The roar of the Via del Mare simmered into a thick, suspenseful murmur as Nikola Krstovic placed the ball carefully on the penalty spot. It sat there like a bomb waiting to go off, motionless and quiet, while everything else around it trembled with life. The players, the crowd, even the air felt alive, dense with tension that curled around the stadium like smoke before a storm.
Alex Walker stood just at the edge of his technical area, arms folded tight across his chest. His face was calm on the outside, but every muscle under his skin was wound tight. His heart thudded in his chest like a drum, beating against the inside of his ribs.
They had survived the opening twenty minutes. Survived. That was the word. Fiorentina had thrown everything at them. Their midfield had passed with elegance, their wingers had sprinted like devils, their buildup was methodical and dangerous. But Lecce had stayed compact, stayed organized. They'd absorbed the pressure, dug in, and held firm.
And now, here they were, standing over a penalty kick. An opportunity. A gift. A crack in Fiorentina's polished armor.
Krstovic took a few steps back. Not too far, just enough to give himself space. He looked down at the ball once, then up at the goal. Christensen, Fiorentina's keeper, stood on his line, bouncing side to side, trying to look big. The fans behind the goal waved flags in the yellow and red of Lecce. Some had their hands clasped, whispering prayers. Others shouted Krstovic's name, desperate and hopeful.
Alex leaned forward slightly, barely whispering. "Come on, Krsto. Just bury it."
Krstovic let out a long breath, then started his run-up. Smooth. Confident. No stutter, no hesitation.
["Krstovic... steps up...!" the commentator called with rising excitement. "Sends the keeper the wrong way! Bottom left corner! GOAL! LECCE TAKE THE LEAD! GOAL FOR LECCE! GOAL. FOR . LECCE! ONE NIL TO THE HOSTS!"]
The ball hit the net, and the stadium detonated into chaos. Flags flew into the air. People screamed until their voices cracked. A sea of arms reached for the sky.
Krstovic wheeled away, sprinting toward the corner flag with pure adrenaline. He punched the air, his face alight with a mix of relief and joy. Banda was the first to reach him, jumping on his back like a kid. Dorgu followed, clapping and hollering. Even Medon Berisha, who rarely showed emotion on the pitch, was grinning like mad, both arms lifted high.
Alex finally allowed himself a breath. He smiled, wide and raw, and pumped his fist once. "That's how we do it. Ice cold."
But the moment passed quickly. He straightened his face, took a step back. The game wasn't over. Not even close. If anything, it had just been flipped onto a harder setting.
Fiorentina looked rattled. Their players stood at the center circle like they didn't quite understand what had happened. This wasn't part of the script. Lecce were supposed to struggle, to get picked apart, to collapse under pressure.
Instead, Lecce led 1–0.
And now the script changed.
From the restart, it was clear Fiorentina had shifted gears. Their passes became sharper, their movement faster, their tempo rising like a boiling kettle. But Lecce responded not by pressing forward, but by tightening the screws even more.
The 3–5–2 that Alex had deployed began to look like a 5–3–2. The wingbacks dropped deep, practically forming a back five. The midfield narrowed into a tight wall in front of them. Krstovic and Berisha remained high, but even they tracked back to cover passing lanes.
It wasn't pretty football. It wasn't meant to be. It was war.
["Lecce have built a wall here," the commentator said, almost grudgingly. "Fiorentina might have the ball, but they're running into brick after brick."]
Every clearance was met with cheers. Every tackle was celebrated like a goal. Every time Fiorentina had to turn and pass backwards, it felt like a small victory.
But still, danger lingered.
In the 32nd minute, Lecce's shape faltered for the first time. Dodô, Fiorentina's right-back, found a rare moment of space. He zipped past Gallo on the flank and drilled a low cross into the box. Beltrán was there, sliding in for a flick. It looked perfect. Goal-bound.
Falcone dived like a man possessed, stretching every inch of his frame. His hand smacked the ball, sending it skidding away. But it fell to Ikoné at the edge of the six-yard box. The goal gaped wide.
He took the shot.
Baschirotto flew across like a missile, thigh-first, and somehow, miraculously, blocked the ball over the bar.
["OH MY WORD! HOW DID THAT NOT GO IN?!" the commentator shouted in disbelief. "That's heroic defending from Baschirotto! He just threw his body in there like his life depended on it!"]
Alex nearly dropped to his knees. "Jesus… Jesus Christ. That's too close."
He turned and paced once, rubbing his forehead. It was moments like this that shaved years off a manager's life.
Still, Lecce refused to crack. Fiorentina probed and poked, tried crosses from both wings, but the backline refused to yield. Their compact shape snapped back into place after every clearance. Ramadani barked orders like a general. Pongracic made block after block. Even Banda, usually more attack-minded, sprinted thirty yards to track back.
Then came the long shot. Bonaventura picked up the ball thirty yards out and let fly. The ball curled wickedly toward the top corner. Falcone watched it closely, then followed it with his eyes as it soared just over the bar.
Close. But not close enough.
Alex glanced at the clock. Just a few more minutes until halftime. He wanted his players in the dressing room. He wanted a breather, a reset. But the match wasn't done giving him stress.
In the 43rd minute, Lecce found another break.
Ramadani intercepted a lazy pass in midfield. He took one touch and launched it forward to Berisha, who controlled it beautifully and pushed it right to Gallo.
Gallo took off down the wing, head up, cutting inside with purpose. Krstovic drifted away from his marker, creating space for a through ball.
Gallo was just about to release it when Biraghi stepped in, hard. The Fiorentina left-back shoved Gallo off balance and sent him crashing to the ground.
The referee's whistle came instantly, sharp and loud.
But Gallo didn't stay down. He popped back up, chest puffed, fists clenched. He was ready for a fight.
Berisha came sprinting in, face twisted with fury. He grabbed Biraghi by the collar, shouting in Albanian.
That was the spark.
Banda arrived next, pushing Fiorentina players back. Dorgu came charging in too, yelling something unrepeatable. Bonaventura got involved, shoving Banda. Ikoné barked at the referee.
Suddenly, everyone was in the mix. Lecce and Fiorentina, chest to chest, yelling, shoving. It was chaos.
["It's boiling over now!" the commentator said. "We've got a real scuffle breaking out here! Tensions spilling out everywhere!"]
Alex took two steps onto the pitch, ready to tear into someone, but his assistant grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
The referee was red in the face, shouting to break things up. His whistle cut through the madness again and again. Eventually, with help from his assistants, he separated the players.
Then came the cards.
Yellow to Gallo, for his reaction. Yellow to Biraghi, for the foul. Berisha got one too, for grabbing Biraghi. Bonaventura received his for escalation. And Banda, of course, got booked for charging in like a bull.
It took nearly two minutes to calm things down.
Then, finally, the whistle for halftime.
It echoed through the stadium like a gunshot. The crowd roared in mixed voices. Boos from the Fiorentina end. Thunderous applause and chants from the Lecce faithful.
Alex didn't waste time. He turned and walked briskly into the tunnel, his players jogging behind him. Some still had adrenaline in their legs. Others were fired up. But they all followed.
Inside the tunnel, Alex took a breath. It had been an ugly half.
But it was their kind of ugly.
This was the war they'd prepared for all week. And so far, they were winning it.
A/N: Bonus chapter if we make it to 50 Power Stones this week, or three reviews. Two if we smash both targets.
Second chapter now and one more should drop by the end of today or I'll write three tomorrow