Benitez stood on the sidelines, gradually regaining his composure now that the game seemed to be settling into a more familiar rhythm.
The first thirty minutes had driven him to the brink. His team had looked passive—not in terms of effort, but in their inability to respond to the tactics deployed by Luton. The strategy adopted by Ethan's side had made Liverpool deeply uncomfortable, disrupting their usual rhythm.
As a result, Liverpool had already conceded two goals—a steep price to pay. The players wore serious expressions now, a far cry from the ease they normally exuded.
Benitez kept a close eye on the opposing dugout.
He had believed he'd prepared well for this match, giving Luton the attention they deserved. But even so, Ethan's team had delivered not one, but two big surprises—ones Benitez hadn't seen coming.
Now, he had to reassess everything.
Luton were executing a masterclass in tactical defending. With a two-goal cushion in hand, they had a clear read on what Benitez was trying to do.
The problem was now painfully obvious: Liverpool's attack had run into a wall.
Benitez's men were typically strong with width and long-range distribution—stretching the field with their wingers, exploiting space through pinpoint passes, and then allowing Torres to break through from the weak side. Gerrard, as always, was a key threat surging forward from midfield.
But tonight, both attacking "legs" had been chopped out from under them.
Xabi Alonso was completely marked out of the game by Danny Drinkwater, neutralizing Liverpool's long-range passing engine. Even more stunning was N'Golo Kanté—only seventeen years old—completely shutting down Steven Gerrard.
Seventeen? Benitez couldn't believe it.
Kanté stuck to Gerrard like glue. Forced into a backward pass yet again, Gerrard couldn't find any space to operate.
It wasn't just the man-marking. Luton's overall shape and tactical discipline were something Benitez grudgingly admired.
Every time a Liverpool player got on the ball, they were immediately surrounded by two or even three Luton defenders. Luton created overloads on the ball side and moved as a unit with incredible speed and precision. Their defensive block didn't just sit—it flowed, shifting left and right with remarkable cohesion.
It wasn't just a low block—it was a mobile shield.
Benitez stole a glance at Ethan.
To develop such a system showed the Chinese coach had a deep understanding of tactical football.
Benitez prided himself on his own tactical mind, but now wasn't the time for admiration. He had to crack this puzzle.
Trying to brute-force through the middle would be a gamble with low odds, and worse—Luton posed a clear counterattacking threat. Adam White's blistering pace was a constant menace that kept Benitez from committing too many men forward.
After a stoppage in play, Benitez called Kuyt over and spoke into his ear. Kuyt nodded repeatedly before jogging back into position.
Ethan noticed the interaction on the touchline.
His expression tightened. What was Benitez planning now?
He didn't hear the instruction, but he knew better than to underestimate a tactical adjustment from a man like Rafa Benitez.
…
The broadcast camera cut to a frustrated figure—Fernando Torres.
The Spanish striker had barely touched the ball. Luton's compact defense had crowded him out at every opportunity. He was smothered, denied service, and left isolated.
For a striker of his caliber—one of the deadliest in the world—it was a sobering first half.
Interestingly, Ethan hadn't assigned a specific marker to Torres. Instead, his strategy was to sever the connection between Liverpool's midfield creators—Gerrard and Alonso—and the striker.
Without that supply line, Torres had been forced to drift deeper and wider just to get involved. But whenever he received the ball outside the box, Luton's defenders were aggressive and uncompromising.
"Never let Torres receive the ball in the box! If he does, get tight—don't let him turn! Make him uncomfortable! If there's even a hint he might turn and shoot, put him on the ground!"
Although Torres didn't have much support around him, marking him was clearly a top priority in Luton's defensive strategy.
So in the pre-match tactical setup, special attention was given to Torres' movement and positioning.
But just then, Torres unexpectedly drifted to the opposite flank...
From the technical area, Luton manager Ethan noticed the shift. He was about to signal his defenders when Kuyt, having just received the ball on the right, suddenly whipped in a cross.
The ball soared over the penalty area…
And on the far side—where Luton had fewer defenders—Torres brought it down on his chest!
Without any instructions from Ethan, Luton's defensive line quickly adjusted, shifting to cover the threat.
Kevin Keane and right-back Mitchell Piran sprinted over to close him down.
"Torres has the ball in the box! He's facing the Luton goal head-on!" Commentator Letkinson stood up, excitement in his voice. "If I'm not mistaken, this is the first time Torres has had a clean look at goal from inside the penalty area!"
The Liverpool fans in the stands began to roar with anticipation.
Torres took the ball under control and drove forward!
He feinted inside, then sharply cut the ball to the outside—completely wrong-footing Mitchell Piran—and burst towards the byline!
Luton's box descended into chaos.
George Parker scrambled to cover, while other defenders desperately searched for marks as several Liverpool players stormed the area.
This was Liverpool's best chance yet.
But Torres, now in the six-yard box, wasn't thinking about passing. A true poacher, even with only a sliver of space at a tight angle, he went for goal!
"Torres shoots!!!" Letkinson roared into the mic.
Ethan held his breath on the sidelines. He didn't need to see the shot to know what was coming. Even if Claude—the goalkeeper—had been handed a save boost card with a 15% increased success rate, there was no saving this one.
It was a textbook finish—clinical.
The ball smashed against the inside of the far post and ricocheted into the net!
"Fernando... Torres!!!" Letkinson's voice boomed through the stadium—and tens of thousands of Liverpool fans echoed the name in celebration!
Torres sprinted toward the corner flag, arms spread wide, basking in the moment under Wembley's arch.
On the touchline, Ethan stared at the red No. 9 jersey.
Yes. This was Torres—the Torres at his prime. Give him an inch, and he'll punish you. That small lapse cost Luton dearly.
A flash of brilliance from a world-class striker had brought Liverpool back into the match.
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