In the 80th minute, Atlético Madrid B launched another wave.
Herbert, who had practically been a ghost for the entire match, suddenly exploded into life.
He knocked the ball forward, spun off his marker, and drove aggressively down the pitch.
Facing heavy pressure from Santander captain Seth and a retreating midfielder, Herbert effortlessly pulled off a tight roulette turn.
He slipped past both men with absolute ease!
Near the edge of the penalty box, he squared the ball to Costa.
Costa cleverly let it run through his legs, and the ball arrived cleanly at Ruli’s feet.
But facing the goal guarded by Michael Chen, Ruli completely froze.
He stuttered his steps, adjusted his footing twice, and then…
he chose to lay the ball backward to Costa.
He was genuinely scared.
Michael had already left a massive psychological shadow in his mind.
By the time Costa received the backward pass, the attacking window had slammed shut, and the Santander defense aggressively cleared the ball out of bounds.
Up in the booth, Jack was speaking at a frantic pace.
“We see Costa brilliantly let it run, and Ruli receives the ball in the box!
He has a clear window to shoot here!” Jack paused, bewildered.
“Wait, wait, wait—he’s way too slow!
Ruli lays it back to Costa, and Fernández easily clears the danger!
Ruli has had several decent looks at goal today, but all of them were stopped by Michael Chen.
Now we are actually seeing him hesitate to pull the trigger when facing Michael!”
On the touchline, Simeone Jr.
gritted his teeth, refusing to make a substitution.
If he dragged Ruli off the pitch right now, it would completely shatter the young forward’s confidence, and that could ruin his goal-scoring efficiency for the rest of the season.
For a striker, that kind of mental blow could be fatal.
“Boys!
Stay tight to your man!
Clear the ball the second you get a foot on it!” Michael waved his arms frantically, screaming at his defenders as they set up in the box.
Atlético Madrid had won a corner.
Kokosi jogged over to the flag to take it.
Michael stared tensely at the chaotic crowd of bodies shoving each other in the penalty area.
He only had about ten seconds of his rewind time left in the bank.
With Atlético throwing numbers forward and attacking from multiple angles, he had to claim this cross cleanly on the first attempt.
Kokosi delivered the corner.
It was high and floating!
Tracking the trajectory of the ball, Michael’s stomach dropped.
The opponent was trying to curve it directly into the net!
The ball drifted dangerously toward the far top corner.
Michael backpedaled, launched himself into the air, and just barely tipped it over the crossbar with one outstretched hand.
Another corner!
This time, Pacquiao jogged over to take it.
He whipped the ball violently, sending a low, driving cross straight into the heart of the box.
Two massive Atlético center-backs crashed the six-yard area at the exact same time!
Michael fought through the traffic and caught the ball—but his grip slipped.
‘He spilled it!’
Costa reacted instantly, lunging forward with a sliding tackle to smash the loose rebound into the net.
Michael panicked and was just a split-second away from activating his final rewind when a dark figure recklessly threw itself across the goalmouth.
Smack!
The ball smashed violently into the figure’s face and bounced safely away from the goal.
It was Oriol!
Blood was immediately streaming from the defender’s nose.
Michael scrambled forward, grabbing his teammate by the shoulders to support him.
“Michael spills the cross!
Costa has a golden chance!” Jack yelled over the broadcast.
“But the shot takes a brutal deflection straight off Oriol’s face!
The danger is cleared!
Oriol is down, and Michael is frantically waving for the medical team!”
Seeing the blood, the referee immediately blew his whistle to stop the match.
Costa jogged over, giving Oriol a light, respectful pat on the shoulder to apologize for the point-blank strike.
After a quick, tense examination on the grass, the Santander medical staff signaled to the bench.
Oriol needed a proper concussion protocol in the locker room.
Raul immediately requested the substitution.
As Oriol was carefully lifted onto the stretcher, Michael walked alongside him and gently patted his forehead.
“Well done,” Michael said quietly.
“You did it!
When you recover, I promise I’ll keep teaching you how to danc—uh, how to train in the martial arts.”
Oriol raised a weak, trembling thumb to show he understood, a bloody smile on his face as they carried him down the tunnel.
…
After the long stoppage, the stadium clock hit the 90th minute.
The fourth official raised the board: eight minutes of stoppage time.
The closer they got to the final whistle, the more suffocating the pressure became.
Captain Seth clapped his hands loudly, screaming at the backline to keep their focus.
Rod, the substitute who had just come on for Oriol, looked incredibly tense.
He was completely cold and clearly hadn’t settled into the chaotic rhythm of the match yet.
In the midfield, Granero controlled possession.
After recycling the ball a few times with the backline to waste time, he tapped it over to Rod.
Smelling blood, Kokosi and Pacquiao immediately sprinted over to press the nervous substitute.
Seeing the double-team closing in fast, Rod panicked and tried to play a safe pass backward to Seth.
But his technique was stiff; he put way too much power on the ball, and the angle was horribly off.
Seth desperately scrambled, but he couldn’t get there in time.
Costa didn’t hesitate for a microsecond.
He accelerated straight toward the loose ball.
‘Thank you Rod, for the perfect through ball!’ Costa thought happily.
It was a footrace, and based on the positioning, it was painfully obvious the striker was going to reach it first.
Michael instantly saw the nightmare unfolding.
With only ten seconds of rewind left, he couldn’t afford to wait on his goal line.
He decided to sweep.
Michael exploded off his line, sprinting out of the penalty box straight toward the ball.
Both men were flying across the grass at maximum speed.
Desperate to ensure he got a touch on the ball first, Michael threw himself into an aggressive sliding tackle.
Unfortunately, Costa was just a fraction of a second faster.
The striker stretched his foot out to shield the ball, and Michael’s heavy studs stamped brutally straight into Costa’s lower shin.
A horrifying scream rang out across the pitch.
‘Rewind!’
Michael reacted instantly, triggering his ability before the referee could even reach for his red card.
Time snapped backward.
This time, Michael aggressively changed his approach angle.
As both men reached the ball at the exact same time, Michael didn’t dive in.
Instead, he smoothly used his left foot to hook the ball backward in a lightning-fast Cruyff turn, shifting his body weight and completely spinning away from Costa!
Leaving the bewildered striker in the dust, Michael calmly stepped up and smashed the ball completely out of the stadium with a massive clearance.
Up in the booth, Jack was losing his mind.
“Rod’s backpass is way too heavy!…
Michael is rushing out!
Michael gets to the ball first!
Wait, what am I seeing?!
Michael Chen has just pulled off a filthy turn to dribble completely past Costa!”
“At the most crucial, terrifying moment of the match, Michael uses a piece of skill to beat Atlético’s star forward as the last man back!
What absolute nerve!
What ridiculous composure!”
Even the hostile Atlético fans in the stands couldn’t help but spontaneously applaud the brilliant, heart-stopping duel between the two players.
Brother Michael casually waved to the roaring crowd.
As they jogged back into position, Costa walked over to him, shaking his head with a wry smile.
“Michael, you really are built different,” Costa said, panting.
“You’re a special keeper, man.
It would be great if we could actually play on the same team someday.”
Costa’s words were entirely sincere.
Since the striker had offered genuine respect, Michael returned the favor, praising Costa’s movement and finishing.
Just like that, all the toxic Twitter tension from before the match completely evaporated.
If you cannot beat him, join him!
Real sincerity always hit harder than cheap trash talk.
…
Tweet!
Tweet!
Tweeeet!
The match was over.
Atlético Madrid B, playing on their home turf, had lost 0–1 to the visiting Racing Santander.
Before Costa could even ask for it, Levis jogged over and beat him to it, swapping his sweaty jersey with Michael first.
“Michael, after we shower, let’s head to the hospital together to check on Oriol,” Levis offered.
“Absolutely.
Right at that moment, Simeone Jr.
noticed the two of them talking and strolled over with a charismatic smile.
“Hello, Michael.
Your performance out there today was absolutely outstanding,” Simeone Jr.
praised.
Then, without missing a beat, he dropped the bait.
“Are you at all interested in coming to Atlético Madrid?
I mean the senior team, of course.”
The manager had barely finished complimenting him before dangling a massive, career-changing promise right in front of his face.
“Hello, Mr.
Simeone,” Michael replied politely.
“At the moment, I’m honestly not thinking about a personal transfer.
I’m just focused on working hard with Santander and fighting for the Segunda title.”
Michael smoothly rejected him.
He never believed in vague, empty promises from rival managers anyway.
“Simeone!
What the hell do you think you’re saying to my player?!”
Raul came jogging over from the technical area like a furious, overprotective parent, aggressively stepping directly between Simeone Jr.
and Michael.
“Michael, there’s a television interview waiting for you on the touchline.
Go do that first.
After you finish packing up in the dressing room, you’re coming with me to the press conference,” Raul ordered, keeping a deadly glare fixed on the opposing manager.
Michael nodded and walked toward the sideline.
Behind him, he could hear Raul and Simeone Jr.
getting into a heated, petty argument, and it instantly put him in an incredibly good mood.
“Michael, you were officially named the Player of the Match today,” the pitch-side reporter said, holding her microphone out.
She studied Michael with genuine curiosity.
This young man had completely taken over the Spanish sports news lately.
“In your very first start, you kept a clean sheet against a brutal attack and won the MVP award.
What would you like to say to the fans?”
“Hmm…
honestly, I don’t think I’m the MVP today,” Michael said into the mic.
His very first sentence completely stunned the reporter.
The cameraman quickly adjusted his lens, zooming in tight, fully expecting some arrogant or shocking statement.
“I firmly believe that Oriol was the real player of the match today,” Michael continued, his tone serious.
“He is a warrior and a perfect example of what it means to defend this badge.
He put his body on the line for this team.
This MVP award should have been given to him.”
‘Oh!’
Even the veteran reporter was visibly moved by Michael’s words.
She had originally prepared a few nasty trap questions to throw at him, but Michael had completely elevated the tone of the interview from his very first answer.
…
After wrapping up the broadcast, Michael headed straight to the dressing room to pack his gear.
When he finally walked into the press conference room alongside Raul, the camera flashes began exploding non-stop the second he took his seat.
A short man in the front row aggressively raised his hand and didn’t wait to be called on.
“Michael!
I’m a reporter from Baka Sports.
You obviously performed brilliantly today, but I want to ask why you previously—”
Before the weasel could even finish his sentence, Michael leaned into the microphone and cut him off completely.
“Sorry, did you say you’re from Baka Sports?”
“Yes, I am,” the reporter said, looking slightly confused by the interruption.
“I apologize, but I never deal with Baka Sports,” Michael said with a completely deadpan expression.
“My toilet at home is already fully stocked.
It doesn’t need anything else from you.”
The entire room went dead silent, completely baffled by the weird statement.
After that, no matter what the Baka Sports reporter asked or yelled, Michael completely ignored him, staring right through him as if he didn’t exist.
Furious, the reporter started loudly shouting about filing formal complaints with the league, only to be promptly grabbed by two security guards and escorted out of the room.
Once the door shut, the next reporter in line couldn’t hold back his curiosity.
“Mr.
Chen, what exactly did you mean earlier when you said your toilet doesn’t need anything else?”
Michael smiled, leaning back in his chair.
“Because a Spanish Baka Sports newspaper is exactly what a toilet needs.”
The entire press room instantly burst into genuine, booming laughter.
The reporters suddenly had a brand-new understanding of this cocky, brilliant goalkeeper who had just violently kicked the door down into the spotlight.