Marin stood there, watching his opponent. He hated the confidence that Elian was exuding, he was going to crush it.
"What are you waiting for, come at me!" Elian said, his eyes locked on Marin.
Marín nodded, taking a teasing touch outside, Elian swallowed, ready to face the consequences of his action. He knew Marin a lot too well, if he didn't stop him right and here and now, then this match was over.
The Barcelona fans held their breath; they knew this Marin's routine too well. As a matter of fact, this was the third face off between these two and and the previous ones had resulted in either a goal or something very close to it.
Elian's boots planted firmly on the floor, he shifted his weight to his heels, ready to spring.
In a heartbeat, Marín pulled the ball back inside—*one-two-three*—dragging it across his body with a swift inside-of-the-boot roll.
"Crap!"
