Chapter 85: A Resolute Promise
The final whistle had barely left the referee’s lips before Atalanta’s players turned to one another with fists clenched and arms raised, breaths misting in the cool night air, the lights of the Via del Mare glinting in the sweat streaking down their faces. A few sank to their knees in exhaustion and triumph, clutching the grass like it was the last solid thing they could hold onto after ninety minutes of chaos. Lookman, who had carved his name into the match with a hat trick that would live long in memory, let out a guttural roar toward the away fans, arms stretched wide, chest heaving, eyes blazing with the savage joy of victory.
The stadium buzzed with noise. It was layered, cheers, groans, sighs of heartbreak, chants, the rhythmic pounding of drums that never truly stopped even in defeat. Flags waved, scarves were raised, but it was clear to anyone with eyes which side had come out on top tonight.
Alex Walker stood near the technical area, motionless for a long few seconds, his boots planted firmly on the damp grass, his gaze fixed on a patch of turf just past his toes where the light caught each blade of grass like tiny shards of glass. The taste of defeat was bitter, bitter and... unfortunately familiar. But as the manager of Lecce, it was a new thing. He had known setbacks, but this was different. For the first time since he had taken charge of Lecce, they had lost.
The scoreboard behind him still glowed: 3-2.
A simple reminder.
But he didn’t have the luxury of sulking. Not here. Not now.
He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself against the weight pressing down on his shoulders, and then looked up, scanning the pitch, taking in the sight of his players. Gallo bent over with hands on his knees, sweat dripping onto the grass below him. Falcone wiping at his face with his gloves, exhaustion clinging to him like a second jersey. Ferretti standing with his hands on his hips, eyes distant, lost somewhere between the last whistle and the regret of what might have been.
Alex lifted a hand.
"Come on," he called out, his voice even, firm, cutting through the low hum of disappointment that had settled around them. "All of you. Front of the fans. Now."
The players lifted their heads, slowly at first, like men waking from a heavy dream, but they moved. Together. No one dropped their gaze to the ground. No shirts were tossed away in frustration. No boots were kicked in anger. They walked as one, across the grass that had become a battlefield, each step steady, each stride deliberate.
And as they neared the Lecce supporters’ section, something unexpected happened.