Chapter 151: Rainbow

On the touchline, Emery closed his eyes for a quiet moment.

Behind him, his assistant coach leaned in close. "Boss, it is a difficult set piece from that distance. Even a world-class specialist would struggle to get it up and down from there."

Emery opened his eyes, his gaze locked on the teenager standing over the ball. "This kid does not shoot like standard specialists."

His assistant held his tongue. He had read the exact same technical report compiled by the video analysts the previous week. The club's scouting staff had spent three full days breaking down every set piece Mateo Silva had taken during the group stage. Their final assessment had been blunt: once the ball cleared the wall on frame, predicting which top corner it would find was virtually impossible.

Emery watched Mateo adjust the ball on the turf.

A deafening wave of boos rolled down from the steep Mestalla stands.

It carried a harsh, bitter edge, the collective frustration of a home crowd watching their team get dismantled in their own stadium. The whistling circled through all four tiers like a brewing storm, accompanied by sharp insults hurled down in rapid Spanish.

Mateo ignored the noise completely, keeping his focus fixed entirely on the pitch as he had all evening.

Jones trotted over to the spot. "You want me crowding the box?"

"Attack the near post," Mateo said, steadying his breathing. "Make César step off his line to track you. If the ball spills loose off the wall, attack the rebound immediately."

"Understood." Jones cast a quick glance up at the hostile stands. "You catching all the grief they're throwing at you?"

"Kind of hard to miss fifty thousand people whistling at you," Mateo said, adjusting the ball on the grass with his toe.

"Doesn't mess with your head at all?" Jones asked, glancing sideways at him.

"Not really," Mateo replied, looking up at the goal with a calm shrug. "They can scream whatever they want from the stands. The wall still sits at the exact same ten yards."

Jones let out a short, approving laugh, shaking his head. "You really don't feel pressure like regular people do, do you?"

"I can feel it," Mateo replied, looking up at the goal with a calm shrug, "but I'm just focused on the strike."

Jones let out a short, approving laugh, shaking his head. "Fair enough. Put it on frame, kid. We'll handle the rest."

He jogged off to take up his position among the defenders, while from the goal line, César Sánchez barked urgent orders to organize the defensive wall.

Four players assembled shoulder to shoulder, with David Navarro taking the tallest position in the middle, arms tucked tightly across his chest. David Albelda stood beside him, shouting markers to the rest of the defense. César shifted two steps to his left to guard the far corner, trusting his wall to protect the near post against a curling right-footed strike across his body.

César had studied the scouting clips repeatedly, reviewing Mateo's stoppage-time strike against Bayern frame by frame. He knew the intended trajectory, but stopping a perfectly dipped strike remained a massive challenge.

César yelled for his wall to jump on the whistle, dropped into a low crouch, and waited.

The referee raised the whistle to his lips.

A tense, expectant hush fell over fifty thousand supporters.

Mateo took four deliberate paces backward. He set his left foot slightly forward and angled his right leg back, locking his balance. He measured the space above the wall, visualized the dip, and prepared his strike.

The whistle echoed across the stadium.

Mateo accelerated into his stride.

One step, two. On his third stride, he planted his left boot firmly beside the ball, leaning his torso sharply to the left. He whipped his right leg across his frame, striking the lower panel of the ball with the outer edge of his instep. His foot wrapped smoothly around the leather, imparting intense topspin at the moment of release.

The ball launched skyward.

Navarro leaped with everything he had, stretching his frame to the absolute limit. Even at the peak of his jump, the ball cleared his outstretched fingertips by a hand's width.

The shot reached the crest of its arc just beyond the wall and plummeted.

It curved viciously from right to left, dipping straight toward the upper corner César had left uncovered.

César reacted instantly, his reflexes taking over as he pushed explosively off the turf. He threw his entire body into the air with arm and fingers fully extended.

His dive came within inches.

The ball curled cleanly beyond his fingertips and nestled directly into the top corner where the post met the crossbar, tucking so neatly against the netting that the cords barely rippled.

It dropped down, rolling gently across the grass inside the goalmouth.

A sharp blast of the whistle confirmed the scoreline.

Fweet—!

3-0.

For a split second, total stillness gripped the stadium.

Then the entire Schalke technical area erupted. Substitutes, trainers, and backroom staff sprang off the bench with their hands on their heads, shouting in pure disbelief. Magath muttered something under his breath before sinking back into his seat with a stunned look.

Mateo turned on his heel. He took three calm, measured strides, letting the weight of the moment settle in, before Jones crashed into him from behind, closely followed by Vardy and the rest of the outfield players.

Mateo faced his teammates, pulling at his shirt to point firmly at the club crest on his chest as the blue shirts piled around him.

Huntelaar squeezed through the huddle, grabbing Mateo by the shoulders and shaking him with a massive, roaring grin. "Mateo! That's two for you tonight, you absolute maniac!"

"Man, that felt incredible!" Mateo shouted back over the deafening noise of the stadium, his face lighting up with a wide, hyped-up laugh as the adrenaline rushed through him.

"Both of those strikes belong on a world-class highlight reel!" Huntelaar yelled, giving him a hard, ecstatic slap on the back before pulling him close. "Now we just keep this exact energy and lock the door on them for the next thirty minutes!"

"Hell yeah! Thirty minutes, let's finish them off!" Mateo shouted, clapping Huntelaar on the chest with a fierce nod.

He untangled himself from the huddle, his pulse still hammering against his ribs, and jogged back toward the center circle with a bounce in his step. The Mestalla crowd kept raining down their furious whistles, but Mateo barely registered the noise, sharing a fired-up nod with Rakitić as they reset their shape.

The referee signaled for Valencia to take the kickoff.

58th minute on the clock. 3-0 on the scoreboard.

32 minutes left to protect the clean sheet.

Over on the Valencia sideline, Emery was already in motion, shouting urgently toward Joaquín on the warm-up track. The veteran Spanish winger dropped his water bottle and broke into a brisk jog toward the technical area.

Valencia were desperate to find a way back into the tie, and Emery was preparing to play his final card.

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