Chapter 67: Vs AC Milan (8)
Krstović stood over the penalty spot, the entire world shrinking to that small, painted circle and the net that lay just twelve yards ahead. The roar of the crowd that had filled San Siro moments earlier faded, melting into a hush so deep, it felt like even the air was holding its breath. It wasn’t silence. Not truly. But it was the sound of a thousand hearts pounding, lungs tightening, voices stilled.
He’d been here before.
Not this exact moment, not this exact stadium. But he’d stood under pressure. Missed chances that haunted his dreams. Watched the eyes of teammates, coaches, and fans fill with disappointment. That pain had branded him. But tonight, tonight felt different. Tonight he had more than his own name on the line. He had belief behind him.
The crowd roared in his ears again, not from the present, but from the memory of that first-leg equalizer, when his shot had defied logic and crashed into the back of the net. That cheer echoed in his skull now, reminding him he could do it again.
He exhaled slowly. Let the nerves fall away. He blocked out everything except the keeper ahead and the net behind.
Then, for just a second, his mind flickered.
It wasn’t fear. It was reflection.
He thought of Alex’s voice in the tunnel before the match, calm and passionate. He remembered the way Helgasson and Guilbert had locked eyes when switching positions to strengthen the press, how they’d trusted Alex’s plan even when everything looked bleak. He saw Dorgu in his mind—still charging forward, dribbling past defenders like they were shadows, winning the penalty with nothing but belief and daring.
This wasn’t just about one half of football.
This was about identity. About belief. About redemption.
He tightened his shoulders, focused again. Planted his non-kicking foot.