Chapter 196: The Free-Kick Showdown

Diego struck it with immediate pace.

The ball whipped right through the gap where the jumping wall split, rising cleanly over the outside shoulder before dipping sharply toward the corner of the crossbar and the upright.

Neuer launched himself across his line at full stretch, but he could not reach it. It was hit with too much speed and placed with ridiculous precision, the kind of strike that leaves a world-class goalkeeper stranded. The ball rattled into the top corner.

Fweet—!

1-0, Wolfsburg. 7th minute

A struggling side that had spent weeks looking nervously at the bottom of the table was suddenly leading the title favorites. Diego ran toward the home end with his arms outstretched, soaking in the roar of thirty thousand fans screaming his name.

Jones stood near the edge of the box with both hands clasped over his head. He knew his reckless challenge had caused it. Everyone in the ground knew it.

Mateo jogged over to him before the replay even finished playing on the stadium screens. He slapped a hand firmly against Jones’s shoulder.

“Shake it off, Jermaine,” Mateo said, keeping his tone calm and steady. “It’s just one goal. We’ll get it back, so keep your head in the match.”

Jones blew out a rough breath, looking miserable, but he gave a quick nod. When the television cameras zoomed in on him a moment later, he offered a brief, begrudging clap for the strike. He had given away the foul, but he refused to pout while the home fans gloated.

It took only four minutes for Schalke to respond.

They moved the ball forward through midfield. Mateo dropped deep to collect possession, rolled easily past Diego, and slipped a through-ball into the left channel for Huntelaar. The Dutch striker took one touch before Josué lunged in from the side, cynically hacking his ankles to break up the attack.

The referee blew for a foul. Free kick to Schalke, thirty-six meters out, shaded to the left.

The stadium noise dropped into a quiet hum. Thirty-six meters was an absurd distance for a direct shot on goal. Standard football logic dictated a floating cross toward the back post, where Metzelder and Vardy were already jostling for position with the center-backs. Everyone in the arena expected a lofted delivery into the mixer.

Wolfsburg placed just two men in a loose wall to protect against a driven pass. Diego wandered over to join them, clearly curious to see what the teenager intended to do from such a ridiculous distance.

Mateo set the ball carefully on the grass, found the valve, and looked up at the goal.

He had activated the Partner link with Vardy before kickoff, and the striker was already timing his run toward the near post. Floating a cross into the box was the sensible choice.

Yet Diego had just buried a wonder strike from distance, and Wolfsburg were riding high on the momentum. Mateo looked down at his boots, backed up four paces, and felt the familiar kick of Beckham’s Curve settle into his strike.

It was his first activation of the match.

He started his approach with long, aggressive strides and struck the ball with maximum power.

The impact made a clean, sharp crack that echoed across the pitch.

From thirty-six meters out, the shot did not have the gentle loop of his typical set pieces. It required sheer velocity. The ball screeched over the two-man wall so violently that Diego felt the rush of wind brush his cheek as he flinched.

Once it cleared the wall, the heavy spin grabbed the air. The ball swerved late and hard, veering away from Benaglio’s initial positioning and whistling violently back toward the far corner, bending the way Roberto Carlos once struck them.

Benaglio never even left his feet. By the time his instincts caught up to the flight path, the ball was already past his outstretched gloves, smacking into the top corner.

SWISH!

Fweet—!

1-1.

For a couple of seconds, the home crowd went completely quiet. A strike like that simply stunned the entire stadium into silence. Then the Schalke players rushed forward in a pack.

Jones arrived first, wrapping his arms around Mateo and lifting him off his feet, roaring loudly enough to drown out the whistle. His earlier misery was completely gone as the rest of the squad piled on to celebrate.

Over by the technical area, Magath pumped a tight fist, then quickly folded his arms and shouted for his backline to organize. There was still plenty of football left against a side fighting for pride.

The rest of the first half stayed competitive. Energized by the atmosphere and their early goal, Wolfsburg pressed forward whenever they found space. Diego orchestrated the attacks from deep, while Grafite used his physical strength to test Metzelder in the air. Schalke absorbed the pressure, kept their defensive shape, and took the match into halftime at 1-1.

Inside the away dressing room, Magath waited for the players to sit down and grab their water bottles before speaking.

“The free kick was exceptional, Mateo,” Magath said, pacing slowly in front of the whiteboard. “Now let’s talk about the scoreline. We are tied away from home against a club that wants nothing more than to spoil our season. They will come out flying in the second half. I managed this club, so I know exactly how these fans push them forward. They will overcommit to the attack, and when they do, we hit them on the counter.”

Magath turned his attention directly to Vardy.

“Be ready to run into the space behind their high line the second we win the ball,” Magath added. “That is where this match is going to be won.”

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