The 17-18 Champions League Round of 16 (6)

After Barcelona took the lead, it was Chelsea, naturally, who felt the urgency. The aggregate sat at 2–2, but Barcelona held the edge on away goals.

Urgency, however, was not the same thing as despair. Chelsea were a side with the quality to conjure a goal at any moment, and conceding so early had only awakened their attacking instincts.

But an awakened attacking instinct also meant a stretched line, and a stretched line meant vulnerability on the break. Barcelona were a side that preferred to build patiently — that didn't mean they never countered. They simply refused to gamble on hopeful balls from the back. If a genuine chance presented itself, they would take it without hesitation.

And the fact that the player on the ball was Ryu Ha-neul meant the pass that followed was as close to a guaranteed completion as football allowed.

Of course, connecting a pass was not the same as converting a chance. For Barcelona, though, even that much was enough.

Having taken one look at the counter, Barcelona collectively dropped the tempo and wrested the shape of the game back from Chelsea, who had been driving the attack.

And once that lull set in, the match drifted along without incident. Barcelona, already in front, had no reason to force anything. Chelsea, for their part, couldn't throw everything forward — one more goal conceded and they were as good as out — and it was still too early to roll the dice with so much time left on the clock.

Oh — a two-striker system?

The second half had barely started when Freya, the midfielder who'd been shouldering Chelsea's passing, came off, and Mia, a towering English striker, came on. They'd finally drawn the knife.

Coach Diena had told us at halftime that Chelsea would likely shift to a 4-4-2 around the seventieth minute. Seeing them change it the instant the second half kicked off told me they were a lot more desperate than we'd expected.

Pulling Freya — the only genuinely creative passer in Chelsea's midfield — and throwing on a target striker like Mia made their intentions perfectly clear. They were going to spend the next forty-five minutes pumping in crosses, just like any ordinary English side. Whatever they lacked in invention, they'd make up for with Sophia and Asha, who could run for ninety minutes without ever seeming to tire.

Tandiwe, only 180 cm and on the smaller side, but elite in pace and spring, true to her African athletic pedigree. Mia, 196 cm, a heading machine of the classic English variety. Sophia, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠190 cm, a German for whom the word "tank" might as well have been invented. And Asha, 187 cm, a Ghanaian midfielder built entirely around her physique. The two strikers and two midfielders occupying Chelsea's spine could all turn a whipped cross into a headed shot at a moment's notice, and I couldn't pretend that didn't worry me. The only player in our current lineup over 190 cm was Tena at the back.

But those players — Sophia and Asha in particular — committing themselves into the box for headers also meant the game was about to get a lot more comfortable for me.

And that prediction became reality soon enough.

"Ryu!"

Maximilena claimed the high cross, shouted my name, and launched the ball long. It knifed through the layers of bodies and settled onto my foot.

Even the fullbacks had pushed up to deliver crosses, leaving only Chelsea's two center-backs in front of me.

I felt a presence closing from behind and simply flicked the ball up with my instep. It traced a perfect arc over the head of Fabiola, charging in at my back, and dropped to the grass. In the split second she froze, I was already gone, driving the ball forward and leaving her behind.

Davina was tearing toward me to cut me off, the goalkeeper the only one behind her. And in the instant a startled Fabiola hooked my trailing leg—

"Not yet—!"

I rolled the ball forward at just the right weight, trusting Alvaria to be storming through on the counter behind me.

"Ghk—!"

Pain flared through my shin and I went down, but the ball had already left my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠foot. I could see Alvaria collecting the pass in my field of vision, and a breath of relief escaped me on its own. Davina had never been quick, and she'd been sprinting toward me, caught on her heels — I'd felt in my bones that Alvaria would get there. Seeing her actually take the ball down still pulled a sigh out of me.

Hah…

The relief lasted only a moment before the pain in my kicked shin announced itself properly. But the referee's whistle hadn't blown, which meant the match was still live. I gritted my teeth and limped toward the six-yard box, hunting a second ball just in case. In the end, I needn't have bothered. Alvaria was not some nobody who would waste a one-on-one.

She struck it hard, aiming for the far post, and the ball buried itself in the net. The score was 2–0.

Those idiots. That's why you stick to what you're good at. A team that made its living on defense, trying to slug it out with us?

I was still laughing at Chelsea for daring to fight fire with fire when Alvaria went sliding across the grass on her knees, and Fabiola — the one who'd kicked my shin — was shown a yellow card.

And that was only the beginning.

Already two goals down, Chelsea threw themselves forward even harder, desperate to at least force extra time, and the same situation that had produced the second goal kept repeating itself.

Counter after counter, until at last—

The whistle shrieked.

"Wait—?! This—? No, come on! Please, please…"

"Kgh— kgh—!"

"Look at Ryu. He can barely breathe. You thought you could yank his shirt from behind like that and not get a card?"

"Ah, please…"

Fabiola, who had been killing herself trying to cover the entire defensive line on her own, was sent off on a second yellow, and the match tilted completely our way.

From the dangerous free kick that followed, Lucia added a third. The score was 3–0.

"Ryu, you're coming off!"

"Yes, Coach."

Two assists to my name, I left the pitch to the applause of a Camp Nou packed to the rafters. The match finished 3–0, and we were through to the quarterfinals.