Chapter 52: Vs Inter Milan (8)
Lecce had finally scored that breath-stealing fourth goal.
The kind of goal that didn’t feel real until it rippled the back of the net, until the silence of the stunned home crowd was broken by the euphoric scream of a few thousand away fans packed into one defiant corner of the San Siro.
The rest of the stadium was a wall of shock.
But Lecce’s corner, their proud little square of yellow and red in a sea of black and blue, roared into life. They erupted in a burst of ecstatic disbelief, waving scarves, punching the sky, screaming like they had just been handed a miracle. It wasn’t just a goal, it was a revolt. It was a declaration that they belonged, even in a stadium built to humble teams like theirs.
But not everyone celebrated.
Alex Walker didn’t jump. He didn’t raise his hands. He didn’t run down the touchline like a man on fire.
He strode to his bench with a stone-cold expression, every step purposeful. His voice rang out above the roar, sharp and commanding.
"Everyone hold it here! Nothing fancy, pack it in! No more risks!"
There was no joy in his face. Just that surgical calm that only came out when the pressure was thick enough to choke most people.
And with that, he pulled the lever.
Two center-backs were summoned from the bench, jogging on for Krstović and Rebić, both of whom came off drenched in sweat, barely able to walk straight. Dorgu and Gallo dropped deeper, shifting into full-back roles. Berisha slipped between the center-backs like a pivot in reverse. The midfield? Cut down to its barest bones. Only Luca Ferretti and Kaba remained.