Chapter 32: Vs Fiorentina (2)
The roar of the Via del Mare simmered into a thick, suspenseful murmur as Nikola Krstovic placed the ball carefully on the penalty spot. It sat there like a bomb waiting to go off, motionless and quiet, while everything else around it trembled with life. The players, the crowd, even the air felt alive, dense with tension that curled around the stadium like smoke before a storm.
Alex Walker stood just at the edge of his technical area, arms folded tight across his chest. His face was calm on the outside, but every muscle under his skin was wound tight. His heart thudded in his chest like a drum, beating against the inside of his ribs.
They had survived the opening twenty minutes. Survived. That was the word. Fiorentina had thrown everything at them. Their midfield had passed with elegance, their wingers had sprinted like devils, their buildup was methodical and dangerous. But Lecce had stayed compact, stayed organized. They’d absorbed the pressure, dug in, and held firm.
And now, here they were, standing over a penalty kick. An opportunity. A gift. A crack in Fiorentina’s polished armor.
Krstovic took a few steps back. Not too far, just enough to give himself space. He looked down at the ball once, then up at the goal. Christensen, Fiorentina’s keeper, stood on his line, bouncing side to side, trying to look big. The fans behind the goal waved flags in the yellow and red of Lecce. Some had their hands clasped, whispering prayers. Others shouted Krstovic’s name, desperate and hopeful.
Alex leaned forward slightly, barely whispering. "Come on, Krsto. Just bury it."
Krstovic let out a long breath, then started his run-up. Smooth. Confident. No stutter, no hesitation.
["Krstovic... steps up...!" the commentator called with rising excitement. "Sends the keeper the wrong way! Bottom left corner! GOAL! LECCE TAKE THE LEAD! GOAL FOR LECCE! GOAL. FOR . LECCE! ONE NIL TO THE HOSTS!"]
The ball hit the net, and the stadium detonated into chaos. Flags flew into the air. People screamed until their voices cracked. A sea of arms reached for the sky.
Krstovic wheeled away, sprinting toward the corner flag with pure adrenaline. He punched the air, his face alight with a mix of relief and joy. Banda was the first to reach him, jumping on his back like a kid. Dorgu followed, clapping and hollering. Even Medon Berisha, who rarely showed emotion on the pitch, was grinning like mad, both arms lifted high.
Alex finally allowed himself a breath. He smiled, wide and raw, and pumped his fist once. "That’s how we do it. Ice cold."