Chapter 62: Vs AC Milan (3)
As the referee’s whistle echoed across the San Siro, sharp and final, the two teams slowed, then stopped, then began the slow walk toward the tunnel. The end of the first half had come, and with it, a release of tension that had been building like steam in a sealed chamber. Lecce’s players moved in silence, shoulders sagging slightly, boots scuffing against the grass as they made their way off the pitch. The scoreboard above glowed in harsh red and white: 1–0. Just a single goal separated the sides, but it felt like a cliff already climbed, like a war had already been fought and survived, barely.
Around them, the San Siro pulsed with noise, but the players heard almost none of it. The crowd’s roaring blended into a low hum, like distant thunder. In the tunnel, Lecce’s squad trudged forward, heads bowed, breathing heavy. Sweat clung to their jerseys. Some leaned against the concrete walls, others pulled their shirts over their mouths to breathe in cooler air. No one spoke much. The weight of the occasion was pressing down on their shoulders like lead. Even Banda, who had nearly scored in the first half, stared at the floor like he had missed more than just a shot.
As they passed under the floodlights and into the corridor, the lights above flickered slightly, and for a brief second, it felt like they were walking into a world far removed from the chaos they had just come from. In that narrow tunnel, everything felt narrower still, hope, breath, belief.
The locker room greeted them with stale air and tiled silence. Some players sat down heavily, limbs aching. Others remained standing, pacing in small circles. Shirts clung to skin. Shin guards clattered to the floor. Boots were unlaced and kicked aside without ceremony. Falcone, Lecce’s miracle man of the first half, leaned against the wall, eyes closed for a moment, trying to calm the thunder of adrenaline still pounding in his veins.
Berisha sat hunched over, eyes on the floor, fingers laced together. Gallo sipped slowly from a bottle of water, his gaze fixed somewhere far away, maybe back out there on the pitch where the red shirts had swarmed them. Even Krstović, usually so vocal, was quiet. Everyone seemed to be waiting. Waiting for a reason to believe again.
And then, the door opened.
Alex Walker stepped inside, a black jacket slung over his shoulder, clipboard tucked under his arm. His footsteps echoed lightly as he entered, and the shift in atmosphere was immediate. Heads turned. Conversations stopped. The heavy silence didn’t lift, but it sharpened into something new, attention, curiosity, something close to respect.
He paused at the threshold, letting his eyes sweep across the room. He saw it all. The exhaustion in their posture. The shadow of frustration in their eyes. The burn of missed opportunities. But he also saw something else. Something deeper. They had survived the storm. They had held out when no one expected them to. And he could work with that.
He took a breath, then stepped forward. When he spoke, his voice was steady and low, but it carried to every corner of the room.
"Listen up," he said, eyes moving from face to face. "We’re down by one. Yes. That’s true. But let me make something crystal clear, the score doesn’t define us. Not tonight. Not ever."
He let the words hang there. Let them settle into the cracks of their minds. Some players shifted in their seats. A few looked up. Falcone opened his eyes. Luca straightened slightly.