I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 52: Vs Inter Milan (8)

Chapter 52: Vs Inter Milan (8)

Lecce had finally scored that breath-stealing fourth goal.

The kind of goal that didn’t feel real until it rippled the back of the net, until the silence of the stunned home crowd was broken by the euphoric scream of a few thousand away fans packed into one defiant corner of the San Siro.

The rest of the stadium was a wall of shock.

But Lecce’s corner, their proud little square of yellow and red in a sea of black and blue, roared into life. They erupted in a burst of ecstatic disbelief, waving scarves, punching the sky, screaming like they had just been handed a miracle. It wasn’t just a goal, it was a revolt. It was a declaration that they belonged, even in a stadium built to humble teams like theirs.

But not everyone celebrated.

Alex Walker didn’t jump. He didn’t raise his hands. He didn’t run down the touchline like a man on fire.

He strode to his bench with a stone-cold expression, every step purposeful. His voice rang out above the roar, sharp and commanding.

"Everyone hold it here! Nothing fancy, pack it in! No more risks!"

There was no joy in his face. Just that surgical calm that only came out when the pressure was thick enough to choke most people.

And with that, he pulled the lever.

Two center-backs were summoned from the bench, jogging on for Krstović and Rebić, both of whom came off drenched in sweat, barely able to walk straight. Dorgu and Gallo dropped deeper, shifting into full-back roles. Berisha slipped between the center-backs like a pivot in reverse. The midfield? Cut down to its barest bones. Only Luca Ferretti and Kaba remained.

And so Lecce’s new shape revealed itself, brutal and unapologetic.

Eight defenders. Two midfielders. Zero attackers.

An 8-2-0 fortress, assembled right there on the field like some medieval army slamming shut its gates. It wasn’t just defensive. It was almost insulting.

It was brave. Absurd. Desperate. Brilliant.

It was perfect.

The stadium simmered, unsure of how to react. Whistles came from the stands, boos from the Inter ultras. But Alex didn’t flinch. He didn’t care about optics. He had a lead to protect.

The clock ticked toward the eighty-fifth minute and Inter came crashing back with rage in their veins. The crowd fed them energy, screaming for blood, and the players responded with fury.

Barella danced through the middle and flicked a sharp pass into Martinez’s path. The Argentine spun, saw a glimpse of goal, and pulled the trigger.

But out of nowhere, Gallo came flying in, launching himself at full speed. His timing was immaculate. He didn’t slide, he soared, and his shin deflected the shot away just before it could explode off Martinez’s foot.

The rebound bounced wildly. The Inter fans groaned in disbelief.

The crowd wasn’t sure whether to scream or hold their breath.

["They’re not done yet, not by a long shot," the commentator’s voice crackled through the commentary box, rising with every word. "Inter are throwing themselves forward with every breath they’ve got left. Martinez thought that was it, he thought he had Gallo beaten, but Gallo just turned into a steel wall. Nerves of absolute steel from the young full-back."]

There was no time to reset.

Moments later, Brozović spun near the touchline, his boots carving up the grass as he twisted past Kaba. He looked up, eyes flashing with intent, then clipped a perfectly placed cross into the heart of the box. De Vrij climbed highest, rose above everyone, and smashed a header toward the bottom corner.

It never reached the goal.

Luca Ferretti, barely five foot nine, leapt like his life depended on it. The ball caught the side of his head, changing direction just enough to slide past the post.

Pongračić, who had thrown himself in at the same time, stumbled to his knees but managed to hook the rebound away from danger.

["That was inches wide, just inches," the commentator gasped, almost in disbelief. "De Vrij had the angle, the power, everything going for him. But Luca, this teenager with lungs made of fire, just got his head in the way. Lecce are holding on by the edge of a blade right now."]

Time crawled.

In the ninety-second minute of regulation, Inter tried to break Lecce’s wall from distance. Dumfries, frustrated and frantic, let fly from over thirty yards out. The ball skimmed the grass like a bullet, just missing the post. It was so close it nicked Gallo’s toe on the way through.

Seconds later, Milinković-Savić collected the ball just outside the arc. He didn’t hesitate. He whipped a shot with wicked curl and venom, aiming for the far corner like he had a laser in his boot.

But Falcone was there.

The Lecce keeper dropped to his side with perfect form and caught the ball clean, smothering it before it could bounce. For a moment, everything froze. Then the crowd erupted again.

["That one had sting, real sting," the commentator exhaled. "Falcone just plucked it like it was nothing, but that ball was buzzing like an angry bee. You have to give this man credit, he has been calm in the chaos, standing tall while the storm rages around him."]

On the sideline, Alex’s face turned crimson with fury.

He stormed to the fourth official and pointed to the watch.

"You’ve used three minutes on the clock," he growled, his voice barely controlled. "Three! In just ninety. You want to add more? For what? For existing?"

The official just shrugged, awkwardly avoiding eye contact.

Then the board went up. Eleven minutes.

Alex nearly lost it. He grabbed his hair with both hands, pacing like a man on the edge. It felt like a punishment, not an addition. Eleven minutes for what? For having the audacity to dream?

He turned to his bench.

"Earn it!" he shouted. "Make them kill every second!"

Luca and Berisha took the hint. They started drifting toward the corners, dragging the ball like it was their pet. Touch, pause, pullback, move. Slow as molasses.

Inter pressed, desperate and wild, but the seconds kept dripping away.

Nearby, Gallo suddenly collapsed, holding his leg like he had been sniped. He hadn’t been touched. Pongračić, not to be outdone, began limping like his shoe was made of glass. Every contact, every breeze, had him wincing.

Alex didn’t stop them.

In fact, he clapped. "Good," he muttered. "Sell it."

It was ugly. It was shameless. It was football.

But the game wasn’t done.

By the thirteenth minute of added time, yes thirteen, Inter had gone full madness. They had thrown their formation in the trash. Midfielders were now wingers, defenders were strikers, and chaos ruled.

Bastoni, of all people, found himself outside the box after a poor clearance. He stepped forward, took a breath, and swung.

The shot wasn’t just powerful. It was possessed.

The ball screamed through the air, straight and true, slamming into the top corner of the net before Falcone could even dive.

The San Siro exploded.

4–4.

The stadium became a roar of animal noise, a burst of disbelief and triumph crashing over the players like a tidal wave. Inter players dropped to their knees, arms raised to the heavens. Lecce’s players collapsed as if their strings had been cut. They were too tired to scream, too heartbroken to argue.

The referee blew his whistle. Hard. Final.

And just like that, the game was over.

It felt too fast. Too unfair. Like some cruel god had paused the dream and replaced it with reality.

Alex pounded the dugout railing with both fists. His lips moved, but no words came out. He was pale, shaking with fury and disbelief.

Falcone sank to his knees, hands in his hair.

Luca Ferretti’s legs gave out near the halfway line. He didn’t fall, he folded. His eyes were wide and brimming with tears, but he didn’t cry. He just sat there, stunned.

The commentators were speechless at first. Then the voice broke through.

["Bastoni, you absolute thunderclap," the commentator cried, voice raw and hoarse. "That goal will be replayed a thousand times. That strike might have just ripped a miracle from Lecce’s hands. I cannot believe what I’ve just seen."]

["Forty-two points, gone in a single second," the co-commentator sighed. "It’s cruel. It’s heartbreak in real time. Lecce fought like warriors, played like giants, and in the final breath, they were undone by lightning."]

But then the camera found Luca.

The teenager was still sitting on the grass, propped up against a touchline post. His shirt clung to him with sweat and grime, and his eyes were closed. Not in pain, not asleep, just lost in the moment. A young man who had given everything and had it taken away.

["But look at him," the softer voice came again. "Look at Luca Ferretti. This boy might have just become a man tonight. That pass to Kaba was ice cold. His control, his vision, it’s something special."]

["The football world saw him tonight, they saw him fight, lead, fall, and still rise. Even in defeat, he has stepped into haunted glory. He’s going to be remembered."]

The Lecce players trudged off the pitch in silence. No heads were raised. No high fives. Just the weight of what could have been hanging from every shoulder.

At the tunnel, Alex stood waiting.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t shout. He just looked.

Luca met his gaze as he approached. He was limping, his face raw from emotion, but his eyes hadn’t dulled.

Alex reached out and touched his shoulder, just once.

Luca nodded.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. That nod said everything.

Pain. Pride. Regret. Fire.

They walked off together, slow steps echoing in the tunnel behind them.

The crowd still buzzed, a thousand stories being told at once. But back there, in the shadow of the tunnel, silence reigned.

And Alex, standing alone for one final second, whispered to himself as he stared into the dark.

"We’ll be back."

A/N:

*Cough cough* it seems my system has been breached. Thank you to everyone that gifted this book and as promised, two extra Chapters are coming, one today and one tomorrow so three Chapters today then three Chapters tomorrow (author’s having a small headache already).

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