Chapter 83: Vs Atalanta (4)
The referee’s whistle cut through the roar of the Stadio Via del Mare like a blade, slicing the noise in half for a single breath before it returned even louder, a rolling wave of voices and drums and horns that filled the humid night air. It was halftime, and somehow, Lecce had their noses in front against Atalanta. The scoreboard glowed like a promise above the tunnel as the players jogged off, sweat glistening on their brows, jerseys sticking to their backs, adrenaline still crackling through their veins like electricity.
They weren’t celebrating. Not yet. They knew this wasn’t over.
Alex Walker stood just inside the tunnel, his shadow long under the harsh lights, waiting for them to filter in. His hands rested on his hips, shoulders squared, eyes hard and cold, scanning each player as they passed, like a general inspecting his army after a skirmish. His jaw was tight, but his eyes burned with pride and something sharper, something older, a fire that came from every battle he had ever fought on a football pitch.
One by one, the players settled onto the benches, the damp air of the locker room filled with the scent of sweat, grass, and adrenaline. Some were breathing hard, their chests heaving, while others leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at the floor, replaying every moment of the first half in their minds. They exchanged glances, nods of encouragement, silent acknowledgments of the fight still ahead. Equal parts fatigue and fire lived in their eyes.
Alex let the room quiet, the only sounds the echo of their breaths and the distant hum of the crowd outside, chanting and singing even during the break. He stepped forward, clearing his throat once before speaking, his voice carrying the calm weight of a man who had seen every storm football could throw.
"I’m proud of you."
He said it simply, without theatrics, and it was enough. Heads lifted, shoulders straightened. Banda leaned back against the wall with a small, tired smile. Falcone rolled his shoulders and nodded, eyes locked on Alex. Even the youngest, Ferretti, just a teenager with fear and fire in equal measure behind his eyes, seemed to grow taller on the bench.
"You’ve done what most people thought was impossible. We’re ahead. Against Atalanta. You earned that. Nobody gave it to you. You took it."
There was a moment, a flicker, a ripple of pride that moved across the players, their chests expanding with the truth of it. They had fought for this.
But Alex’s expression shifted, hardening, eyes narrowing as the fire returned.
"But this game is far from over."