It happened in an instant.
Patrick Dorgu hit the ground with a heavy thud, the kind that made you wince even from the stands. The collective gasp of the crowd was followed by a sharp whistle from the referee, slicing through the rising tension like a knife. But that whistle did nothing to stop what came next.
Baschirotto didn't even hesitate. The big center-back stormed across the pitch like a freight train, eyes locked on Duncan, the Fiorentina midfielder who had gone in for the brutal tackle. Without saying a word, he shoved Duncan square in the chest. Hard. The Fiorentina player staggered back, throwing his arms up as if to protest, but he didn't get a chance to say anything.
Banda was already there, screaming at the top of his lungs, eyes wide with a mixture of rage and panic. Then Berisha joined in too, his expression fierce, veins bulging in his neck as he shouted at the ref and the opposing players. What started as a scuffle quickly turned into a full-on confrontation.
["This is turning ugly!" the commentator shouted, voice rising in excitement. "Lecce's players have lost their patience! That tackle was too much!"]
[His co-commentator added in a grim tone, "They've gone full Roman gladiator mode. This isn't a football match anymore, it's a declaration of war. Someone bring in the UN!"]
Fiorentina's players weren't going to stand idly by. Kayode came charging in to push Banda back. Mandragora got in Berisha's face. Within seconds, both teams were at it, crowding around, pushing, shouting, some trying to play peacemaker, others clearly looking to escalate. From the stands, it looked more like a brawl outside a nightclub than anything resembling football.
The referee looked like a man trapped in a nightmare. His hands were up, trying to signal calm, but nobody was listening. He glanced at the fourth official with a helpless look, probably wishing he could disappear.
On the sideline, Alex Walker didn't move.
His arms were crossed. His jaw was tight. His eyes were cold.
He didn't shout. He didn't bark instructions. He just watched it all unfold, silently. Deep down, he knew this wasn't part of the tactical blueprint he'd drawn up. But emotionally? He understood. Every Lecce player who had run to Dorgu's defense had done it for one reason, because they cared.
Baschirotto's shove. Banda's screams. Berisha's fury. That wasn't indiscipline. That was unity.
Eventually, the storm began to settle. The assistant referees got in between players, coaches shouted from the benches, and cooler heads finally started to prevail. It took a while, but the referee finally got things under control.
And then came the cards.
One by one, like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat.
Yellow card to Baschirotto.
Yellow to Banda.
Yellow to Kayode for escalating.
But then, after conferring with the fourth official and pausing for maximum dramatic effect, the referee reached for his back pocket.
Red.
Straight red for Duncan.
["There it is! He's done it! Duncan is off!" the commentator yelled as the stadium burst into noise. "That's a direct red for that reckless challenge!"]
["Foul Dorgu and face the Lecce tribunal," his co-commentator quipped. "And trust me, they don't give second chances."]
Duncan didn't argue. Maybe he knew. Maybe the look in the referee's eyes had already told him resistance was pointless. He just turned and walked toward the tunnel, face expressionless, like a man resigned to his fate.
By that time, the medics had reached Dorgu. The young wing-back was already sitting upright, teeth gritted but waving them off like it was nothing.
"I'm fine, really," he muttered. "Just stung a bit."
The physios weren't convinced. They checked his knee thoroughly, bending it, stretching it, watching his reactions. Eventually, they helped him to his feet. He jogged slowly along the sideline, a slight limp in his stride, but he looked steady.
He marched over to Alex, still determined, still defiant. "Coach, I can keep going."
Alex looked at him for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then he placed a firm hand on the young man's shoulder.
"I know you can," he said quietly. "But you won't."
Dorgu frowned. "Why not? I'm good, I swear. It's not serious."
"And what happens if it gets serious ten minutes from now?" Alex replied, cutting through his protest with calm certainty. "What if that 'little sting' turns into something worse? I'm not gambling your entire season on one match. You've done more than enough."
Dorgu looked frustrated. His lips pressed into a thin line. "But-"
"This isn't a punishment," Alex said gently, lowering his voice. "It's respect. I'm protecting you because I need you next week. And the week after that. You're not just a player, you're an investment in our future."
There was silence between them for a few seconds.
Then, finally, Dorgu sighed and nodded. "Alright. I get it."
Alex smiled and patted his back. "Good. Now sit down and enjoy the show."
Pierotti came on as his replacement, jogging onto the pitch to a round of supportive applause from the Lecce fans. And just like that, the game shifted completely.
Fiorentina were down to ten men. Their shape looked shaky. Their energy dropped. That red card had gutted them, not just tactically, but mentally. Lecce smelled blood.
With no more fear of counters, Alex's midfield line surged forward. The wing-backs attacked with greater confidence. The tempo increased. The stadium could feel the pressure building like a volcano ready to erupt.
In the 72nd minute, Lecce came terrifyingly close.
Krstovic dropped deeper to receive a pass, spun away from his marker, and slipped a perfectly timed ball into the right channel. Banda, like a bullet out of a gun, exploded down the wing. He cut inside, danced past one defender, and unleashed a curling left-footed shot from just outside the penalty area.
["Ohhh Bandaaa!" the commentator roared. "That had whip, sting, and ambition, but not quite the finish!"]
The ball whistled just wide of the far post. Banda dropped to his knees, head in his hands. So close. The crowd let out a collective groan.
But Lecce didn't let up.
Four minutes later, they were knocking again.
Pierotti shifted inside from the left, dragging a defender with him, and found Berisha just at the edge of the box. Berisha didn't hesitate. He turned with one smooth motion and rifled a shot toward the top corner.
["Berisha's looking for the knockout punch!"]
The Fiorentina keeper dove, flinging himself at full stretch. He got his fingertips to it and managed to deflect the ball just over the bar.
["Oh, that's pure reflex! That ball had flames on it and he just slapped it away like he's auditioning for the Avengers!"]
The home crowd rose to their feet, clapping, shouting, pushing their team forward with every voice.
And then, in the 80th minute, it happened.
Banda again started it, picking up the ball near midfield. With defenders backing off, he accelerated, weaving past Mandragora as if he wasn't even there. Then, without warning, he chipped the perfect ball over the top.
Krstovic didn't even have to look. He timed his run to perfection, meeting it just inside the box. Instead of shooting, he cushioned a header down to Berisha, who was steaming in behind him.
This time, Berisha didn't miss.
He struck the ball with a half-volley, low and precise, sending it screaming into the bottom corner of the net.
2–0.
["BERISHAAA!!... Two nil, game over. Lecce have surely won it now. That should be enough to give them all three points. What a match it has been so far and to those who'd like to see the underdogs come out on top, it's been an admirable ending. Goal for Berisha. Goal for Lecce. Three points for Lecce"}
The entire stadium erupted in an explosion of cheers. Flags waved. Fans jumped. It was chaos in the best way.
Alex didn't celebrate wildly. No fist pumps. No knee slides. He just smiled, calm and satisfied, then turned to the bench.
"Tell them to get ready," he said to his assistant coach. "Time to let the kids have some fun."
A minute later, Rafia and Burnete were called up. The young players trotted onto the field with big grins, replacing Berisha and Krstovic to thunderous applause. It wasn't just about rotation anymore. It was about recognition.
On the bench, Dorgu sat beside Alex, still lightly bouncing his knee, clearly annoyed.
"You proud of them?" Alex asked.
Dorgu watched the field for a moment as Pierotti tore down the wing, beating his man clean.
"Yeah," he muttered. "They're doing great."
"That includes you," Alex replied, not missing a beat. "None of this happens without that run. The foul on you? That was the turning point. It rattled them."
Dorgu sighed and leaned back, his expression caught somewhere between pride and irritation. "Still hate being subbed off."
Alex chuckled. "Good. That's the kind of fire I want. If you were happy sitting on the bench, I'd be worried."
The match wasn't over yet, but in truth, the message had already been sent.
Lecce weren't just playing well. They were playing without fear.
Not afraid of big names. Not afraid of clubs with better budgets or longer histories. Not afraid of expectations.
They believed in themselves.
And belief was dangerous... very dangerous.
A/N: Bonus chapter if we make it to 50 Power Stones this week, or three reviews. Two if we smash both targets.