The afternoon sun filtered through the windows of Lecce's training ground, casting long shadows across the polished wooden floor where Alex Walker stood, black marker in hand, drawing circles and arrows on the tactical board. Thirty minutes until departure, and the air was thick with that peculiar stillness before a match, anticipation vibrating under every breath, every shuffled boot, every rustle of training jackets.
Players gathered in a semicircle, some standing, arms folded, others leaning in, eyes fixed on the plan that would soon take them to Venice. Banda bounced lightly on his toes, restless energy leaking from every limb. Krstović chewed gum, jaw tight, hiding nerves behind an indifferent stare. Gallo stood with his arms crossed, a shadow of uncertainty flickering in his gaze whenever Alex's marker squeaked across the board.
