I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 67: Vs AC Milan (8)

Chapter 67: Vs AC Milan (8)

Krstović stood over the penalty spot, the entire world shrinking to that small, painted circle and the net that lay just twelve yards ahead. The roar of the crowd that had filled San Siro moments earlier faded, melting into a hush so deep, it felt like even the air was holding its breath. It wasn’t silence. Not truly. But it was the sound of a thousand hearts pounding, lungs tightening, voices stilled.

He’d been here before.

Not this exact moment, not this exact stadium. But he’d stood under pressure. Missed chances that haunted his dreams. Watched the eyes of teammates, coaches, and fans fill with disappointment. That pain had branded him. But tonight, tonight felt different. Tonight he had more than his own name on the line. He had belief behind him.

The crowd roared in his ears again, not from the present, but from the memory of that first-leg equalizer, when his shot had defied logic and crashed into the back of the net. That cheer echoed in his skull now, reminding him he could do it again.

He exhaled slowly. Let the nerves fall away. He blocked out everything except the keeper ahead and the net behind.

Then, for just a second, his mind flickered.

It wasn’t fear. It was reflection.

He thought of Alex’s voice in the tunnel before the match, calm and passionate. He remembered the way Helgasson and Guilbert had locked eyes when switching positions to strengthen the press, how they’d trusted Alex’s plan even when everything looked bleak. He saw Dorgu in his mind—still charging forward, dribbling past defenders like they were shadows, winning the penalty with nothing but belief and daring.

This wasn’t just about one half of football.

This was about identity. About belief. About redemption.

He tightened his shoulders, focused again. Planted his non-kicking foot.

And struck the ball clean.

Maignan dove early, already shifting to his right before the ball had fully left the boot. But Krstović wasn’t watching him.

His shot flew left. Smooth. Pure. The kind of strike that came not from muscle memory, but from muscle trust. The ball clipped the inside of the net.

Thunk.

The net bulged.

And San Siro exploded.

["He’s done it!"] the commentator screamed, his voice breaking. ["Krstović has done it! He sends the keeper the wrong way and places it perfectly, beautifully into the corner! This is unbelievable! Lecce have turned the world upside down!"]

Krstović didn’t hold back.

He ripped off his jersey like it had been holding in everything. The joy, the rage, the relief. Shirt in one hand, he sprinted across the pitch, pure adrenaline flooding his legs, tears mixing with the sweat on his face. Every step was unhinged, chaotic, alive. Around him, camera flashes burst like fireworks, catching him in midstride, each flash a freeze-frame of glory.

He reached the corner flag, leapt over the advertising boards, and dove straight into the arms of the away fans. The red and yellow supporters caught him like he was one of their own, which he now truly was.

["Oh my goodness!"] the commentator bellowed again. ["He’s in the crowd! He’s with the fans! Krstović, the hero of the night, is being swallowed up by the people who love him most! What a moment! What a breathtaking, unforgettable moment!"]

Banda didn’t wait. He yanked the ball from the net like it was made of gold and ran in the opposite direction, waving it over his head, laughing like a boy in a dream. Dorgu was already on his way, sprinting toward the corner flag, arms spread wide, yelling words that no one could hear but everyone could feel.

Luca Ferretti got there last, not out of slowness but from sheer disbelief. Just sixteen years old, and yet he wrapped his arms around Krstović with the kind of pride that made it hard to remember who was the teenager and who was the veteran. The hug nearly dropped both of them to the turf again.

And on the sideline, Alex Walker stood still.

For one glorious moment, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. He just stared.

Then his substitutes’ clipboard fell from his hand. It clattered to the ground as he clenched his fists and screamed, his voice cracking under the weight of everything he had held inside.

He threw both fists into the sky, face stretched with joy so raw, so unguarded, it made even the hardened staff beside him blink away their emotion. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care.

Because this, all of this, was what he had fought for.

He had spent years chasing something. Respect. Validation. A dream. And here, beneath the roaring lights of San Siro, it all came pouring out.

["What a scene!"] the commentator cried, almost whispering now as his voice ran out of room. ["What a magical, heartfelt scene we are witnessing. These boys, these warriors, ten minutes ago were buried in doubt, but now look at them. They hold victory in their hands. They hold joy. They hold a night that will live forever in Lecce’s history!"]

The AC Milan players stood still.

Tonali crouched near the center circle, hands on his knees, staring at the grass like it might offer him answers. Pulisic dragged his jersey over his face, frustration and disbelief etched into every gesture. The restart came quickly. The referee raised his arm.

Two yellow cards.

One for Krstović, shirt removal.

One for Tonali, for delaying.

But no one cared.

Lecce’s fans were no longer in their seats. They were on their feet, on shoulders, on barriers. Security tried to hold them back, but passion spilled forward like water breaching a dam.

"Alex! Alex!" they shouted, the chant growing louder and louder until it became a single living force.

Players turned toward their coach.

Banda and Krstović flanked him like bodyguards, dragging him toward the crowd. He stumbled at first, laughing, still stunned.

When he reached the front rail, he placed his hand over his heart.

The fans saw. They responded with a roar that shook the structure. Some cried. Some held each other. Some pounded on the railings like war drums.

"A-L-E-X! A-L-E-X!"

He bowed. Just once.

And it felt like the world bowed back.

This wasn’t just about tactics. This wasn’t just about winning. This was connection. This was football as it was meant to be.

The referee tapped his whistle again.

Restart.

The ball was passed.

But before it could even settle, the referee blew three sharp blasts.

Three notes. Three echoes.

The final whistle.

And just like that, it was done.

Three sounds that felt like thunder in the chests of AC Milan. Their heads dropped. Their fight was over.

Three sounds that felt like fireworks in the hearts of Lecce.

The bench emptied like a dam breaking. The players exploded toward the fans, shirts off, eyes wild, arms flung wide. Security gave up entirely. Fans burst onto the pitch, hugging players, crying with them, laughing with them.

Alex stood still once again, fists pumping into the air as though he could reach the stars. He smiled, slowly, deeply, watching the chaos with a quiet awe.

He did it.

They did it.

They beat AC Milan.

They didn’t know what the future held. Maybe stronger teams waited. Maybe the road ahead would be harder than anything before.

But tonight, none of that mattered.

Because they had won this.

And that was enough.

Alex was still deep in that feeling when he felt someone nudge him gently from behind.

He turned.

It was Dorgu.

"Come on coach," the boy grinned, eyes bright. "This was all you!"

Alex laughed, breathless.

Before he could say anything, Dorgu grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the fans, Krstović jogging alongside. The stewards had long stopped trying. The pitch belonged to the players now, and to the people who had believed alongside them.

Quite a few fans were already on the grass, some falling to their knees, some holding scarves, all cheering, all celebrating like they had won the Champions League.

It was madness.

It was magic.

It was a beautiful sight.