting the same German phrase over and over: stay, stay, stay compact. Only Vardy remained up near the center circle. Every other outfield player dropped back to defend.

For ten frantic minutes, the structure held together. Neuer rose above a sea of heads to pluck dangerous crosses out of the air. Höwedes and Metzelder threw themselves into the path of every driven shot.

Rakitić and Jones sat right in front of the back four, refusing to get dragged out of position. Mateo, who had sliced through five defenders only minutes before, tracked back forty yards to help trap Maicon and force a throw-in near his own corner flag. It was gritty, dirty defensive work, and he did it without complaining.

Even so, asking a backline to absorb continuous pressure from Milito and Eto'o without making a single mistake is nearly impossible. In the 61st minute, that mistake finally came.

The danger developed down the left side. Sneijder and Cambiasso worked a quick one-two that pulled Jones half a yard out of his defensive lane. Sneijder spotted the tiny seam instantly and threaded a sharp pass into Milito's feet right at the edge of the penalty box. Milito used his broad frame to shield the ball, leaning his weight into Metzelder and refusing to budge. He paused for half a second, waiting out Höwedes's desperate recovery slide, and squared a pass into the vacant corridor.

Eto'o arrived on a dead sprint, hitting the ball on the run before Neuer could even set his feet. The strike flew flat and hard across the turf toward the far post. Neuer threw himself down and got a hand to it, but the sheer power carried it through. The ball squirmed underneath his glove and trickled over the goal line.

Fweet—!

3-2.

The San Siro went berserk. Eighty thousand supporters found their voices again, roaring as if the comeback was already guaranteed. Eto'o sprinted toward the corner flag with his arms spread wide and slid on his knees in front of the home end. Over by the dugout, Leonardo was clapping his hands violently and urging the fans to get even louder, knowing a two-goal deficit had just been halved with plenty of time remaining.

Mateo stood near the center circle, hands on his hips, taking a deep breath to steady his racing heart.

The lead was down to 3-2. Inter also had two goals on the board now, which meant that going back to Gelsenkirchen with this scoreline would leave the entire tie hanging in the balance. If Inter found another equalizer, all the hard work from Jones's strike, Farfán's diving header, and his own solo run could vanish in a matter of minutes.

He forced himself to stay level-headed. Getting rattled now would only invite disaster.

Mateo jogged over to Jones and Rakitić, helping them reset the midfield spacing. Then he signaled for Farfán to tuck in a little tighter and checked in on Höwedes and Metzelder, who were both breathing hard from the relentless running. Nobody had handed Mateo the captain's armband, and at eighteen, he was the youngest starter on the pitch. Still, the players naturally adjusted around him. Over the course of the season, whenever Mateo pointed out a lane or adjusted a position, it almost always worked out.

"Keep the middle locked down," Mateo told Jones, wiping sweat from his eyebrows. "Don't let Sneijder turn. If they want to play wide and swing crosses in, let them. Manuel handles crosses all day. Just stay on your feet and don't commit early. Another ten minutes of this pace and their legs will start giving out."

Jones gave a quick nod, catching his breath. "Got it. We hold the center."

That was the exact gamble Magath had prepared for. The Inter squad possessed world-class talent, but they were carrying older legs. The same midfield that had suffocated Schalke early in the match had spent the last hour chasing teenagers across eighty yards of grass. Zanetti had been forced into ten recovery sprints, while Cambiasso and Stanković were both in their thirties. If Schalke could just survive this ten-minute storm, Inter's energy would fall off a cliff.

They held on by the barest margins. Milito missed a clean header from six yards out, a chance he would have buried with ease a couple of years earlier. Sneijder lined up a dangerous free kick from twenty yards, but the curl carried it a foot over the crossbar. Neuer came off his line to catch a high ball under heavy pressure from two attackers, took the hit, absorbed the contact, and quickly bowled the ball out wide to clear the danger.

The man who truly kept the defense from drowning was Vardy.

Whenever Schalke won the ball back and needed a moment to breathe, they hooked it long into the wide channels. Vardy chased down every single lost ball, wrestling near the corner flag against two center-backs to burn precious seconds off the clock. He took hard shoves, picked up bruises, and earned cheap fouls in the opposition half, forcing Inter to build their attacks from sixty yards away.

It wasn't the work that earned post-match awards, but it gave his exhausted teammates ten vital seconds of recovery time. Magath stood on the sideline with his arms crossed, watching Vardy grind, trusting that Inter's stamina would fail before his own players broke down.

Minute by minute, the storm lost its edge. Inter's crosses started drifting harmlessly out of play, their recovery runs grew sluggish, and large gaps began opening between their midfield and defensive lines.

By the 70th minute, the surge was entirely spent. Inter were still pushing forward, but the crispness was gone. It was just tired players throwing themselves ahead because the home crowd kept demanding an equalizer.

When a tired team keeps throwing numbers forward, they leave huge spaces behind them.

Mateo tracked back to win a loose ball near his own box, his chest heaving as he turned. He picked up his head and saw the pitch opening up once more. Zanetti had pushed way too high up the flank in his eagerness to create something, leaving the entire right touchline totally exposed.

Farfán was standing just a few yards away, nursing a swollen nose and looking just as tired as everyone else. But he recognized the opening immediately, pointing his finger straight into the empty channel.

Mateo set his feet, brought his right boot back, and prepared to drop the pass right into his path.

Hey guys, just a quick reminder that our bonus event is still active: We came really close last week, but didn't quite make it, so let's try again this week. Let's see if we can unlock it. Enjoy the read!