***Bonus for reaching 200 stones***
From the comntary booth, Lineker and Jon had the perfect panoramic view, the so-called "God's perspective." Every movent, every shift of formation, every little tactical trick on the pitch was right there in front of them.
Jon leaned forward, his eyes following Bale as the young Welshman scrambled up from the turf after a rough tussle. "I'll admit, Gary," Jon said, his voice tinged with surprise, "I didn't expect Bale to be even more dangerous after dropping deeper. Arthur's pulled a clever one here. By moving him back, he's given Bale more runway to accelerate. And as long as Lahm or Mascherano make the interception, Leeds can imdiately switch play and launch Bale down that left channel."
Jon barely finished his thought when Mascherano made his move.
The Argentine was like a coiled spring—waiting, waiting—and then, bang. He tid it to perfection, sliding in to nick the ball cleanly from under Malouda's feet. Malouda barely had ti to blink before Mascherano was already on his feet again, the ball tucked neatly under his control.
No hesitation. No overthinking. Mascherano snapped his head up and fired the ball forward to Kroos, who had already peeled into space. Kroos, cool as you like, didn't bother taking more than a touch. He looked up, saw the blur of red-and-white sprinting ahead, and sent a gorgeous diagonal pass cutting across the pitch, dropping perfectly into Bale's path.
"Here we go," Lineker muttered, almost to himself.
Bale was already at full throttle. Glen Johnson, tasked with dealing with this human hurricane, wasn't about to dive in recklessly this ti. He knew better. Instead, Johnson backpedaled, keeping his body angled just so, trying to block Bale's favored inward route onto his stronger left foot.
Chelsea weren't standing still either. Essien thundered across like a runaway freight train, and Carvalho began shifting over to close the space. The Blues' defense was scrambling, and they knew it.
But Bale wasn't panicking. Far from it. The look in his eyes said he'd seen this movie before. He glanced up briefly, just enough to notice Adriano muscling his way toward the box. Johnson clearly expected him to cut inside, but Bale smirked inwardly and decided otherwise.
He pushed the ball forward with his left boot, kicked into a higher gear, and exploded down the outside toward the byline.
The sudden burst of acceleration caught Johnson completely off guard. His eyes widened, and for a split second he almost looked like a cartoon character who'd just realized he was chasing a speeding train.
"Look at that pace!" Jon shouted, half-rising from his seat.
Bale ate up the ground in seconds, leaving Johnson scrambling and Essien lunging desperately to catch up. Carvalho and Ben Haim started to drift nervously toward the danger zone. The whole Chelsea backline was being dragged to the left like moths to a fla.
Two… three seconds later, Bale was already on the edge of the penalty area, hugging the sideline like it was his best friend. He lifted his head for just a heartbeat, scanned the middle, and spotted a flash of white breaking into the box.
That was all the invitation he needed.
Bale whipped his left foot through the ball, fizzing a low, driven cross straight into the corridor of chaos.
"Adriano!" Lineker's voice cracked with excitent as the ball zipped across the grass toward the Brazilian giant.
For a mont, ti seed to slow. Everyone had been hypnotized by Bale's surging run, their eyes glued to the wing. In that distraction, Adriano had ghosted forward, arriving in acres of space. No one had tracked him properly.
There he was, a hulking figure in white, standing just outside the box with only Tal Ben Haim between him and glory.
The ball reached him in a heartbeat. Adriano adjusted with one deft touch, saw Ben Haim hesitate, and then unleashed a thunderous strike before the defender could fully close him down.
The ball tore off his boot, skidding low and hard, slicing past Ben Haim's outstretched leg and arrowing toward the bottom right corner of the net.
For Petr Čech, it was a nightmare. The big Czech goalkeeper's view had been completely blocked by Ben Haim. He couldn't even see Adriano wind up. By the ti he caught sight of the ball, it was already hurtling toward his goal.
Pure instinct took over. Čech flung himself sideways, stretching every inch of his massive fra. His reaction had been delayed, but his wingspan was extraordinary. Just as the ball was about to sneak inside the post, his outstretched palm made the faintest, most crucial contact.
Smack!
The ball deflected wide of the post, skimming the grass before spinning out for a corner.
"Čech! Absolutely magnificent!" Jon's voice cracked as if he'd just watched a miracle. He was practically sweating in the booth, his heart pounding. "Adriano nearly announced himself to England with a thunderbolt from the top of the box, but Čech denies him! What a save!"
The Leeds fans had been halfway out of their seats, arms raised, already screaming for the goal. Instead, their cheers turned into groans, hands raking through hair, scarves thrown in frustration. They had seen the net rippling in their minds—only for Čech to spoil the party.
Down on the touchline, Arthur clapped his hands together once, sharp and encouraging. He wasn't frustrated. Not one bit. His eyes told the story: this was exactly what he'd been waiting for. Adriano's silence in the opening twenty minutes had been shattered.
On the comntary mic, Jon kept going, his voice a mix of relief and exhilaration. "That, Gary, is why Arthur and Kaka kept insisting Adriano is back. Look at that strike—power, precision, confidence. You don't hit a ball like that unless you're feeling good about yourself. I don't care what anyone says—Adriano looks sharp to ."
Lineker chuckled nervously, tugging at his collar. "All right, all right. Maybe I spoke too soon. That shot… that was the Adriano defenders used to fear at Inter. If he keeps getting service like that, Chelsea might be in trouble."
On the pitch, Adriano was already jogging back into position, a sly grin tugging at his lips. The Brazilian had finally bared his teeth, and now everyone knew—he was hungry.
*****
The broadcast director didn't miss a beat. The cara imdiately zood in on Adriano, and the Brazilian's expression said everything. He looked annoyed—like a man who'd just dropped his ice cream on the pavent. He closed his eyes, rubbed his bald head hard with both hands, as if polishing it might restart his brain, and then forced himself to snap back into focus. Despite his irritation, he still gave a thumbs-up toward Bale, who had delivered the pass. A clear gesture: "Good ball, brother. Don't worry about ."
The lens lingered on Adriano for a few long seconds, capturing the tension in his features. Then, almost as if by accident, the cara cut to the Leeds United technical area.
There stood Arthur, arms folded one mont and then clapping the next, a bright smile plastered on his face. He was applauding Adriano's effort, looking entirely pleased. Rivaldo stood right beside him, nodding like a wise uncle at a family gathering. On the surface, they looked calm, encouraging, even fatherly.
But what the audience couldn't hear, the microphones too far away to catch, was Rivaldo's teasing murmur. He leaned toward Arthur, smirking:
"Boss, have you noticed? Chelsea didn't even bother to put a man tight on Didico. I think you've conned so many people over the years that now they don't believe a word you say anymore."
Arthur imdiately turned his head, narrowing his eyes at Rivaldo, his expression sour. "What's that supposed to an, Ferreira? Are you calling a fraud? Are you saying I'm black market?"
Rivaldo burst out laughing, trying and failing to hide it behind his hand. "Hahaha, no, no, of course not. I didn't say that. You're putting words in my mouth, boss." He tilted his head toward Chelsea's penalty area, eyes glinting with mischief. "I'm just saying they're treating Didico far too lightly. I saw what happened in training—Vincent and Thiago couldn't hold him when he charged. Not once."
Arthur frowned but couldn't help the small twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Rivaldo's teasing tone aside, he wasn't wrong.
····
anwhile, at the other end of the pitch, Petr Čech was pushing himself back onto his feet. He slapped the grass off his gloves, rotated his shoulders, then subtly shook out his right wrist. There was a dull soreness running through it—a reminder of Adriano's last shot that he had sohow clawed away. Čech grimaced, shook it again like he was trying to flick off water, and forced the discomfort out of his mind.
Once satisfied the sting was tolerable, he turned around, his eyes imdiately locking on Adriano, who was lingering in the penalty box like a predator waiting for the next scrap. The Brazilian looked calm, but Čech had felt the weight behind that last strike. He knew better.
"Hey! Ricardo!" Čech suddenly barked, waving an arm urgently while Modrić strolled across to place the ball for the corner.
Carvalho jogged over, frowning in confusion. "What's wrong, Petr?" His gaze was still fixed on Mascherano, the man he was assigned to mark.
Čech leaned in, pointing discreetly at Adriano, who was shoulder-to-shoulder with Ben Haim in the scrum for position. His voice dropped into a low, quick murmur: "Watch the Brazilian. His condition… it's not what we thought before the ga."
Carvalho blinked, following the direction of Čech's gloved finger. His eyes caught another figure arriving in the sa area. "What, Kaka? Yeah, I know—he's on fire today. Didn't he just serve up an assist?"
Čech snapped his head back at him and rolled his eyes so hard you could almost hear it through the helt. "Not Kaka! I'm talking about Adriano!"
"Him?" Carvalho scoffed, his lip curling into a faint smirk. "Co on, Petr. He's barely touched the ball. One shot in half an hour, that's all. And when Tal and I pressed him, he looked like he was avoiding the fight. Didn't want the physical clash at all."
Čech's expression hardened, his voice cutting like steel. "Don't underestimate him."
He glanced back at Adriano, who was still wrestling with Ben Haim, jostling for that perfect half-yard. Then Čech leaned closer. "I've seen him before, Ricardo. I watched him last season at Inter. If he were still in the sa state—slow, sluggish, half-drunk—he would never have hit a shot like that just now. Never."
Carvalho hesitated, the confidence on his face flickering for the briefest mont.
But Čech pressed on. He wasn't guessing—he knew. Everyone else had just seen a shot blocked. A near-miss. But Čech had felt it. The ball had rattled into his gloves with frightening venom, accuracy humming through it. That wasn't the strike of a man out of form. No, that was a striker who had adjusted his body, picked his spot, and controlled his power right at the last second. A striker who was very much awake.
Čech's mind replayed it again—the angle, the curve, the sheer force behind the ball. It wasn't sothing a washed-up forward could muster. And that realization unsettled him.
He threw another look at Adriano, who was still being eased backward by Ben Haim, moving reluctantly toward the edge of the penalty box. Carvalho, clearly unconvinced, just shrugged and jogged back toward his man.
But Čech's gut twisted. He couldn't shake the feeling. His instincts scread louder than the crowd. Sothing wasn't right here.
As Modrić finally trotted up to the corner flag, ball in hand, Čech crouched lower, eyes fixed on Adriano like a hunter marking dangerous prey. A sudden unease prickled down his spine.
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