Chapter 240: The Clutch Prince, Opener of Carnage
"Leon is really fired up today! Should we start dropping back to play on the counter? Leon and Nemanja [Matić] are both in great form—if we sit back and counter now, the effect could be fantastic!"
After a jubilant celebration sprint from the technical area, tactical board in hand, Holland turned to Mourinho, who had just returned to his seat, and asked his question.
Chelsea's pre-match plan was to contest the opening tempo with Paris Saint-Germain, but not to play an all-out high-tempo match from start to finish.
Both Mourinho and the Chelsea players had prepared themselves mentally for the possibility of conceding first.
If they had gone down early, they were ready to go toe-to-toe in a shootout with PSG.
But now that they had taken the lead, naturally they could shift gears and consider switching to the counterattacking style they excelled at.
Holland's suggestion was practical.
But Mourinho's answer wasn't aligned with his assistant's thinking.
"No. We push the advantage. PSG want to increase the tempo? Then we go with them—keep it high!
Don't you see? If they commit to attacking harder, and we keep the press in their half, we'll get even more opportunities to launch quick breaks!"
Mourinho rubbed his chin, eyes gleaming as he laid out his reasoning.
Holland still felt it carried some risk, but he didn't argue with Mourinho's final decision.
Leon, having just finished celebrating with his teammates, kept glancing back toward the dugout.
If Mourinho had signaled to slow the game down, he would've done so immediately.
But there was no such instruction. So Leon smiled wider.
He had promised—this Champions League tie, he'd make 272 drink that bottle of Lafite.
And he meant it.
Whether PSG scored two goals of their own or not didn't matter to him.
What mattered was Chelsea scoring eight or more over two legs.
So they had to go to war.
No high press? No rapid transitions? Then how else were they going to smash in four goals in one match?
Mourinho had chosen Leon's favorite style for this one. Now it was up to PSG's coach and players to decide how stubborn they wanted to be.
"Don't chicken out now," Leon thought, staring at 272, who was grimacing as he walked back to midfield. "Come press us again. Let's see what happens."
Higuaín stood at the center circle and turned slightly—just enough to see the stark contrast in expression between Leon and 272.
But he didn't feel any sympathy for his teammate.
If it weren't for the PSG shirt on his back, he might have applauded Leon's verbal slap and in-game taunt.
But because he and 272 were on the same side tonight, all he could do was curse silently at 272 and his loudmouth father for stirring trouble before the game.
Higuaín had no deep loyalty to PSG. He had come for the money and the promise of a starting spot.
So when 272 demanded equal wages, he wasn't pleased.
Now, knowing that Chelsea were out for blood, and that he might suffer as collateral damage, he was annoyed.
The match restarted.
Lavezzi and Lucas Moura were frustrated but still full of fighting spirit, dropping back to help Verratti in possession and keep PSG's rhythm alive.
But now that Chelsea had committed to staying aggressive, Leon wasn't about to give PSG time to settle into their game.
Matić wasn't particularly fast—faster than Motta, but not ideal for chasing down wingers.
So Leon ordered him to stay back.
Defending Lavezzi and Lucas was the job of Azpilicueta and Bertrand.
Meanwhile, Leon, while still shadowing 272, shifted his main defensive focus to Verratti.
The young Italian midfield maestro might not have been the flashiest name, but since joining PSG in 2012, he had quietly become their true central orchestrator.
To casual fans, 272 was PSG's midfield—bigger profile, more assists, better stats.
Even today, despite getting clamped by Leon, fans would still call him the heart of the team.
But Leon had spent the opening stages studying PSG's patterns.
It was clear to him that Blanc had entrusted the real playmaking to Verratti.
In Leon's eyes, if PSG replaced 272 with a more versatile attacking midfielder like "Facebro" [nickname for a more dynamic player], their midfield would be more balanced.
Even in attack, removing 272 wouldn't hurt that much.
But take Verratti out of the equation? PSG's midfield would fall apart.
No organization, no transition. No cover on defense either—Motta alone couldn't hold it down.
Leon saw it. Blanc had to know it.
So why didn't he just bench 272 and go with a better-balanced lineup?
Leon guessed it had to do with marketing and reputation.
PSG's management loved using 272 as the poster boy.
And Blanc, still relatively new to the job, wouldn't dare bench the Qatari sheikhs' golden boy.
Leon shook his head.
He sympathized with Blanc. And he pitied Verratti.
So he decided: fine. He'd do them a favor.
He'd expose 272's hollow brilliance—and rip open PSG's midfield for the world to see.
Verratti didn't even realize what was happening until it was too late.
Leon wasn't just pressing him—he was actively cutting off passing lanes, isolating him from the rest of PSG's attacking trio.
Even when Verratti did manage to slip the ball forward to 272, Leon didn't chase.
He let Lampard cover 272 and instead stayed positioned between Verratti and PSG's frontline.
At a glance, it seemed overconfident.
But Chelsea's defense was airtight.
Matić and Lampard provided enough cover. Cahill and Kalas held firm.
Kalas, in particular, was exceeding expectations.
Agile and aggressive, he stuck to Higuaín like glue.
He wasn't overzealous, either—he followed Cahill's instructions, timed his tackles well, and played smart.
His months of experience in England's top flight were starting to show.
He wasn't raw anymore.
Now he looked like the budding star defender Chelsea had hoped he'd become.
And even though the first half wasn't over yet, the fans watching around the world had already seen it.
Kalas was ready.
And tonight, so was Leon.
Chelsea had just gained another promising, high-potential center-back they could slowly entrust with greater responsibility.
With Matić rock-solid as always, Kalas delivering a standout performance, and the calm, composed Gary Cahill anchoring the backline, why would Leon worry about defensive security?
Yes, he had taken a slight defensive risk by switching roles with Lampard to apply pressure on Verratti, but as it turned out, the risk was more than worth it.
PSG's entire attacking rhythm had been disrupted.
Before, even if their forward line failed to create something, they could recycle possession back to Verratti, who would reorganize and relaunch the attack.
Now, with Verratti under constant pressure from Leon, he couldn't receive or distribute the ball cleanly. Both of PSG's wingers had to drop deeper just to help him circulate possession.
As a result, their attacking threat from the flanks dropped sharply.
Leon, Mourinho's two-way weapon, was now pressing right against the heart of PSG.
He didn't deal the killing blow, but his constant pokes and prods made it impossible for them to gather strength.
With no stable midfield organizer and 272 unwilling to drop deep to help, PSG's attacking efficiency plummeted.
Seeing this, Chelsea—who had been under mild pressure earlier—seized the opportunity to ramp up their own pressing intensity.
Leon didn't join in the press. He had locked onto Verratti like a heat-seeking missile, refusing to let him breathe.
On the sideline, Blanc's hands trembled.
If only he had started Khedira or Pastore instead of 272... Would PSG still be struggling this badly to attack?
Blanc felt stifled, furious—and then terrified.
Because in that moment, Matić intercepted a pass intended for 272 and Leon raised his hand to call for the ball.
All of Blanc's frustrations evaporated, replaced by pure panic.
"Don't let Leon get the ball!"
He screamed from the technical area, but his voice couldn't stop Matić's crisp long pass.
Verratti read the play and immediately stepped up, trying to intercept. Instead of retreating and helping Motta form a midfield wall, he boldly tried to engage Leon directly—despite being nearly two heads shorter.
He grabbed Leon's jersey as the ball dropped, knowing that if Leon had time to settle it and turn, it'd be over.
Leon had no doubt—if he tried to trap the ball and spin, Verratti would take him down with a tactical foul.
But he had no such intention.
As the ball came down, Leon shielded it with his body and dragged Verratti a few steps back. Then, bracing his core, he launched into the air and flicked the ball with a perfectly timed header toward Hazard on the left.
Hazard didn't miss a beat. He controlled the ball fluidly and powered down the wing, breezing past Motta with pure pace.
Verratti could only watch helplessly. He had no time to follow—he had to rush back toward his own penalty box to track De Bruyne.
Two passes.
That was all it took for Chelsea to go from backline to PSG's penalty arc.
This time, Hazard didn't wait for Lampard and Leon to overlap like De Bruyne had earlier.
Lampard, trailing behind, no longer had the speed for such a run. If they waited for him to get into the box, PSG's defense would already be reset.
So Hazard made a snap decision—speed versus speed.
Attack now, while PSG's midfield and backline were still scrambling to regroup.
Inside the box, Ibrahimović raised his hand and signaled for a cross.
Hazard's eyes flickered. The Swede's clenched fist signaled the type of delivery he wanted.
Before even reaching an ideal crossing zone, Hazard swung in a sharp low ball toward the near post.
"Hazard with the early cross! Ibra at the near post!!"
He Wei's voice cracked in excitement in the broadcast studio.
On the pitch, Ibrahimović timed his run to perfection, shaking off Alex and sprinting into position.
Without taking a touch, he stabbed at the ball with a side-footed finish.
Lampard, still sprinting upfield, had already raised his arms to celebrate.
The PSG fans groaned in unison, clutching their heads.
It was a goal. It had to be.
Ibra had scored tougher goals than this in his sleep.
But Sirigu read it.
As Ibra stepped to strike, Sirigu abandoned a traditional dive and opted for a horizontal shuffle, extending his right leg to cover the near post low zone.
It was risky—but it worked.
Ibra's shot smacked against Sirigu's thigh and rebounded out of the box.
All eyes turned to where the ball was heading.
Bertrand.
The Chelsea full-back, known for his long-range shots, trapped the ball instantly.
Thiago Silva didn't even glance back at Ibra. He charged straight at Bertrand.
"Ryan!"
A shout came from the right.
Bertrand didn't check who it was. He simply squared the ball toward the voice.
"Mine!"
Motta, who had dropped into the box to help defend, shouted for Alex not to engage—Leon had just received Bertrand's pass.
Leon set himself at the edge of the penalty area, body angled like he was about to unleash a left-footed rocket.
Motta slid in.
But it was a feint.
Leon stepped around the challenge with a silky drag-back and sidestep combo, leaving Motta on the ground.
Now near the center of the box, he drew back his left leg and fired.
Despite being on his weaker foot, the strike had power and precision.
Most would have aimed for the center or left side of goal—but Leon shot to the right.
Sirigu, confident after his earlier save, guessed the opposite way.
He reacted a fraction late—0.5 seconds.
It was enough.
The ball nicked his fingertips and flew past him into the net.
The Chelsea away section erupted.
2–0.
Not even 30 minutes into the match.
Leon stood inside PSG's box, arms spread, smiling at the cameras.
That image—calm, triumphant—immediately set the football world ablaze.
This tie, hyped as one of the tightest matchups in the Round of 16, was turning into a blowout.
Leon—the man once dubbed "The Opener of Carnage" back in Madrid—was living up to the name again.
Today, it looked like he was going to deliver PSG a full-on catastrophe.
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