The final whistle was greeted not with cheers of victory, but with a cascading wave of boos that rolled down from the stands of the Volkswagen Arena. The home supporters were making their fury known, directed squarely at the man in the middle, Marco Fritz. Throughout the ninety minutes, the referee's leniency had bordered on the negligent. By refusing to brandish cards for blatant early fouls, he had effectively invited Stuttgart's hatchet men to take liberties with the Wolves' creative sparks. If David Qin and his teammates hadn't eventually pushed back, the visitors would surely have escalated their violence. It was a classic case of a referee losing the plot early and spending the rest of the game trying to bolt the stable door long after the horses had bolted.
David shared the sentiment. A competent official would have quelled the fire in the opening quarter; instead, the match had descended into a series of jagged, spiteful collisions. Shaking off the irritation, he joined his teammates in the center circle, jumping and shouting as they soaked in the hard-fought three points.
"So," David asked, wiping sweat from his brow, "how's Antonio? Did I do much damage?"
Christian Träsch, ever the veteran of the Bundesliga's unwritten codes, leaned in. "You landed pretty hard, David. Honestly? Standard league protocol says you should probably head to the hospital with a club rep. A quick visit, a fruit basket—just for the cameras. Keep the peace."
David couldn't help but chuckle. "A fruit basket? Right. I'll check with the boss." He had no real objection to the PR stunt. As long as it was a gesture of sportsmanship and not an apology for defending himself, he could play the part. He had a different kind of recovery in mind for tonight.
"Kevin, forget the pasta tonight," David said, turning to De Bruyne. "I'm making my specialty—Saozi noodles. I've got the broth simmering." David's diet had been monastic lately as he worked through a grueling core-strength cycle. With the first phase complete, he was desperate for a taste of home. He'd already sent his assistant out for the proper ingredients: beef tendon, aromatics, and olive oil to keep it relatively clean.
"Sounds good," De Bruyne agreed. "We can pull up the footage of our next Europa League opponent while we eat."
David groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Our luck in the draw is absolutely rotten. Spurs, then Inter, and now Napoli. At this rate, we're just going to play the entire Italian peninsula before we reach the final. If we draw Fiorentina next, I'm quitting."
"Don't you dare jinx us," Ivan Perišić barked, though his eyes were twinkling. The fatigue was real—eight months of high-intensity football had left the squad feeling like a tightly wound spring, one notch away from snapping. "But since you're talking nonsense, the penalty is that I'm coming over for dinner. Put extra onions in my bowl."
Later that evening, the players gathered at David's villa, their attention divided between the steaming bowls of noodles and the television. They were watching Der Klassiker—Bayern Munich away at Borussia Dortmund. It was a match that, on paper, should have been a cruise for the Bavarians, but the reality was far more frantic.
Since their loss to the Wolves before Christmas, Dortmund had been a team transformed. Klopp's men had clawed their way out of the relegation zone with a blistering run in February and March, sitting now in eleventh. Against Bayern, they played with the desperation of a wounded animal. Their backline—Hummels, Subotić, Sokratis, and Schmelzer—had finally returned from the treatment room, and for thirty minutes, they held the line. It took a moment of raw, individual brilliance from Robert Lewandowski to finally break the deadlock.
"They might still snatch a draw," David mused, watching Dortmund's relentless high press.
"Did you hear the rumors?" Perišić asked. "Word is Klopp is leaving the Westfalenstadion at the end of the season. They say he's destined for the Premier League."
David poked his head out of the kitchen. "He needs a fresh start. The Bundesliga is a grind, and sometimes a change of scenery is the only way to keep the fire burning."
The conversation drifted toward their upcoming clash with Napoli. "They're dangerous," De Bruyne noted. "Third in Serie A, and they've got Benítez at the helm."
David nodded. Rafael Benítez was a name that commanded a peculiar kind of respect. He was the "Tactical Master," a man so obsessed with the logic of the game that he reportedly took his future wife to a Clásico on their first date. He was the kind of man who would lecture his star striker on corner-kick positioning moments after the birth of the player's daughter. To Benítez, players were components in a grand machine; he didn't need them to love him, he just needed them to function.
"They have Higuaín and Insigne up front," David said, savoring a mouthful of noodles. "It's like Maradona was split in two—one half provides the finishing, the other provides the magic. We'll need to be perfect."
"Forget the Italians for tonight," David said, raising a glass of mineral water. "Tonight, we cheer for Dortmund to do us a favor."
The favor never came. Bayern held on for a gritty 1-0 win. In the post-match press conference, Pep Guardiola was uncharacteristically candid. "Am I worried about Wolfsburg? Of course. They are playing incredible football and putting us under immense pressure. As for David Qin... I'll be honest, I regret the decisions made last year."
Guardiola's regret was Wolfsburg's gain, but the Spaniard was already looking at the calendar. A potential title-deciding clash with the Wolves was looming in May, right in the thick of a possible Champions League semi-final. The fixture list was becoming a minefield for the giants of Munich.
The following morning, the German media was still dissecting the "Landing" at the Volkswagen Arena. Kicker debated whether David's stamp on Rüdiger was a dangerous act or a legitimate "emergency evasion" from a reckless tackle. Bild was more pointed, blaming the referee for allowing the match to devolve into a street fight.
By midday, David was at the Wolfsburg City Hospital alongside Klaus Allofs. The atmosphere in the room was frosty. Rüdiger lay in bed with a diagnosis of a fractured rib—a result David found hard to believe, though he suspected the defender might have been carrying a knock before the collision.
David placed the fruit basket on the bedside table and flashed a brilliant, practiced smile for the club photographer. He didn't say a word to Rüdiger, and the defender merely stared at the wall, his face dark with resentment. It was a charade of sportsmanship, a PR masterpiece that satisfied the league's optics while leaving the blood feud simmering beneath the surface.
On the drive back to the facility, Allofs turned to David. "The club wants to upgrade your contract again, David. We want to put you on the same tier as Kevin. Better wages, higher bonuses."
Allofs looked at the teenager's profile, marveling at the maturity he'd shown. David had become more than just a player; he was a talisman for the city and a marketing juggernaut for Volkswagen.
"Discuss the details with Jonathan Barnett," David replied smoothly. He knew his worth. He also knew that a long-term extension might be a golden cage. His ambitions were stretching beyond the borders of Lower Saxony. He wanted the highest honors in the game—the Ballon d'Or—and he knew that while Wolfsburg was a beautiful home, it might eventually become too small for his shadow.
"I'll let my agent handle the business," David added, pushing the responsibility onto Barnett. "I have a title to win."
Allofs nodded, understanding the unspoken truth. Players like David Qin were like shooting stars; you didn't own them, you just enjoyed the light while they passed through.
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