Chapter 197: The Hero of the City

Magath was spot on about the second half. Wolfsburg charged out of the tunnel and threw themselves forward like a squad with nothing to lose, swarming every loose ball in a sea of green shirts.

Mateo quickly realized they were running into Magath’s old blueprint. The aggressive, wave-after-wave pressing that had delivered Wolfsburg a league title two years ago seemed permanently baked into the stadium turf. McClaren’s side pinned Schalke deep inside their own half, with Diego slipping between the defensive lines and Grafite relentlessly testing the center-backs. For twenty minutes, Schalke had to put their heads down and defend their penalty area while the home crowd roared for an upset.

Still, a team that commits every man forward inevitably leaves massive space behind them. Magath had counted on that exact tendency at halftime, and his instructions had been crystal clear.

The breakthrough arrived in the 64th minute.

Wolfsburg worked the ball wide left, and their midfielder Cícero opened his body to swing a cross toward the penalty spot. Jones, desperate to atone for the early foul, anticipated the delivery early. He darted across the edge of the box, cleanly stripped the ball right off Cícero’s boot, tumbled to the grass, and scrambled straight back to his feet. He didn’t even bother looking up. He simply trusted where Mateo would be and rolled a firm pass square into midfield.

Mateo collected the ball inside his own half. The entire Wolfsburg team was pushed up, leaving a massive stretch of green grass completely vacant behind their defensive line. He lifted his head, spotted the run, and played the pass.

It was a perfectly weighted ball lofted over the retreating defenders, dropping straight into the channel where Vardy was already sprinting at full speed. The ball had just enough backspin to sit down nicely on the turf, rolling forward as if guided on invisible rails.

Benaglio read the danger immediately and charged out of his eighteen-yard box. For a second, it looked like a fifty-fifty race. The goalkeeper was bigger and had a shorter angle to cut down, and the home supporters held their breath.

Vardy reached it first. The Englishman had built his entire career on that burst of pace, and he reached out a boot to poke the ball past Benaglio’s sliding frame just before the keeper could smother it. The ball rolled cleanly toward the empty net. Vardy trotted after it and tapped it over the goal line from the edge of the box.

Fweet—!

2-1, Schalke.

Wolfsburg had overcommitted their numbers forward, and a single counter-attack had sliced them wide open. The Volkswagen Arena fell dead silent.

Vardy wheeled away toward the corner flag to celebrate with the traveling supporters, and his teammates swarmed him from behind. Mateo caught his breath and glanced over at the technical area. Magath was completely still.

He stood with his arms folded across his chest, keeping his expression neutral. He had just taken the lead against the club that had unfurled a massive welcome banner for him, in front of thirty thousand supporters who had given him a standing ovation before kickoff. The players celebrated around him, but Magath refused to celebrate in front of his former fans. He looked like a man torn between winning a professional title and hurting people he cared about.

The Wolfsburg supporters simply watched their former manager with a quiet, somber respect that hung over the entire ground.

The final twenty-five minutes were all about game management.

Holding a 2-1 lead away from home, Schalke slowed the tempo right down. Mateo dropped deep between the central defenders, dictating play with short, safe passes and forcing Wolfsburg to chase shadows. The home side pushed forward in spurts, but fatigue started to catch up with them. Diego tried to create one final opening, and Neuer comfortably collected the only dangerous cross that came his way.

Jones even managed to pick up his usual yellow card for a late sliding challenge in the 84th minute, pleading his innocence with a bewildered shrug before jogging back into position.

When the final whistle blew, Schalke walked away with a hard-fought 2-1 win. They had absorbed a wonder goal, weathered the storm, and held onto top spot with two matches left in the Bundesliga season.

The players walked over toward the away end to applaud the traveling fans. Only as Magath reached the entrance of the players’ tunnel did he allow himself a quiet nod and a brief smile away from the cameras.

On the team bus heading back home, the squad checked the league table on their phones.

The math was as straightforward as it got. Two games remained. Schalke sat first, and the next match was at the Veltins-Arena against Bayern Munich.

It was the team everyone insisted Schalke couldn’t overcome, the club whose local papers had declared their season finished the moment they drew Barcelona, boasting that a Bayern win in Gelsenkirchen could still take the title away at the death.

Mateo sat by the window, watching the dark German highway roll past as his thoughts stacked up. The Champions League semi-final against Barcelona was looming large, but Bayern Munich at home for the league title was up first. Everything he had been training for was arriving all at once.

Vardy plopped down into the leather seat beside him, grinning widely with an ice pack strapped to his ankle.

“Well, mate,” Vardy said, nudging his shoulder. “Bayern next week at home. Win that, and we take the whole bloody league.”

“Yeah, just one win away,” Mateo said, turning his head from the window.

Vardy took a sip from his water bottle, eyeing him closely. “You looking forward to it, or are the nerves kicking in a bit?”

Mateo leaned back into the headrest, considering the question for a second.

“Honestly, not really nervous,” Mateo said with a slight grin. “We’ve worked too hard all year to worry about them now. Let’s just go win it.”