"They think they have won," Chivu said, his voice dangerously quiet. "They are in their dressing room right now, laughing. They think we are broken. They think the ten men of Inter have no fight left."
He looked around the room, his eyes boring into each player. "Good."
A flicker of confusion passed through the squad.
"They are expecting us to defend, to hope for a lucky break," Chivu continued, a cold, predatory smile touching his lips. "We will do the opposite." He pointed at a stunned-looking Julián Álvarez, who was quietly trying to peel an orange. "Julián. You are going on for a defender."
Julián looked up, his eyes wide, a piece of orange peel stuck to his cheek. "Me, Coach?"
