Chapter 98: To Be Continued

Lovren stood 188 centimeters tall, while Dai Zhiwei was only 177; the difference in their leg length was obvious to the eye.
With both men roughly the same distance from the ball, and the ball rolling toward Lovren, he should have had the better chance to win it.
But the decisive factor had been left out: speed.
In the final instant, Dai Zhiwei was more than twice as fast as Lovren, and in a matter of one stride he reached the football first.

With a crack of sound, Liverpool keeper Mignolet surrendered at once, as if he had laid down arms without a word.
The white net kept quivering. Dai rose and did not celebrate; instead, he reached down and hauled Lovren to his feet.
“Thanks,” he said.
It was no sneer—his thanks came from the fact that when Lovren saw he couldn’t get to the ball, he instinctively sidestepped instead of stepping on Dai’s ankle when Dai shot.

Compared with Ramos in their last meeting, Lovren now could be called almost saintly.
After getting up, he gave Dai a helpless pat on the back of the head and laughed bitterly.
Had he been able to stop the goal by tripping his opponent’s ankle, he wouldn’t have hesitated.

2-1.
Villarreal, thanks to Dai Zhiwei’s counterattack goal, regained the edge on the scoreboard.
At Love Song Stadium the game was in uproar; Dai, who had scored twice, was all but entitled to the fans’ cheers.

Seeing they were down again as the match edged toward the 80th minute, Klopp could no longer sit still and immediately replaced Firmino with a target forward, Bentek.
“That old man,” Dai said.
From the way Klopp was posturing on the sideline, Dai even thought he was about to wage a life-or-death battle, but this pairing swap made it clear: a 1-0 loss away plus an away goal was exactly Klopp’s plan.
Much noise, little rain—that was the best description of this substitution.

“So these old birds in coaching chairs, each one so easy to read,” Dai muttered.
Bentek, brought on, was immediately used hard by Klopp to pressure Villarreal, yet his touch in front of goal remained miserably inconsistent, and he missed chances repeatedly.

Liverpool’s attack was sharp, Villarreal no weaker in counterplay, but this was all spent in defense now. With only minutes left, no one leading would, in a normal situation, choose inappropriate offense.
Dai threw himself into defensive work too; his defending was loose, yet he did not defend face-to-face. He chose the dirty, relentless option: sticking tight.
Whenever Liverpool’s passing rhythm stalled and their tempo dipped, he would shamelessly shadow players around Bruno, pouncing on every ball-carrier. Lucas was always the first in line for that pressure.

With ten minutes remaining, Dai had just made a rare, timely interception with a clean tackle on one of Lucas’s long passes. As he stood up, Ruiz—the team’s elder statesman—praised him with mock seriousness.
“Ha! That’s pure jealousy,” Dai said, smoothing his hair and throwing Ruiz a resentful glance.

At 85 minutes, Liverpool players had begun to look impatient; even Lovren and Kolo-Toure were repeatedly joining Villarreal’s half to attack.
Dai, meanwhile, withdrew toward the center circle, still staying ahead of every move. The pressure on Liverpool’s defense was far from light.

Liverpool had used all three substitutions; now it was Marcelino’s turn, but unlike Klopp, who was reshaping his men for attack, Marcelino’s changes were meant only to burn the final minutes.
Castillejo came on for Dai, Villarreal’s biggest man of the night. Immediately the Yellow Submarine settled into a rigid 4-5-1 shape, and with Sordado dropping back, they looked almost like a 4-6-0.

Dai knew he was expected to let the team use up a bit more time, so he did not hurry himself off. He walked slowly, almost lazily, while lifting both hands in a small salute to the crowd.
Over half the stadium stood and clapped him out. Everyone knew he had injected the match with all its energy and fire; the standing ovation was deserved.
Dai took his time leaving, moving like he was strolling with an old aunt, until the referee signaled him to pick up his pace. Fearing a card, he finally quickened, half-running, half-walking to the sideline, where he hugged Castillejo.

Marcelino did not spare praise: “Excellent. Now it’s up to your teammates from here—go rest a while.”
It was clear he was satisfied with Dai’s performance. In truth, after adapting so quickly to the Yellow Submarine, Dai had made Marcelino proud of his squad choices over the break.

Dai returned to his seat. Taking water and a towel from Suarez, he finally had a moment to watch quietly and with a calmer mind.
Castillejo quickly stabilized the defense. Compared with Dai, he was clearly far superior in both defensive instinct and willingness.
Liverpool’s rushes were absorbed by him as if he were a living cushion, and he used his edge in speed and stamina to launch two dangerous counters in the little time left.

The seconds passed; by the fourth official’s board, only two minutes of stoppage time were added—there had not been much to account for in such a smooth second half.
Dai saw Liverpool’s attacks turn anxious. High balls from the flanks toward the first posts in the penalty area had become the Reds’ main pattern now; he felt Villarreal’s victory was almost certain.

In the 92nd minute, Lovren passed, and Milner’s shot from the right edge of the six-yard box went wide.
“Toot! toot! toot!”
Two short whistles and one long—the referee finally blew for full time.

Though 2-1 did not give Villarreal a huge cushion, it was still far better than not winning at home, and Liverpool accepted the result as well. In the next match, a single 1-0 would see them eliminate their opponents and reach the Europa League final.
In the end, everything comes down to the next encounter between the two sides.
In this duel, there is no room for a single mistake.