Inside the locker room, Alex Walker stood in front of his players. His arms were crossed, his back to the whiteboard, and his eyes scanned each face in the room. They were sweaty, out of breath, and clearly disappointed with the goalless first half, especially after Rebić's miss. But they were locked in, focused. He had them.
"Listen up," Alex started, his voice clear and commanding. "We should be ahead. We all know that. Dorgu did everything right, Kaba did his part, and Rebić… well, we all saw it. It happens."
Some of the players glanced at Ante, who looked down at the floor, rubbing his hands together. Alex didn't dwell on it.
"But I'm proud. You've executed the plan perfectly. You've made them look like the away team. We've controlled the press, limited their midfield, forced them into mistakes. Keep that energy. Keep the discipline. The goal will come. We just need to stay sharp."
He pointed to the board, where a diagram of the Cagliari shape was drawn.
"Keep targeting this left channel. Dorgu's got the pace and they've got no answer for it. Ramadani, Berisha—keep the midfield tight. Pierotti, float into the space when you can. The opening is there. It's just a matter of time."
He clapped his hands once. "We can win this. We will win this. Now go show them."
The players shouted in unison, the energy renewed as they clapped and stood. One by one, they filed out of the locker room and into the tunnel.
The second half kicked off with Lecce picking up where they left off.
["Welcome back, everyone. It's 0-0 here at the Unipol Domus but make no mistake, it's been anything but dull."]
["You're right, Gianluca. Lecce have looked the better side. Alex Walker will be frustrated they're not in front, especially after that golden chance for Rebić in the first half."]
Almost immediately, Lecce fashioned another opportunity.
It started with a clever turn from Berisha, who slipped a short ball to Pierotti just outside the box. The Argentine spotted Dorgu overlapping again on the left. The wingback took it in stride and whipped a dangerous ball across goal.
This time, it was Mohamed Kaba who got a touch—stretching to poke it towards the far post.
["Oh, that's another chance! Kaba just inches away!"]
["It's déjà vu for Lecce! Dorgu again the architect, and Kaba gets there first but just can't guide it home. The execution's just lacking. You feel like these missed chances could come back to haunt them."]
Alex paced the technical area, jaw clenched, eyes on the bench. He looked down at the nameplate for Nikola Krstović. The Montenegrin striker sat beside the other substitutes, arms folded, watching the game with a neutral expression.
Alex's thoughts churned. Krstović was a poacher—ruthless on his day. This might be the sort of match where one sniff of goal would be enough. But Alex remembered just three days ago, when the forwards were kept behind for an extra finishing drill. Everyone had shown up, but Krstovic had made it very clear that he wasn't interested in it. He and Banda. Ironically they would've been his preferred front two in an ideal situation.
He'd already explained to the squad that effort was the foundation of everything.
"We work as a unit, we train as a unit," Alex had said then.
Now, that very attitude dilemma was standing in the way of what could be the winning substitution.
["Walker seems to be considering a change here. You can see him looking at his bench."]
["And I wouldn't be surprised if it's Krstović coming on. Rebić is active but wasteful, and Kaba's doing more link-up work than actual finishing."]
Alex turned to his assistant, who gave him a questioning look.
He hesitated.
Then shook his head.
Not yet.
The game continued to grind forward, each side feeling the tension now. Lecce were still on top, but a shift had begun. Cagliari were defending deeper but had begun probing with more intent on the counter.
In the 59th minute, they had a warning shot.
A Lecce corner was cleared long. Marin Pongračić chased after it but misread the bounce, allowing Zito Luvumbo to nip in and drive down the right flank. He raced into the Lecce half, and suddenly it was a three-on-three.
Baschirotto came across to delay him, but Luvumbo cut inside and fed a short ball into the feet of Gianluca Lapadula, who laid it off for Gaetano.
The midfielder didn't hesitate.
He took one touch to steady himself, then fired a low shot toward the far post.
["Früchtl down quickly! Great save! That was close!"]
["Best moment so far for Cagliari. That counterattack had purpose. Lecce caught a little too high and a little too slow to reset."]
Alex barked instructions from the sideline.
"Fede, drop earlier next time! Beri, no late runs unless we're covered!"
The balance of the game was tilting. The players felt it too—the way the rhythm was shifting, the anxiety crawling up their legs as passes became less crisp, reactions a half-second slow.
Cagliari smelled the nerves.
And then, it happened.
60th minute.
Lecce lost the ball in the midfield. Berisha tried to take a heavy touch past his marker and was dispossessed. Gaetano again, snapping at the opportunity, surged forward and this time fed the ball wide to Luvumbo.
Luvumbo skipped past Dorgu—just barely—and drove into the box.
He squared the ball sharply toward the penalty spot.
Lapadula met it in stride.
Bang.
Right-footed, clean, clinical.
The net rippled.
The stadium erupted.
["GOAL FOR CAGLIARI! It's Lapadula! The deadlock is broken at the hour mark, and it's Lecce who pay the price for all those missed chances!"]
["You could feel it coming, Gianluca. That shift in momentum. Lecce looked the better side, but in football, it's about taking your moments. Cagliari did."]
Alex sank into his seat on the bench.
The System pinged in his glasses with a quick, cold notification.
[Cagliari 1 – 0 Lecce]
[Match Win Probability: 68% Cagliari – 22% Draw – 10% Lecce]
The hardest thing wasn't conceding. It was knowing you saw it coming—and still couldn't stop it.
He stood back up.
It was time to make a decision.