The tempo had shifted.
For a good stretch of the second half, Lecce played like a team that had found sothing deeper than tactics. Sothing raw. Sothing alive. They weren’t just kicking a ball around anymore. Every pass, every run, every shout, it all had weight behind it. They looked like a group with fire in their lungs and belief in their hearts. They moved the ball like they had been practicing for this very mont their whole lives. The scoreboard said 1–0 against them, but the way they played? You wouldn’t think they were behind at all. If anything, it felt like they were the ones in control.
The crowd at San Siro noticed. That usual thunder of support? It had dulled into sothing else. Not silence, but sothing close. A nervous hum, a low wave of murmurs that passed from section to section. The tension in the air was thick, almost visible. It wrapped around the stadium like fog.
Milan, for all their stars, looked shaken. Their movents weren’t as crisp anymore. Their passing had a hitch to it. Their shape sagged under pressure. Lecce had taken the fight to them, and now the Rossoneri were blinking under the lights.
But football is a strange ga.
Montum, no matter how powerful, is always on a knife’s edge. One slip, one mont of brilliance, and it can be gone. Broken. Stolen.
In the 74th minute, Milan reminded everyone who they were.
It all started from a simple throw-in. Deep in Lecce’s half. Nothing flashy. Calabria jogged over, towel around the ball, took a second, and then hurled it toward Morata. The Spanish striker was pinned near the corner flag, locked in a mini-battle with Pongračić. Elbows, shoves, grit. Morata, with a flick of his heel, laid it off behind him to Pulisic. The Arican didn’t hesitate. He darted along the edge of the box with that smooth glide of his, before slipping a short pass to Tonali just outside the D.
Lecce’s midfield sward, sensing the danger. But Tonali, calm and clean as ever, didn’t need space. Just a touch.
With the outside of his boot, he lifted the ball into a delicate arc, threading it perfectly into the path of Leão. It was almost too good to be true.
Leão took it in stride.
He chopped inside, sharp as a blade, and left Gendrey flailing behind him. The space opened up, just for a second, and Leão unleashed a low drive toward the near post.
Falcone reacted in a flash.
He dove full-stretch, fingertips barely brushing the ball, and pushed it wide by the narrowest margin.
["Rafael Leão with the strike and, oh my word, Falcone again! That is an absolutely stunning save!"] the comntator roared. ["He has no right to get to that. None at all. Lecce are still breathing because of him. That man is on fire tonight!"]
Before Lecce could even reset properly, Milan ca at them again.
This ti, it was a mistake. A painful, costly mistake.
Ramadani, trying to be too clever, misread a pass in the midfield. He shaped to go left, then passed right, but the ball went straight to Tonali instead. And Milan didn’t waste ti.
Tonali snatched it, turned, and released Morata in one smooth motion like he was passing through a revolving door.
Morata, full sprint, powered toward the penalty box. Baschirotto stuck to him like glue, pulling, pushing, fighting, but the Spaniard held firm. Just as the angle began to disappear, he spotted Pulisic arriving in stride and slid the ball sideways.
Perfect weight. Perfect timing.
Pulisic took one touch and let it fly.
Falcone didn’t think. He just reacted.
He launched himself left, body horizontal, arms flung. Sohow, he got a knee to it. The shot deflected straight up, smashed against the underside of the bar, and ca down spinning violently.
The rebound bounced into chaos. Sala didn’t wait to ask questions, he sprinted and cleared it with a full-body swing. The ball flew into the stands.
And then, everyone breathed again.
["No, no way!"] the co-comntator shouted. ["How is this ga still 1–0? How? Falcone is putting on a masterclass, an absolute masterclass! He’s saving everything, and I an everything! This man’s gloves must be blessed!"]
The caras zood in on Falcone, who stood back up slowly, breathing hard, hands on hips. Sweat trickled down his face, but his eyes were sharp. Focused. Alive.
Still, Lecce weren’t done. Not by a long shot.
In the 79th minute, after two gut-punches from Milan, they punched back.
And it all started with Luca Ferretti.
He had been a shadow for most of the second half. Floating between the lines, not really touching the ball much, but never fully disappearing. And shadows? Shadows can be deadly when you forget they’re there.
Krstović dropped into the midfield to receive a pass and pulled a defender with him. That tiny bit of movent created space. He turned and laid it off to Berisha, who spun gracefully like a ballerina in boots and fired a beautiful switch pass out wide to Banda.
Banda, already in motion, didn’t slow down.
He exploded down the flank, his boots almost dancing off the turf. Theo Hernández tried to match him stride for stride, but Banda had one more gear. One more burst.
He faked inside, then abruptly chopped the ball back with the bottom of his boot. Everyone expected the shot. Even Maignan braced for it. But it didn’t co.
Instead, Banda rolled a low cross across the box.
Teasing. Daring. Perfect.
And there, in the middle, stood Luca Ferretti.
Unmarked. Sixteen. Alone with destiny.
The ball slowed, like it knew it was about to decide sothing important. Luca stepped into it. One touch to steady himself, then he opened his body like a veteran striker and swung his foot-
And missed.
Not just missed. Skied it.
The ball scread upward, way over the bar, before crashing into the advertisent boards with a loud thud. A groan swept through the away fans like a physical wave. Luca stumbled forward from the montum, as if trying to run after the shot and pull it back.
["Oh no, no, no..."] the comntator whispered. ["That was it. That was the chance. That was the mont they’ve been waiting for all night. And it’s gone."]
["You couldn’t write a sadder script if you tried,"] the other added, voice heavy. ["Luca Ferretti, he’s been so mature, so composed all tournant long. But maybe... maybe the pressure, the weight of it all... maybe it just got too heavy."]
Luca didn’t move for a second.
He bent at the waist, hands on his knees. Not tired. Just stunned. Disbelief written across his young face. His cheeks were burning red. His lips parted as if to speak, but nothing ca out.
Alex Walker stood on the touchline.
Still.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t wave his arms. He didn’t throw his water bottle or curse the sky.
He just clenched his jaw. Hard. So hard it felt like sothing might break.
The goal kick ca imdiately. Maignan sensed blood in the water. Lecce’s hearts had been sliced open, and Milan slled the opportunity to finish the job.
He sent the ball long, deep into Lecce’s half. One single towering clearance.
Tonali rose for it, beating Berisha in the air, and nodded it down toward Morata.
The Spaniard was already on the move, peeling away from Baschirotto like a veteran pickpocket slipping through a crowd.
He took it down with his thigh. One bounce. Then he stabbed a quick pass into space where Leão surged forward.
Pongračić tried to recover, legs flailing, lungs burning. But it was too late.
Leão blew past him, then sent a flat ball across the box into the danger zone. And who else but Pulisic? Again, finding the space. Again, arriving at the perfect ti.
He didn’t need a second touch.
He slotted it low, clean, clinical.
Falcone, finally, was beaten.
2–0.
And with that, the San Siro exploded.
A wall of sound crashed over the pitch. Red and black flares lit up like fireballs. Drums pounded. Flags waved. Fans scread their souls out. The whole stadium shook like it was celebrating the fall of a giant.
["It’s in, it’s in! Milan score again!"] the comntator shouted at the top of his lungs. ["From heartbreak at one end to euphoria at the other, all in less than sixty seconds! This ga, this sport, it doesn’t care about fairy tales! This is cruelty of the highest order!"]
On the touchline, Alex dropped into a squat.
Not in surrender. Not to give up.
Just in disbelief. Pure, bitter disbelief.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this.
Luca still hadn’t moved.
He stood at midfield, utterly still, mouth slightly open again. His eyes shimred under the lights. He blinked a few tis, too quickly, and then wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. Maybe sweat. Maybe not.
Krstović approached him, arm out, and gave him a pat on the back. Banda jogged over too, whispering sothing into his ear. No one heard what he said.
Luca didn’t reply.
He nodded. Just once. Then again. Then turned to look at the scoreboard.
80 minutes.
The rest of Lecce’s players trudged back into formation. No talking. No shouting. Just quiet steps and heavy hearts. The away section stood frozen, fans watching in silence.
Alex stood up from his crouch.
And he clapped.
Not because of the goal. Not because of the mont.
But out of defiance. Out of pure stubborn refusal to give in.
He turned to his bench, voice low but sharp.
"We’re not done," he said. "We are not fucking done."
But his gaze lingered on Luca.
Not in frustration. Not in anger.
In heartbreak.
A/N: Alright, I thought today was going to be the last day of extra Chapters, but you’ve gone and smashed the power stone target as well. Just wanted to say thank you to everyone who voted, and thank you to anyone that’s still reading. Nothing brings more joy than writing bonus Chapters... ahem.
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