In the stands, among the clusters of scouts, staff, and curious onlookers, the two Italians were still seated side by side, coats zipped to their necks, coffees gone cold between them.
One of them let out a low whistle, an impressed and amused look on his face.
"Che giocata…" he murmured, then switched to English, lips curling.
"That nutmeg. That was nice."
His companion, older and calmer, didn't look up from the pitch replay still flickering on the screen above the tunnel.
He just nodded slightly.
"He's got courage," he said in that dry, measured way, as though courage was a currency he'd seen spent too many times.
"Maybe too much for someone his age."
The first one smirked, leaning back in his seat.
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Sometimes it is," the older one replied, eyes still fixed on the empty half of the field.
"Sometimes it's exactly what you need."
They fell silent after that, their conversation fading into the background hum of halftime chatter.
