The morning sun in Lecce felt heavier than usual. Not because of the weather, it was crisp, clear, and bright, but because of the weight it carried. It was matchday. It was Fiorentina. A clash that went beyond tactics or form. It was grit, identity, and the moment that would prove whether Lecce could stand toe‑to‑toe with the giants.
Alex paced inside the locker room, back straight, arms folded across his chest. Everything else was still. No chatter, no music, no bursting energy. Just the smell of liniment, fresh kit, and the quiet sound of breathing. He took a deep breath, letting the air settle in his lungs, settling the storm in his head. This was the calm before the storm. The final seconds before battle.
One by one, the players trickled in. Each step seemed deliberate, focused. These weren't casual clothes they wore. They were loaded, like suits of armor. Lameck Banda tossed his boots into his locker with a soft thunk. Krstovic circled his wrists, adjusting the tape carefully, methodically. He was in his zone. Gallo stretched in the corner, working through practiced motions with calm efficiency. Dorgu, with a ball at his feet, juggled quietly, eyes hooded, preparing himself.
Alex waited until the last man entered, until every seat was filled, until the tension in the air was almost visible. And then he stepped forward into the center of the room.
"Alright, listen up," he began, voice steady, full of purpose. Heads snapped toward him. Eyes locked on him. He had them. "This isn't Monza. We're not going up against a team just trying to survive. This is Fiorentina. They're chasing Europe this year. They've got class, depth, sharp tactics, and a style that hurts you if you give them room. So yeah, they're better than us on paper."
He paused and let the words sink in. A few of the younger players let their shoulders inch back. The deeper ones leaned forward.
"But good thing we don't play football on paper," he finished with a grin.
A ripple of laughter traveled through the room. Even the stiffest faces relaxed for a moment.
Alex let the grin linger before stepping closer, more serious now.
"Today," he continued, voice turning sharp, "we fight. Every blade of grass is ours. Every loose ball, every centimeter matters. We fight for this badge. For our fans. For our pride."
He paced slowly, eyes sweeping each face.
"History remembers the winners. Doesn't matter if the other team had eighty percent possession, or thirteen hundred passes, or left you in the dirt. History doesn't give a damn. But if we win today, that's what gets remembered. Not how pretty we looked."
He moved over to the tactics board, tapped the laminated formation.
"3‑5‑2. Banda and Krstovic lead the line. Patrick, that's you at right wingback. Gallo, left side yours. Midfield three, Blin, Ramadani, Berisha. In defense, it's Pongracic, Baschirotto, Touba. This is where we make our stand. You three, you are a wall. Ensure nothing gets through."
He turned and nodded toward the midfield.
"Falcone in goal, organize the chaos. Be loud. Be set. Do what you have to do."
The room grew tense. The buzz of anticipation filled the air. It wasn't noise, exactly, but something electric. A spark waiting to erupt.
"No half‑hearted tackles. Zero lazy tracking back. And when we score? We go like our lives depend on it. Because, out there? It kinda does."
Dorgu raised a hand, still holding the ball.
"Boss," he said with a grin, "if we park the bus, can we charge passengers extra for baggage?"
A burst of laughter erupted. The tension eased just enough.
"If we win today," Alex snapped back with a growing grin, "you can drive the bus all the way to the Champions League for all I care."
Laughter and cheers followed. It gave them energy.
A familiar knock on the door cut through the moment.
"Five minutes."
Alex looked around the room one last time. The smell of ambition. The look of readiness. The faint glint of fear in some eyes mixed with fire.
"Soak this in. The nerves, the buzz, the storm in your gut. Hold on to it." He pointed at every one of them in turn. "This… this is what we live for."
There were hand‑shakes. Shoulder bumps. Fist bumps. A few quiet prayers.
Then they stood as one and marched out. Boots thudded on concrete.
Inside the tunnel, the announcer's voice boomed, the names rolling over tens of thousands of fans.
"Lecce starting eleven, Falcone in goal. Back three, Pongracic, Baschirotto, Touba. Midfield five, Gallo and Dorgu wingbacks, Blin, Ramadani, Berisha center. Up top, Banda and Krstovic."
Roars exploded inside the tunnel, a thousand drums pounding at once. Flags whipped around, scarves unfurled, voices echoing.
Alex stood behind them, jaw tight, heart pounding, vision focused on the pitch ahead. He could feel the roar in his chest, clawing to get out.
He looked at his team one last time and whispered, nearly to himself,
"This is it."
And then the storm came, because the whistle blew.
A/N: Bonus chapter if we make it to 50 Power Stones this week, or three reviews. Two if we smash both targets