"Kwame Ayew charges in—he's not slow at all!"
"Kai slides the ball with his right foot and shifts his body to the left—this is a feint, an in-and-out step! He fakes left but suddenly bursts the other way—Kwame Ayew gets beaten easily!"
"Sporting Lisbon's midfielder Delfim is closing in as well!"
"Kai releases the ball! The moment Delfim steps up, space opens behind him for Anderson! Anderson is big, strong—classic target man. His footwork might be shit, but as a pivot striker, he's solid!"
"Beautiful! Anderson heads it back—perfect layoff! The ball drops to the ground and lands right at Kai's feet after he bursts past Delfim!"
Boom!
Kai plays a one-two and strikes through the ball!
Because of his forward run and Anderson's touch, all the defenders were dragged toward them.
Sporting Lisbon's defensive line flattened instantly.
With that pass cutting past Marcos, the entire backline was torn open.
The ball rolled into the penalty area—clean, deadly, unstoppable.
"Cristiano Ronaldo! Cristiano Ronaldo—accelerate!"
"Ronaldo leaves Roberto Luís for dead! Luís is pulling his shirt—he can't hold him! He's already inside the box—any more and it's a penalty!"
"One-on-one! Cristiano Ronaldo is through!"
"Peter Schmeichel rushes out! This is a duel of courage!"
Boom!
Ronaldo unleashes everything into the shot.
Schmeichel's pupils shrink—he dives low, stretching every inch of his body to block.
If Ronaldo had gone for a controlled low shot, Schmeichel might've saved it.
But Ronaldo? Nah.
This man went full savage.
A fucking rocket.
High risk, high reward.
Most players would sky that shit.
Whoosh!
The ball rockets upward—
Then slams into the upper netting.
Like a dragon trapped in a cage, it crashes down inside the goal.
GOAL!
"Well done! The Kai–Ronaldo connection strikes again! Alvalade welcomes this duo back after half a year!"
"I'll give you a CD from the past—listen to our old love songs again!"
"The Sporting Lisbon fans are being dragged straight down memory lane!"
"Kai! Cristiano Ronaldo!"
"2–1! Moreirense take the lead again!"
"There's more than one green-and-white team out here! Are Sporting Lisbon really about to lose to Moreirense today?!"
The crowd erupted—cheers, screams, chaos everywhere.
Goals kept coming.
And with "their own people" on both sides, the fans didn't even know who the hell to support anymore.
Whoever scored—just cheer.
Sporting Lisbon only had one goal, but the fans were already enjoying triple happiness.
There were only two minutes of stoppage time in the first half.
But in the second minute—
As Cristiano Ronaldo's national youth teammate, Ricardo Quaresma clearly wasn't about to let him steal all the spotlight.
Quaresma stepped forward, carried the ball, and drew a foul right at the edge of the box.
He raised his hand.
Then—
Down it came.
Clean.
Under the stunned gaze of Moreirense goalkeeper Ricardo, Quaresma curled the free kick straight into the net.
Goal!
One assist, one goal.
No way he was letting Ronaldo outshine him.
2–2.
Perfectly balanced.
Both sides had fully shown their style.
At halftime, both teams made subtle tactical adjustments.
On Moreirense's side, Triguera made a key switch.
He swapped Killop and Fonte's positions—moving Killop from right center-back to the left side to help deal with Quaresma.
Because Fonte lacked pace.
Whenever Quaresma beat Serafim or got past Emerson, Fonte would step up—but too slowly.
That stoppage-time free kick?
It came right after Quaresma beat Emerson. Fonte didn't close him down in time, giving him space to shoot—forcing a foul from behind.
Now, Killop had to shoulder double defensive duties.
Otherwise, Fonte would be left alone against Jardel—and that would be suicide.
On Sporting Lisbon's side, Materazzi's coaching staff made their own conclusions.
The most dangerous player on the pitch wasn't Ronaldo—
It was Kai.
"Cristiano Ronaldo's dribbling is efficient," one assistant coach said, "but he's still a winger. His passing and finishing threats are limited. As long as we stay focused defensively, he won't cause too much trouble."
"Most of his long shots look dangerous, but they're basically giving us the ball—we've got Schmeichel."
"But Kai? He's the midfield core. He looks harmless, but his passing is terrifying."
"Other players cross from the wing and create chances… but Kai's through balls? The probability of scoring is five to eight times higher."
That's what you call quality.
Later on, people would call them "key passes."
But not all key passes are equal.
Some are bullshit.
Some are lethal.
If shooting has expected goals—
Then passing should have expected assists.
And Kai?
His numbers in that department were insane.
"Shut him down," Materazzi said. "Don't let him receive the ball. And when he does—cut off his forward options. Force him backward."
He then glanced at Maxa.
Anything to add?
Maxa: …What the hell do I even say?
He didn't know shit.
So he shook his head.
Materazzi misunderstood completely.
He thought Maxa was being humble—respecting his authority.
"It's fine, speak up," Materazzi encouraged. "The team needs your input."
Maxa hesitated, then said cautiously:
"Kai isn't very strong physically… be careful not to overdo it. Don't injure him."
He'd been worried about Kai for a while.
These first-team guys hit hard.
If anything went wrong…
Well, better to say something safe.
But—
Materazzi's eyes lit up.
"That's right! I almost forgot!"
"Delfim! Stick to Kai—get physical with him! His strength won't hold up! Just like how you handled Hugo Viana in training!"
Viana's face darkened instantly.
You old bastard… seriously?
Quaresma also twitched.
If they could do that to Kai…
Wouldn't they do the same to him and Viana?
Normally, no one dared to play rough with Quaresma inside the team.
But opponents?
Oh, they loved that shit.
And it made him uncomfortable as hell.
Maxa, meanwhile, was completely numb.
That's not what I meant, you idiots! Don't overthink it! If Kai hears about this, he'll think I've betrayed him!
After the players left the locker room, several assistant coaches praised Maxa like he was some kind of genius.
One sentence.
Solved the core problem.
After all—
To shut down a top-tier midfield master…
Sometimes, the simplest, dirtiest methods work best.
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