CHAPTER 161: THE CURRENT 4TH PLACE TEAM

Coach Chivu’s speech had lit a fire under the team, but it was a controlled burn. The wild, chaotic energy of the Derby win had been forged into a sharp, focused determination. The training session that followed was the most intense they’d had all season. Every pass was crisper, every sprint was faster, every tackle was harder.

But even in the crucible of this newfound intensity, they were still a family. And families laugh.

During a break, as players gulped down water, Julián Álvarez, with a look of deep philosophical concentration, turned to Nicolò Barella.

"Nico," he said seriously. "If you try to fail, and you succeed, which one did you do?"

Barella, who was mid-swig, choked on his water, sputtering and coughing as the absurd question hit him. Lautaro Martínez, overhearing, just groaned and threw a towel at Julián’s head. "Will you stop breaking my midfielder’s brain? I need him for the weekend!"

The whole group erupted in laughter, the sound echoing across the training pitch. It was the perfect release, a reminder that even on their relentless march towards a title, there was still room for joy.

It was in that moment of shared laughter that Leon noticed it.

Cole Palmer was smiling, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The Englishman, usually so cool and composed, had a quietness about him today that wasn’t his usual calm. Leon’s Vision flickered on instinct, a quick, subtle scan.

[Cole Palmer - Potential: 91, Current: 86, Status: Subdued (Homesickness)]

The word hung there in Leon’s mind: Homesickness.

Of course. Palmer was young, in a new country, a new league, away from everything he knew. The high of the Derby had probably masked it, but now, in the quiet routine of training, it was creeping back in.

Leon caught Lautaro’s eye and gave a subtle nod towards Palmer. The captain, ever perceptive, immediately understood. He watched Palmer for a moment, his expression softening.

Later, as they were doing finishing drills, Lautaro made sure he was partnered with Palmer.

"That cross you put in for the penalty," Lautaro said casually as they waited for their turn. "Perfect. Exactly where I wanted it. In England, do they teach you to pass like that, or are you just a genius?"

Palmer managed a small smile. "A bit of both, I guess."

"Well, the genius part is working for us," Julián chimed in, jogging over. "But the food part... I feel bad for you. English food is just... sad potatoes and boiled meat, right?"

"Hey, it’s not that bad," Palmer protested, though without much heat. "We have... fish and chips."

"Fish and chips!" Julián exclaimed, clutching his heart in mock horror. "That is a tragedy! Tonight, you will be saved. We are taking you for real food. My treat!"

"What? We are?" Lautaro asked, surprised.

"We are now!" Julián declared. "Team dinner. Mandatory. We must rescue our English brother from a lifetime of culinary sadness."

Palmer looked around at the smiling faces of his teammates, who had all overheard.

He tried to protest, to say it was fine, but the decision had been made.

For the first time all day, the smile that touched his lips was genuine, reaching all the way to his eyes.

That evening, they descended upon a classic Milanese trattoria, a warm, bustling place with checkered tablecloths and the heavenly smell of garlic and roasting meats.

They took over a long table in the back, their laughter and boisterous energy filling the room.

"Okay, I have a question," Julián announced as they looked at the menus. "Is a lasagna just spaghetti-flavored cake?"

The table groaned in unison. "Julián, if you don’t order a real food item in the next thirty seconds, I am going to make you eat the menu," Lautaro warned, though he was grinning.

The dinner was a joyous, chaotic affair. They ordered huge platters of prosciutto and cheese, bowls of pasta that steamed up their faces, and massive Florentine steaks to share.

They talked about everything—bad haircuts from their youth academy days, who had the worst taste in music (a unanimous vote for Federico Dimarco’s pre-game playlist), and the best goals they’d ever scored.

Leon found himself telling the story of his first-ever goal, a scuffed shot in the rain for his local junior team that had bobbled over the line. "I celebrated like I’d just won the World Cup," he laughed. "My dad still has the muddy jersey in a frame."

Palmer, in turn, shared a story about trying to replicate a David Beckham free-kick in his backyard and accidentally sending the ball through his neighbor’s kitchen window.

The table howled with laughter, picturing the cool, elegant Palmer as a clumsy, panicked kid.

"See?" Lautaro said, clapping Palmer on the back. "We are all the same. Just clumsy kids who got a little bit lucky."

For Palmer, it was more than just a meal. It was a feeling of belonging.

He looked around the table, at the loud, laughing, passionate group of men from all over the world—Argentina, Italy, the Netherlands, now England. This was his team.

This was his family. The ache of homesickness hadn’t vanished, but it felt smaller now, less important.

As they were finishing up with espressos and tiramisu, Lautaro raised his small cup.

"A toast," he said, his voice quieting the table. "To good food, to good friends..." He looked at Palmer. "...and to making Milan feel like home."

They all raised their cups, a chorus of "Salute!" echoing around the table.

Leon walked home through the quiet, moonlit streets of Milan, a warm, contented feeling settled in his chest. His stomach was full, and his heart was fuller.

This was what it meant to be part of a team. It wasn’t just about the miraculous goals or the roaring crowds. It was about this.

The quiet moments of connection, the shared laughter, the feeling of being part of something bigger than yourself.

He got into his apartment, the events of the day replaying in his mind. The intense training, Chivu’s powerful speech, the laughter, the food, the look on Palmer’s face.

They were ready for their next challenge. The current 4th place team, Atalanta, were notoriously difficult opponents, known for their all-out attacking style. It would be a war.

He fell into bed, exhausted but happy, and drifted off to sleep almost instantly. But just as he slipped into unconsciousness, his system, ever-vigilant, sent one final, quiet notification through his mind. It wasn’t a warning, and it wasn’t a stat. It was a profile, automatically triggered by his subconscious thoughts about the upcoming match. It was Atalanta’s star midfielder.

[Player Profile: Teun Koopmeiners]

[Potential: 91, Current: 88]

[Key Attribute: Stamina 99]

[Unique Passive Skill Detected: ’Tireless Engine’. Player is immune to stamina loss in the final 15 minutes of a match.]