Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Matteo
The air is electric.
The roar of the crowd vibrates through my bones, a deafening pulse that wraps around me like a second skin.
I’ve played in big matches before, in finals, in games where the stakes were just as high, but this is something else.
This is war.
The referee’s whistle pierces the air, and I launch forward, muscles coiling as I close in on Milan’s defense.
The opening minutes are brutal: hard tackles, fast counters, the opposition pressing high to suffocate us.
Every touch of the ball is met with a wave of whistles from their fans, but from the opposite side of the stadium, our supporters are a wall of noise, their voices chanting our names - my name - and willing us forward.
I glance up - just once, just long enough to flick my eyes toward the press box.
I can’t see her from here, not with the glare of the stadium lights, but I know she’s there, watching me.
It shouldn’t matter.
But fuck, it does.
A long ball comes over the top. I react instinctively, body moving before my brain even registers the pass. I sprint forward, their defender on my heels.
He tries to muscle me off it, shoving hard into my side, but I’m faster. Stronger.
And I break free.
The keeper rushes out, arms wide, but I know exactly what I’m doing. One last touch, shifting the ball slightly, and then I slot it clean into the bottom corner.
The stadium erupts.
My fist clenches as I turn, chest heaving, adrenaline pumping. Our supporters lose their fucking minds as my teammates swarm towards me, hands slapping my back as voices ring loud in my ears.
"Che gol, fratello!" Ricci yells, grinning as he ruffles my hair.
What a goal, brother.
"Perfect ball from you," I shoot back, smirking as I shove him off.
As I jog back to midfield, I glance up again.
This time, I don’t just flick my eyes towards the press box. I search for her.
I can’t see her clearly, but I catch a glimpse of auburn hair right there at the glass - and more than that, I can feel her watching.
My jaw tightens, my chest expanding with something unnameable.
*
The moment we step back onto the pitch after half-time, Milan throws everything at us.
I don’t let myself relax, not even for a second.
But they’re relentless, pushing us deeper and deeper, suffocating our passing lanes. I move back into midfield, trying to help control the game, but in the fifty-fifth minute, they break through.
A long-range strike curls into the top fucking corner.
"Merda," I curse under my breath, hands on my hips as the Milan players celebrate.
Ricci comes up beside me, his jaw clenched. "We need to fucking reset."
I nod, exhaling sharply. "We get the next one."
And we do.
A perfect cross comes into the box, and I don’t hesitate. I take it on the first touch, hammering it into the back of the net with my left foot.
2 - 1.
I barely register the celebration. I just turn, pointing to the Roma fans in the stands, letting them know we’re not done yet.
But then, disaster.
Di Marco goes down, clutching his hamstring, and the second he doesn’t get back up, I know we’re fucked.
He’s our anchor. The guy who holds the backline together.
The medics stretcher him off, and the second he disappears down the tunnel, Milan pounces.
A miscommunication in our defense. A looping cross. A header that sails into the net.
2 - 2.
My jaw tightens.
Not fucking good enough.
*
There’s something to be said about missed opportunities.
I don’t know what that something is, though - because I never miss any.
I sprint forwards, Milan players scrambling to catch me, but the moment I intercept the ball, I know this is it.
One lunges, I skip past him.
Another throws himself into my path, I flick the ball around him.
And then -
CRACK.
A brutal impact slams into my ankle, and the world tilts.
Pain shoots up my leg as I crash to the ground, the force knocking the air from my lungs. My head spins, my ears ringing.
For a second, I don’t move.
I hear the crowd, the furious shouts from my teammates, the Milan players protesting, but all I focus on is the fire burning through my ankle.
Fuck.
Then I hear the whistle.
I force myself up on my elbows as Ricci crouches beside me, his face tight with anger.
"You good?"
I test my ankle, wincing as pain flares.
"I’ll be fine."
The ref signals for VAR, and I stay where I am, taking advantage of the momentary rest and forcing my breathing to slow as the replay flashes on the big screen.
The contact is clear. There’s no fucking doubt about it - he wasn’t anywhere near the ball.
The ref turns back to the pitch, and my heart is in my throat.
He points to the penalty spot, and the stadium erupts.
Milan players surround the ref, yelling, waving their arms, but I don’t hear them.