Chapter 33: Vs Fiorentina (3)
The walls of the Via del Mare locker room hummed with the residual adrenaline of sixty-five intense minutes. Players flooded in, still buzzing, some clapping hands for no reason other than to keep their heartbeats from racing too fast. Others stood bent over, hands on knees, panting hard, jerseys soaked with sweat and streaked with grass stains. The stench of effort hung palpable in the air, a mix of musk, energy, and raw determination.
Nikola Krstovic, the man who had delivered the lone goal of the match, found a seat near the benches. He cupped his face with both hands, elbows resting on knees, pulse still hammering like a war drum. His eyes flickered with a mix of relief and wonder, as if he still couldn’t believe he’d done it. The weight of that penalty, the pressure of a thousand hopes, still felt heavy.
Gallo stormed in next, tossing his water bottle aside with a heavy clatter. "That Biraghi shove was dirty," he muttered, replaying the memory in his mind. His jaw twitched, nostrils flared. He paced a little before collapsing on the bench, head in his hands.
Banda appeared behind him, stretching his hamstrings and grinning like he’d just walked out of a street fight victorious. His grin was wide and slightly wild, eyes twinkling with adrenaline-laced excitement. Next to him, Medon Berisha sat calm and collected as ever, though even he couldn’t hide a slight grin, those big arms draped casually over the back of the bench betrayed his excitement.
Alex Walker waited patiently at the front of the room, leaning against the whiteboard. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes sparked with intensity. He scanned his players, every face told a story of physical strain and emotional charge. Let them simmer a few seconds more, he thought, let the roar of the pitch fade just a little, then make sure their feet were back under them.
He clapped his hands once, sharp and deliberate.
"Alright. Everyone. Eyes here," he said calmly, and the room responded out of instinct. The claps, sighs, and shifting feet hushed down. All eyes turned to the man in charge.
Alex stepped forward, adjusting the marker in his hand. His chest rose and fell slowly, a measured breath, collected before storming in like he meant every word he spoke.
"Let me start by saying this, I’m proud of the way you stuck up for each other out there," he began, voice steady but charged with emotion. "That fight just now? Yeah, it got messy. I get it. I don’t want to see this every week. But seeing you back each other like that? That’s not just solidarity. That’s family. That’s what wins big matches."
Berisha gave a subtle nod to Banda, who grinned back, thumbs-up under his breath. Krstovic lifted his head, eyes sharper now. Gallo clenched his fists.
Alex’s tone shifted, becoming firmer, more business-like. "But here’s where we need to be smart. We’ve got a lead. We’ve rattled them. Don’t let emotions give the referee a hyperactive trigger finger. We play with our heads first, hearts second. Keep composure. Keep discipline."