Chapter 48: Vs Inter Milan (4)
The hallway lights flickered slightly as the Lecce squad trudged back into the locker room. Their boots echoed against the hard tiles, heavy and dragging, like the weight of the first half had settled not only in their legs but deep into their bones. No one said anything. They didn’t need to. The silence between them said it all.
It wasn’t the silence of a team that had been dominated or embarrassed. It was the silence of frustration, of a story rewritten in real time. They had gone two goals up at the San Siro. Against Inter Milan. And somehow, they had let it slip.
That was the worst part. Not that they had conceded. But that they had been so close to something special. And then let it vanish.
The locker room felt colder than it should have, the kind of cold that had little to do with temperature and everything to do with mood. Jerseys clung to tired backs, soaked with sweat and effort. A few players kicked at the tape on their ankles. Others simply sat down, eyes fixed on nothing, breathing in the sour air of disappointment.
Ramadani slumped down onto the bench, dragging a towel over his head like he wanted to shut the world out for a minute. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. Dorgu, meanwhile, just shook his head over and over like he could rewind time by sheer force of will. His miss in the 38th minute still clung to him like a curse.
Berisha paced near the whiteboard, mumbling to himself under his breath like he was retracing every play. The way his hands waved occasionally suggested he was seeing it all again, the passes, the runs, the opening, the mistake.
Even Gallo, the one who usually cracked jokes no matter the situation, sat quietly, elbows on knees, staring down at his boots like they had betrayed him.
Everyone was waiting.
Not for the halftime whistle. That had already come.
They were waiting for his voice.
The yelling. The frustration. The breakdown of every error in painful detail. They were ready for it. Bracing for it. Expecting it.