The referee's whistle cut through the roar of the Stadio Via del Mare like a blade, slicing the noise in half for a single breath before it returned even louder, a rolling wave of voices and drums and horns that filled the humid night air. It was halftime, and somehow, Lecce had their noses in front against Atalanta. The scoreboard glowed like a promise above the tunnel as the players jogged off, sweat glistening on their brows, jerseys sticking to their backs, adrenaline still crackling through their veins like electricity.
They weren't celebrating. Not yet. They knew this wasn't over.
