The game restarted at 1-1, and the tension in the air was like a string pulled too tight, one tug away from snapping.
Lecce had begun the game like a house on fire, full of urgency, bite, and purpose. But now, just one lapse, one misread cross and a missed marking, and their lead had vanished. All that work, all that control, erased in a blink.
Alex Walker stood on the touchline, feet planted firmly, arms slicing through the air as he barked instructions.
"Reset! Keep your heads up! We're still in this!"
The crowd, loyal but anxious, tried to find their voice again. The songs returned, but softer now, uncertain.
["And just like that, the dynamic has shifted. Lecce were dominant for the first twenty minutes, but Monza have clawed their way back. The question now is, can Lecce respond?"]
They almost did. Just minutes after the equalizer, Lecce carved Monza open again.
Ramadani read a lazy square pass and pounced. No hesitation. The Albanian bulldog, as Alex had started calling him in his head, drove forward and released the ball wide to Banda, already streaking down the left.
Banda, all electricity and balance, beat his man with a body feint and an explosive burst. He dipped his shoulder, cut past another, then zipped a low cross into the box.
Krstovic arrived right on cue.
Alex felt everything slow down.
The striker met the ball perfectly. No defenders in front. Just the keeper rooted to his spot.
The shot was clean.
But it trickled wide. Inches wide.
["Oh, you have to score that! That's a huge miss from Krstovic! It's agonizingly close, just kissing the outside of the post!"]
Alex groaned, dragging both hands down his face.
"COME ON, NIKOLA! That has to be in!"
Krstovic turned and gave a sheepish thumbs-up, mouthing a silent apology. His face was written with disbelief and frustration.
Lecce kept pressing. The energy didn't dip. The next opportunity came through Dorgu.
The young winger, desperate to make amends for the earlier mistake, surged forward onto a brilliant diagonal from Marco Sala. Sala had been quietly exceptional on the right, efficient and intelligent in everything he did.
Dorgu took the pass in stride, pushed it forward, and used his pace to burn past his marker. He cut inside, found space on his left, and let fly.
It was a good strike.
But the Monza keeper reacted with a stunning kick save, flinging out a leg at the last possible second.
The ball flew off the keeper's boot and rolled out for a corner.
["Another great run from the youngster Dorgu, but what a save that is! Lecce knocking on the door once more!"]
Alex kicked the air, frustration mounting.
"We're knocking! We're knocking, but no one's opening the damn door!"
The corner was wasted. Cleared easily. And Monza punished the over-commitment by nearly scoring on the break.
Their number 10 picked up the ball and drove at the backline. Touba and Pongracic scrambled, but he weaved through them with quick feet and clever touches. A right-footed shot from the edge of the box followed.
Falcone, sharp as ever, dived full stretch to his right and palmed the ball away.
["That's a world-class stop from Wladimiro Falcone! Monza almost snatched the lead out of nowhere!"]
Alex clapped twice, forcefully.
"That's it, Wladimiro! Stay focused!"
The game was spiraling into chaos. Tactics were fraying at the edges. It was football on instinct now.
End-to-end. Thrilling. Nerve-wracking.
In the 39th minute, Lecce built patiently again.
Berisha, under pressure, held his nerve and pinged a beautiful switch across to Banda on the left. Banda controlled it perfectly and fed Gallo, who had timed his run brilliantly.
The full-back whipped in a sharp cross to the edge of the box.
Krstovic arrived, unmarked. Alex's eyes followed every movement like a hawk.
The shot came.
And it soared over.
High. Wild.
["Oh dear. Krstovic skies it. That's his second big miss of the night. You can see the frustration on Alex Walker's face!"]
Alex spun away from the pitch, pacing furiously along the touchline. He muttered under his breath, voice low and tight.
"Goddammit. We should be up by two. Maybe three."
The fans groaned again. The stands were filled with that dreaded mixture of hope and disbelief. It was one of those games. They were playing well. They were doing everything right.
Except finishing.
Then, in the 43rd minute, another moment.
Sala won the ball high again. Pressing with intent, poking it forward to Dorgu. The youngster drove forward and decided to stay wide this time.
He didn't cut inside.
He whipped a cross in with venom.
Banda jumped.
Connected.
But the header sailed just over.
["And it's over the bar again! Lecce creating chance after chance, but the finishing boots are missing tonight!"]
Alex stared at the pitch, hands planted on his hips.
The belief in his players hadn't wavered. But even he could feel it.
Something was off.
Nerves? Bad decisions? Luck refusing to smile?
He didn't know. All he knew was that halftime couldn't come soon enough.
And then it did.
The whistle echoed across the stadium.
1-1.
Alex didn't say a word. He turned immediately and marched down the tunnel. His pace was sharp, movements stiff with suppressed anger.
Marco, his assistant, tried to say something.
Alex didn't even look back. Just raised a hand.
"Not now."
Inside the locker room, silence.
No one spoke.
The air was heavy. Sweat clung to jerseys. Breathing was uneven. Some players slumped forward. Others stared at the walls, avoiding eye contact.
Alex stood in the middle of the room.
No clipboard. No board. No tactics yet.
Just him.
And them.
He let the silence stretch.
Let it settle into their bones.
Then he spoke.
"I'm going to be honest with all of you," he said, voice steady and low. "I'm pissed. Not because we're drawing. Not even because we conceded."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"I'm pissed because we should be winning. We should be killing this game."
He looked around, eyes locking with each of them. No shouting. No theatrics.
Just truth.
"You saw it. We created the chances. We dominated them. But we didn't finish."
Krstovic looked down. Banda fidgeted. Dorgu sat stiffly, fists clenched on his knees.
Alex let out a sigh and stepped forward.
"But here's the thing. You're the better team. Every single one of you. And that's why it's so damn frustrating."
Another beat.
"But we're not behind. We've got forty-five minutes left to fix this. Forty-five minutes to take what we deserve."
He pointed to his temple.
"You have to stay focused. Disciplined. Ruthless."
He turned to Dorgu.
"Patrick. Take a breath when you're on the ball. You've got talent. Stop rushing. Use your brain. Use your feet."
Then to Banda and Krstovic.
"I need you two to be killers. No second-guessing. No hesitation. You get a sniff, you take it."
A knock came at the door.
One of the staff peeked in. "Mister Walker, it's time."
Alex nodded.
He turned back to the players.
"This isn't about pretty football anymore. This is about finishing the job. About walking off that pitch knowing we didn't waste it."
He stepped back and looked at all of them.
"Let's go out there and finish what we started."
One by one, they stood. Berisha cracked his knuckles. Ramadani bounced on his toes. Banda rolled his neck and shook out his arms. Krstovic gave a silent nod.
The room had changed.
No more frustration.
Just desire.
They walked down the tunnel behind Alex, their boots echoing on the concrete. The sounds of the crowd grew louder with every step. A rising wave.
Drums. Chants. Claps.
A wall of noise.
Alex looked up at the stadium lights, a small smile tugged at his lips. His players were going to go out and get a win for him and the fans, he didn't care how they were going to do it.
If they didn't....
Well then, he'd kill them
A/N: Sorry this chapter is coming late. Another one is coming later today or very early tomorrow
Ps: Bonus chapter if we make it to 50 Power Stones this week, or three reviews. Two if we smash both targets