NOVEL NEXT Chapter 344: The Audacity!
The kickoff couldn't come fast enough for AZ Alkmaar. Their players were buzzing with energy, like live wires crackling in the night air. The scoreboard read 3-2, but it felt like they were winning.
Benjamin jogged back to his position on the left wing. His shirt was soaked through with sweat, but his legs felt fresh. His mind was clear. He could see gaps in Twente's defense that hadn't been there ten minutes ago.
Fear was creeping in.
Ola John placed the ball on the center circle. He looked around at his teammates. Their heads were down. Their shoulders were tight. The confidence from the first half was melting away like ice in summer.
The referee checked his watch and blew his whistle.
Ola John tapped the ball to Chadli. The midfielder immediately played it back to Douglas in defense.
Douglas looked nervous. His first touch was heavy. The ball bounced off his foot and rolled toward Altidore, who was pressing high up the pitch.
The big striker charged forward like a bull.
Douglas panicked. He swung his boot at the ball wildly, trying to clear it upfield.
The kick was rushed and poorly hit. It flew straight to Maher in midfield.
The young playmaker didn't need an invitation. He controlled the ball with his first touch and looked up immediately.
Benjamin was already moving. He could see the space behind Willems before the defender even knew it was there.
Maher's pass was perfect. It rolled across the grass like it was following a track.
Benjamin collected it in stride, his touch so soft the ball seemed to stick to his boot.
Willems was caught out of position. He tried to recover, but Benjamin was already gone.
The winger cut inside, drawing Wisgerhof toward him. Two defenders now. Both of them committed.
At the last second, Benjamin slipped the ball to Berghuis on the overlap.
The right winger was unmarked. He had time and space.
His cross was inch-perfect. It curled toward the penalty spot where Altidore was waiting.
The striker rose above Janmaat, his timing flawless.
The header was powerful and true, aimed for the bottom corner.
Mihaylov threw himself across his goal line, his gloves stretched out desperately.
He got there.
Just.
His fingertips deflected the ball onto the post. It bounced back into the six-yard box, spinning wildly.
Henriksen was first to react. He lunged forward, his boot ready to tap it in.
But Chadli was there too, sliding in with a tackle that sent both players tumbling.
The ball squirted loose toward the edge of the penalty area.
Benjamin was waiting.
He'd read the play perfectly, positioning himself for exactly this moment.
The ball sat up nicely for him, like it was asking to be hit.
Benjamin didn't hesitate. He struck it cleanly with the inside of his right foot.
The shot was low and hard, skimming across the wet grass.
It was heading for the corner of the net.
Until Douglas threw himself in the way.
The ball smacked into his thigh and deflected high into the air.
Mihaylov scrambled to collect it, his gloves wrapping around the leather gratefully.
[This is relentless from AZ Alkmaar!] Peter Walsh shouted, his voice hoarse from excitement. [They're not giving Twente a moment to breathe!]
The crowd was going wild. The AZ Alkmaar fans were singing at the top of their lungs, their voices carrying across the stadium. Even some of the Twente supporters were clapping. They were watching something special.
Steve McClaren looked like a man under siege. He paced back and forth in his technical area, his hands clasped behind his back. His team was crumbling before his eyes.
He called Wisgerhof over and spoke quickly in his ear. The midfielder nodded and jogged back onto the pitch.
But tactics couldn't stop magic.
Mihaylov kicked the ball long, aiming for the halfway line. Viergever won the header easily, nodding it down to Elm.
The midfielder took one touch to control it, then looked up.
Benjamin was making his move again. He'd drifted inside from the left wing, finding space between the lines.
Elm found him with a simple pass.
Benjamin's first touch was exquisite. He killed the ball dead, then turned in one smooth movement.
Wisgerhof was on him immediately, trying to press from behind.
Benjamin felt the pressure coming. Without looking, he backheeled the ball through his own legs.
The crowd gasped.
He spun around and collected the ball on the other side, leaving Wisgerhof standing still like a statue.
[Oh my word! The audacity of Benjamin Rijkaard!] Michael Harrison's voice was filled with wonder. [He's toying with them now!]
Benjamin was in full flow. His confidence was sky-high. Every touch was perfect. Every move came off exactly as he planned.
He dribbled toward the penalty area, the ball dancing at his feet.
Janmaat came across to close him down. The defender was cautious now, remembering what had happened earlier.
Benjamin smiled at him.
He dropped his shoulder to the right, selling the dummy perfectly.
Janmaat shifted his weight.
Then Benjamin went left, accelerating away with explosive pace.
The defender reached out desperately, his shirt tugging at Benjamin's jersey.
Not enough to stop him.
Benjamin was into the penalty area now. The crowd was on its feet again.
He looked up and saw Altidore making a run to the near post. Henriksen was arriving late at the back post.
But Benjamin had spotted something else.
A tiny gap at the near post. Between Mihaylov and the upright.
Most players wouldn't even try it. The angle was too tight. The space too small.
Benjamin wasn't most players.
He shaped to cross, making Mihaylov shift toward his near post.
Then, at the last second, he whipped the ball toward goal instead.
A curling shot that bent around the keeper's outstretched hand.
The ball hit the inside of the post and spun along the goal line.
For a moment, time stood still.
The ball rolled across the line, inch by inch.
Chadli slid in desperately, his boot scraping against the grass.
He got there just in time, hooking the ball clear with his toe.
The crowd erupted in frustrated disbelief. How many times could one team come so close?
Benjamin put his hands on his head and laughed. Actually laughed.
He was enjoying every second of this. The near misses. The gasps from the crowd. The look of panic in the defenders' eyes.
This was what he lived for.
[Unbelievable! Benjamin Rijkaard is giving Twente nightmares!] Peter Walsh screamed. [How is this game still 3-2?]
The clock showed sixty-eight minutes. Twenty-two minutes to go.
AZ Alkmaar had thrown everything at Twente. Shot after shot. Chance after chance.
The pressure was mounting. You could feel it stadium like steam in a kettle.