UEFA Europa League, Part 3

Any lingering pressure of playing in our first-ever European fixture melted away like snow the moment Dominic finished his cheeky celebration.

And what surged into its place was pure, unadulterated confidence.

“Unstoppable! He is simply unstoppable!”

“Thirty minutes into the first half, Lee Han bags a brace to make it 3–0! A waking nightmare for visiting Genk!”

A razor-sharp pass slicing through the midfield right after our build-up from the back. The ball fed out wide with effortless poise. Wingers whipping in pinpoint deliveries. And finally, me, rising above the chaos to finish those crosses into the back of the net.

“Luton! Luton! Luton!”

“Bring us the Europa League!”

Roars of longing and unfiltered hope poured down from the stands as I pumped an emphatic uppercut into the air.

“You’re looking unusually sharp today, mate,” someone called out.

“Yeah. So keep those crosses coming.”

Unlike our usual routine, we had arrived at the ground a bit earlier today. Perhaps because of that, it hadn't taken long at all to hit my peak stride once the whistle blew. With a league fixture waiting for us this weekend, I had secretly worried about what might happen if we failed to put this match to bed early, but it turned out to be completely unnecessary fretting.

If I could nick just one more goal here, the gaffer would almost certainly sub off most of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the key starters to preserve our legs for the weekend.

Who’s next in the league again...?

Liverpool, if I remembered correctly.

Chewing on that thought, I jogged back toward the center circle. As I took my position and waited, the faces of the Genk players preparing for their third kickoff of the night looked utterly grim. One look at the scoreboard and the dead silence hanging over their traveling away section made it painfully obvious why.

Even so, I had no intention of letting my foot off the gas.

“Got to bag one more,” I murmured.

“Way ahead of you. Was just thinking the exact same thing.”

In the entire history of Luton Town—hell, even across the top four European leagues—no player had ever scored three consecutive hat-tricks for their club. Opportunities like this didn't come around twice in a career. I wasn't about to let this moment slip through my fingers.

Granted, the hat-trick away at Everton had technically been Lee Yeon’s doing, but seeing as we put them away with the very same body, the record books wouldn't care either way.

“...Substitution.”

I had wondered why Genk were dragging their feet on the restart, but then the fourth official raised the board, and fresh players trotted out from the Genk bench after wrapping up their touchline warm-ups.

Both outgoing players, Max Lepend and Arno Kaminski, were central midfielders. In their place came Triss Witsel and Asnen Vranckx, a defensive midfielder and an outright center-back.

“Ah, Genk are dropping completely deep right here in the first half.”

“Considering how defensive their full-backs are to begin with, this essentially deploys them as wing-backs and sets up a five-man backline to shut down crosses entirely.”

“Spot on. This isn't a single-leg knockout; it’s a group stage where goal differential matters just as much as wins and losses. The Genk manager is making a thoroughly pragmatic choice.”

It was true. Pushing blindly forward in a conventional, counter-attacking 4-4-2 would only bleed more goals and play straight into our hands. Genk’s double change was an unequivocal statement: they were abandoning broad attacking patterns, leaving the front entirely to a handful of forwards, and bunkering down to minimize the damage. It was also an admission that their initial scouting report had completely underestimated Luton Town's firepower.

“...Crossing is going to be bloody impossible now,” Luke muttered under his breath from just to my left.

While our starting wingers today possessed decent dribbling ability, their greatest asset was raw pace. If the opposition sat this deep and refused to surrender a single inch of space behind them, holding possession wouldn't be an issue, but beating a defender clean off the dribble to whip in a cross would become a nightmare.

Of course, that didn't mean we were out of ideas.

Cutbacks.

To be precise, not just an ordinary cutback, but a sharp lateral change of angle from the edge of the penalty box, sliding the ball back toward the center of the box. That was the textbook antidote to a low-block back five.

Aside from our opening goal, nearly all of Luton’s attacks throughout the first half had followed a simple pattern: cross from wide, head it into the net. Just because it was simple didn't mean it wasn't lethal—the scoreboard proved that much—but its simplicity also made it easy for an opponent to read and counter. As evidenced by Genk shifting their formation right before our eyes.

Naturally, if we flipped our entire method of attack on its head, their defensive adjustment would become completely obsolete.

“Don't cross it in the air,” I told him. “Drive it low along the deck.”

“Mate, didn't you completely botch your touch with your feet on your first goal today?”

“Still gotta do it.”

I just hadn't warmed up properly early on. That was the story I had to tell myself, even if it took straight-up brainwashing. I had no idea how dialed in my long-range shooting was at this exact second, but my scoring instinct today was burning white-hot. Even if I couldn't fully trust my feet, I decided to trust my nose for goal.

“Well, there isn't much time left in the half anyway. I’ll feed you like you asked.”

“Not like there’s anyone else to give it to anyway,” someone chimed in.

“Assists are practically printing themselves, boys!” Dominic crowed.

A few of them shot me slightly dubious glances, but on the whole, the unshakeable faith in their eyes was damn reassuring. Right as our quick huddle broke, Genk took their restart.

Perhaps because the halftime whistle was looming, Genk kept their line tucked deep, relying on numerical superiority rather than fluid passing to cycle the ball. Without enough bodies committed forward, they couldn't penetrate beyond midfield, but trailing by three goals, their bench clearly felt reorganizing the side took priority over reckless attacks.

Luton Town, however, had zero intention of sitting back and watching them pass the time.

On Gordon's signal from the technical area, Captain Teddy pushed aggressively into the vacated midfield pocket left behind when Genk formed their back five. Simultaneously, Giovanni stepped up and clamped onto Triss Witsel like a vise.

With Genk’s defensive line fanned out in an awkward zigzag—closer to a passing drill than proper build-up play—their lone defensive midfielder, Triss Witsel, had been left to orchestrate everything on his own. He might have gotten away with knocking the ball around when we were applying moderate pressure, but that free ride was officially over.

“Ah, a mistake from Triss Witsel!”

“Soterren couldn't keep it in! It’s over the touchline, and Luton Town are setting up for a quick throw!”

“Look at how Luton sprang that trap. The moment Genk hesitated at the back, Luton applied suffocating pressure and targeted Witsel, the single link meant to relieve it. Brilliant, lightning-fast tactical execution.”

With the ball back under our control, it was time to strike with ruthlessness. Excluding Andre, who stayed back at center-back, every single outfield player pushed into the opposition half near the center circle for the throw-in.

“Mick! Pass!”

Genk had locked down every forward channel, but they never anticipated our center-back, Jackson, galloping forward and demanding the ball. Jackson took it on the half-turn and drove straight upfield without hesitation, catching Genk flat-footed as they scrambled out of their man-marking assignments.

Surging into the final third just outside the edge of the box, Jackson assessed the still-packed defensive wall before slipping the ball sideways to Dominic, who was already poised to receive.

“Take it!”

Dominic redirected the play in the blink of an eye, spraying the ball out to Luke, who was hugging the left touchline.

“Luke! Pull it back slightly!”

Tracking the flight of the ball and spotting Genk’s wing-back charging hard, I bellowed across the pitch. True to his word about trusting me without question, Luke reacted instantly.

“Just skims over the head of the Genk wing-back! Luke Wilson controls!”

“He needs to whip in the cross quickly, but there are far too many center-backs clogging the penalty box! What can he do here?!”

Luke wound up his leg with a huge, exaggerated backlift as if to deliver an aerial cross just like he had all evening. When the wing-back lunged in a desperate block, Luke neatly dinked the ball over him, rendering the defender's flying commitment entirely pointless.

At that exact fraction of a second, I peeled away from between the center-backs in a sharp U-shaped run, ducking behind their blind spots to plant myself dead center, just outside the edge of the penalty box.

Then it came.

From the left, a crisp pass sliced across the grass with perfect pace.

There was no time to take a touch.

I didn't execute it personally, but I visualized the countless video clips I had studied of Lee Yeon unleashing strikes with this very body. I judged the incoming ball's speed and planted my right foot firmly into the turf.

Studs buried deep. Trailing leg drawn back as far as it would go. Eyes locked onto the ball until the final millisecond.

Just before the ball reached my plant foot, I whipped my striking leg through half a beat early.

CRACK!!

The sound off the leather was pure, ringing clarity. There was no need to look at the goal to know where it was headed.

“Dead center from outside the box! An absolute venomous thunderbolt dare-you-to-save-it strike—and it rips into the back of the net!”

“A sensational long-range missile that turns the center-backs into statues!!”

“The sheer velocity was terrifying—the defenders actually flinched out of the way!”

I spun around and sprinted toward the roaring Luton Town end, flashing three fingers high above my head.

“Lee Han shares the euphoria of a hat-trick with the supporters!”

“Another hat-trick, this time on the European stage! He scripts an unprecedented historic milestone: three consecutive hat-tricks!”

Fireworks exploded high into the night sky, and the massive electronic screen lit up with my face alongside the historic record. The club must have prepped it secretly beforehand, not wanting to heap undue pressure on me before kickoff.

Before I could even watch the smoke from the fireworks disperse, a sea of orange-and-white jerseys swarmed me from every direction.