Chapter 87: Back to Back
Ten days had passed since the gutting loss to Atalanta, but the wounds were still fresh, raw in the minds of everyone who wore the Lecce crest. They’d felt it, that sting, the ache that settled in the chest and refused to leave, the sharp memory of the final whistle and Lookman’s celebration cutting into them every time they closed their eyes.
But if that hurt, the pain had been compounded just the day before, when Lecce faced Spezia in a match they were expected to dominate, to control, to win without question.
Instead, they were humbled.
Beaten one nil by a team fighting for scraps near the bottom of the table.
It was the kind of match that people expected Lecce to win, the kind of match that people penciled in as a guaranteed three points, a chance to boost the goal difference, to flex the muscles they’d spent the season building.
But football didn’t care about expectations.
A clumsy challenge from Dorgu in the third minute, the kind of rash, overeager tackle that came from a place of wanting to do too much too quickly, gifted Spezia a penalty. They buried it without fuss, without drama, just a clean strike into the bottom corner, and from that moment on, it was a siege.
Lecce huffed, puffed, passed, crossed, shot, recycled, again and again and again, but nothing worked. Spezia defended with everything they had, throwing bodies in front of shots, clearing headers from under their own crossbar, time-wasting on every throw-in, living and dying by every tackle.
And when the final whistle blew, Spezia celebrated like they had just won the league.
The Lecce players stood on the pitch, hands on hips, heads tilted back, chests heaving, the weight of disappointment heavy in their limbs.
And now, on a chilly, gray morning at the training ground, the sky a flat sheet of dull clouds, the air carrying the promise of rain that hadn’t yet fallen, the Lecce players stood in a semicircle on the grass.