Chapter 49: Vs Inter Milan (5)
Lecce emerged for the second half with their eyes burning brighter, as though they’d all consumed something fierce together. The stadium lights reflected off their sweat-soaked kit, and each player stepped onto the grass with the kind of purpose that made even the San Siro seem smaller, more intimate. They remained in their 4-4-2 formation, but this time, they carried a hunger deeper than before. Alex Walker had told them to let go of the defensive shell they’d built in the first forty-five, to dance on the edge of bravery. They had obeyed, sweeping the ball neatly, forming tight triangles in midfield, stretching out wide, probing the dangerous zones between Inter’s lines.
Yet courage always carries a price, and Inter smelled the vulnerability.
By the 55th minute, the Nerazzurri had placated their nerves and pounced back. Martinez and Calhanoglu carved a pathway midfield, working quick one, two touches, shifting Lecce’s shape sideways until a gap opened down the right. Dimarco surged past Gallo with sleight-of-foot ease, then whipped in a low cross that cut through Lecce hearts. Martinez slid across, connecting with the ball, but it was Falcone who stood tallest. He rushed out to meet it, smashing out a firm fingertip save that rattled off the post. His reflexes were razor-sharp, his resolve stronger than armor.
["Falcone, yet again!"] the commentator roared, voice full of wonder. ["That was pure instinct, a godsend in this storm. He’s definitely been Lecce’s star man in this match. I think all the players would have liked to give him a kiss on the face right now. They must love him more than their wives."]
Lecce’s players let out breaths they didn’t know they were holding. They collapsed their frames a little, leaned on their teammates. They had thrown themselves into the fight, and now they prayed that their keeper would hold the line.
But Inter was relentless.
Three minutes later, Brozović pinged a long-range bullet toward Bastoni, who cushioned it with a masterful first touch. He slid it to Barella, who shrugged away Berisha like they were playing tag. Barella fired a ball across the face, where Thuram timed his volley beautifully. Falcone stretched, his left arm whipping out to block the shot with savage power, tipping it off Martinez’s shin and safely beyond the bar.
["Incredible!"] the co-commentator gasped. ["He’s keeping Lecce alive. Single-handed, one save and then another that kept that ball from crossing the line. He’s becoming a fortress out there."]
On the touchline, Alex’s heart drummed so loudly he feared it might tip from his chest. He felt that small crack forming in his carefully built defense, a split-second hesitance, a drifting mind, and he realized one might cost them everything. But in that moment, something in him flared.