Even after throwing his body forward in a desperate lunge, Phil Jones was still a step too late.
Alvaro Morata had time. He had space.
He swung his boot.
Whoosh.
Under the gaze of 75,000 fans, the ball didn't ripple the net.
It didn't even test David De Gea. It flew high, wide, and soaring into the Stretford End stands.
Old Trafford instantly erupted—not with fear, but with piercing jeers and cruel laughter.
Morata lowered his head, staring at his boots in disbelief.
These were his lucky shooting boots. How could he have missed the target by five yards?
Behind him, Eden Hazard was so furious he dropped to his knees, slapping the wet turf.
'Diego would have scored that,' Hazard thought bitterly.
He missed Diego Costa. He missed the beast.
Conte's 3-4-2-1 formation was a demanding system.
It required a forward who could serve as a pivot—a wall of muscle who could hold up the ball, bully defenders, and link play.
Diego Costa was a master of the dark arts. He would fight two center-backs, shield the ball, and lay it off to Hazard.
But Morata was different. He was softer. He was elegant, yes, but he drifted.
He fell over at the slightest contact.
Without a pivot, Chelsea's attack was broken.
Hazard and Willian were forced to dribble through entire midfield lines just to reach the final third.
It was exhausting.
"Fucking hell!" Hazard cursed under his breath.
"It is truly unbelievable," Tyler said while shaking his head. "A shot from that distance didn't even hit the target. Morata started the season on fire, but he looks lost now."
"He lacks the bite of Diego Costa," Gary Neville analyzed. "His finishing is erratic. His chemistry with Hazard is non-existent. Chelsea paid a fortune for a striker who looks like he wants to be anywhere else."
@CFC_Fan: Diego died for this. Bring him back.
@UnitedArmy: Agent Morata doing the Lord's work. 666.
@Neutral: Hazard deserves better. He's creating magic, and Morata is kicking field goals.
...
76th Minute
The game was slipping away. Antonio Conte could no longer remain seated.
Losing to Manchester United twice in a single season? Unacceptable.
Losing to Mourinho? Personal. Losing the Top Four? Terminal.
Abramovich wouldn't forgive this.
Conte threw his last dice.
Cesc Fabregas ON. Danny Drinkwater OFF. Olivier Giroud ON. Willian OFF.
Chelsea shifted to a 3-4-1-2. Two big strikers up top. Aerial bombardment.
Mourinho responded instantly.
He saw the giants coming.
Eric Bailly ON. Juan Mata OFF.
United shifted to a 4-3-2-1 Christmas Tree. David Luiz pushed up into defensive midfield, acting as a screen.
It was classic Mourinho.
He wasn't trying to keep the ball. He was building a wall. He added height to the box to counter Giroud and Morata, and density in the middle to suffocate Hazard.
81st Minute
The aerial assault began.
Victor Moses overlapped down the right wing. He whipped a dangerous cross toward the penalty spot.
Two blue towers charged forward. Olivier Giroud, showing his class, flicked the ball on with a deft header.
Alvaro Morata was waiting behind him, ready to power it home.
But Eric Bailly was there.
The Ivorian defender had been out injured for months, but his aggression hadn't faded.
He didn't jump for the ball; he jumped into the man.
A subtle, "dark arts" nudge in the ribs.
"Ouch!"
Morata grimaced, thrown off balance mid-air. His header was weak and looping.
David De Gea took one step and plucked the ball from the air with arrogant ease.
"De Gea collects!" Martin Tyler shouted. "And look at him! He's not wasting time! He throws it long immediately!"
De Gea launched a javelin throw toward the halfway line.
Jesse Lingard read the flight perfectly. He used his lower center of gravity to back into Cesc Fabregas.
Fabregas was a genius passer, but he wasn't a fighter.
Lingard muscled him aside, letting the ball bounce. He flicked it sideways with his heel.
It fell to Ling.
United had a 3-v-4 situation. They needed speed, but they also needed patience.
Before Ling could even control the ball, he heard the footsteps coming from behind.
Thump-thump-thump.
It was N'Golo Kante.
The Frenchman was relentless. He had been beaten once, but he hadn't given up. He was charging in like a heat-seeking missile, ready to tackle through the man if necessary.
Ling's mind raced.
'If I try to turn, he takes me out.'
He made an audacious decision.
Instead of trapping the ball, Ling stopped dead. He raised his arms to widen his frame and shifted his hips, turning his back to the onrushing Kante.
Kante didn't expect Ling to stop. He tried to slam on the brakes, but his momentum betrayed him.
CRUNCH.
Kante slammed into Ling's back. It was like running into a brick wall. The violent recoil nearly sent the Frenchman tumbling backward.
Physics is impartial and Ling was stronger.
Ling absorbed the impact, using Kante's momentum against him.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
He was buying time.
'Now.'
Ling glanced over his shoulder. He saw the blur of Paul Pogba surging past Rudiger.
Ling spun.
With a flick of his right foot, he lifted the ball over the recoverng defense.
The ball arced like a rainbow, bypassing Chelsea's steel curtain and dropping perfectly into the right channel.
"The transition hub!" Neville shouted. "The strength to hold off Kante, and the vision to find Pogba! That is world-class play!"
Paul Pogba collected the ball. He was running against Antonio Rudiger.
Rudiger was fast, his high-knee running style eating up the ground. But Pogba used his long legs to shield the ball, driving into the box.
He looked up.
Jesse Lingard made a fierce run to the near post, dragging Gary Cahill with him.
The ball soared over both their heads.
It floated toward the penalty spot.
Cesar Azpilicueta was there.
The Chelsea captain was a brilliant defender, but he was 1.78m (5'10"). Romelu Lukaku was 1.91m (6'3").
It was a mismatch.
Lukaku leaped. He hung in the air for a second, towering over the Spaniard.
BOOM!
His forehead met the ball with terrifying force. It rocketed past Courtois' despairing hand and tore into the net.
2-0 Manchester United!
WHOOSH!
Old Trafford exploded.
The fans waved their scarves, sensing victory. With 15 minutes left and a two-goal cushion, the game was done.
On the sideline, Antonio Conte shook his hands in frustration.
He looked at his team. Hazard was exhausted, hands on his hips.
Morata looked like he wanted to cry. Rudiger was arguing with Cahill. And Kante... even Kante looked defeated.
'What damn bad luck,' Conte thought. 'He broke us.'
Mourinho showed no mercy.
Scott McTominay ON. Ling OFF. Michael Carrick ON. Jesse Lingard OFF.
United parked the bus.
Chelsea pumped long balls into the box, but without spirit, they were easily repelled. Giroud fought alone, isolated and frustrated.
Peep-peep-PEEP!
The final whistle blew.
Manchester United 2 - 0 Chelsea.
Mourinho pumped his fist.
He had beaten his rival, protected his fortress and he had found his new talisman!
---------
Read 30 chapters ahead and support me on patreon.
patreon (.)com/Newbietranslator