CHAPTER 165: A MEETING

The final whistle echoed through the San Siro, not as a release of frantic energy, but as the satisfying conclusion to a symphony.

The Inter players didn’t collapse in a heap of wild, screaming limbs as they had in the Derby.

They came together in the center circle, a huddle of exhausted, intelligent victors, sharing knowing looks and firm, proud embraces.

The fans in the Curva Nord remained in their seats, not just cheering, but applauding. It was a different kind of ovation—one of deep appreciation for the beautiful, dominant football they had just witnessed.

The players walked over, a unified blue and black line, and applauded back, a shared moment of mutual respect.

As the team began to head towards the tunnel, a stadium official with a microphone intercepted the group.

"Signore e signori, the Man of the Match, for his incredible vision and leadership... Leon!"

The stadium roared its approval as Leon, surprised, was pushed forward by his teammates.

He was handed a small, gleaming trophy. He held it up to the cheering crowd, a wide, genuine smile on his face.

It felt good. It felt earned. But as he looked at the trophy, the reflection of the stadium lights seemed to warp and twist, and for a second, he saw Coach Chivu’s stony, emotionless face.

My office. Tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock sharp.

The words echoed in his mind, a cold counterpoint to the warm adoration of the crowd.

The dressing room was buzzing.

The air wasn’t filled with the wild, chaotic energy of the Derby win, but with the vibrant, satisfied hum of a job well done.

It was the feeling of a team that had solved a complex puzzle together.

"I am telling you, my legs are gone," Federico Dimarco said, slumping onto the bench. "I think I ran more in that second half chasing their shadows than I have all season."

"That was the plan!" Nicolò Barella said, a proud grin on his face. "Make them work. My grandmother could have scored against them in the last ten minutes, they were so tired."

Julián Álvarez, who was meticulously unpeeling a banana, paused and looked up with a thoughtful expression. "But if your grandmother scored, would it count as a goal for us, or would we have to sign her to a contract first? And would she count as a homegrown player?"

The room fell silent for a second before erupting in laughter. Lautaro threw a rolled-up sock at him. "Julián, I swear, your brain is a gift to humanity. A strange, confusing, beautiful gift."

Cole Palmer, now fully integrated into the team’s banter, chimed in with his dry English wit. "In England, we’d just give his nan the match ball and call it a day. Less paperwork."

The laughter continued, a warm, easy sound that filled the room. This was their new identity: a team that could win a street fight one week and a chess match the next, and laugh about it all afterwards.

The door swung open, and Coach Chivu walked in.

The room instantly fell silent, the players’ smiles fading slightly as they remembered his coldness on the pitch.

They braced themselves for a critique, a breakdown, a reminder of their sloppy first half.

Chivu stood before them, his sharp suit immaculate, his face unreadable. He scanned the room, his gaze lingering on each player.

"Today," he began, his voice calm and measured, "you became champions."

The players exchanged confused glances.

"Not because you won," Chivu continued, "but because of how you won. In the first half, you were a mob. You were arrogant. You were playing like individuals who had read their own headlines. And you were being destroyed."

He paused, letting the harsh truth sink in.

"Then, in the second half, you became a team. You stopped trying to be heroes and you started to be intelligent. You trusted the ball. You trusted each other. You executed a tactical shift not because I screamed it from the sideline, but because you understood it on the pitch. You didn’t just out-fight them; you out-thought them."

He looked at the midfield trio of Barella, Çalhanoğlu, and their supporting players. "You controlled the tempo like veterans. You were patient. You were magnificent." He then looked at the forwards. "You made unselfish runs, you played the simple pass instead of trying for glory. That is the mark of a mature attack."

A wave of relief and pride washed over the room.

This praise, earned through intelligence and discipline, felt more meaningful than any celebration of a single miracle goal.

"This," Chivu said, his voice rising with a quiet, powerful passion, "this is the football that wins titles. Not the chaotic, heart-stopping comeback. This. Controlled, intelligent, suffocating dominance. I am prouder of that second half than I was of the entire Derby."

He looked around the room one last time. "Rest. Recover. You have earned it. Every single one of you."

Without another word, he turned and left, leaving behind a dressing room filled not with boisterous noise, but with a profound, unshakeable sense of self-belief.

Leon drove home, the Man of the Match trophy sitting on the passenger seat beside him, gleaming in the passing streetlights.

The coach’s words replayed in his head.

I am prouder of that second half than I was of the entire Derby.

But the confusion remained, a stubborn, unsettling puzzle.

Why would Chivu praise the entire team, praise the very tactical shift Leon had initiated, with such passion and sincerity in the dressing room?

Why would he call their performance the work of champions?

And why, then, had he summoned Leon to his office with the cold, detached air of a headmaster about to deliver a punishment?

The two things didn’t make sense. They were a complete contradiction.

He looked from the gleaming trophy, a symbol of his public success, to the dark road ahead, a symbol of his private uncertainty.

He had never felt more valued by his team, and more unnerved by his coach, at the exact same time.

Eight o’clock. The meeting felt less like an appointment and more like a summons.

And for the first time since joining Inter, Leon felt a genuine flicker of fear about what the morning would bring.