The bus rumbled quietly through the narrow countryside roads of Tuscany, its windows streaked with faint morning rain.
Outside, Siena's hills rolled endlessly in muted shades of green and gold, while inside, the atmosphere was taut — not from fear, but from a focused kind of silence that precedes a storm.
Virtus Lombardia FC were on their way to face Arezzo FC, the 10th-placed team in the Serie D league table.
For Virtus — stuck at 14th out of 18 — every point mattered now. A loss could bury them deeper into mediocrity, while a win could mark the beginning of a climb they desperately needed.
Jaeven sat near the back, headphones in, staring blankly at the droplets racing down the window. The thud of the tires on wet asphalt became a rhythm — steady, almost hypnotic — and for a while, he drifted in it.
The voices of his teammates blended softly behind him — snippets of banter, muffled laughter, a few nervous chuckles.
Matteo Ricci, sitting across the aisle, was the only one breaking that rhythm.
"Hey," he nudged Jaeven's leg with his foot. "You look like someone going to his own funeral. Loosen up, pretty boy."
Jaeven didn't look away from the window. "I'm focused."
"Focused, huh?" Matteo leaned in, grinning. "Or terrified your family's watching again?"
Jaeven's lips twitched, a faint smile threatening to break. Matteo always had that effect on people — his voice carried the sort of energy that refused to let tension breathe.
"They're not coming to this one," Jaeven said finally.
"Ah," Matteo clutched his chest dramatically. "So it's just me, then. Your one loyal fan."
"More like a distraction."
Matteo chuckled. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Their laughter was brief, but it cracked the quiet. Some of the others turned — mostly the defensive line seated upfront — and one of them muttered something in Italian that sounded like "the kids are too relaxed."
But Rossi didn't say a word.
Coach Leonardo Rossi stood at the front of the bus, one hand gripping the rail as he spoke quietly to his assistant. His expression, as always, was carved from discipline — but his sharp eyes occasionally flicked to the players, gauging who was ready and who wasn't.
When they met Jaeven's for a second, the young winger straightened subconsciously.
The man didn't need to yell to command respect. He was Rossi, the former midfield king — and every one of them knew it.
---
They arrived at the stadium just before noon.
The drizzle had stopped, but the pitch glistened — soft, slick, and fast.
Inside the locker room, the smell of liniment and damp fabric filled the air. Jerseys hung neatly on the wall, numbers gleaming under fluorescent lights.
Rossi stood before them, arms folded. "You all know the table," he began. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried through the room like a current. "Arezzo sits four places above us. They think this is just another home game. They think Virtus is easy prey."
He paused.
The air grew heavy.
"Make them regret it."
That was all he said. Nothing fancy. Nothing motivational in the Hollywood sense. But it was enough.
When the whistle blew to send them out, Jaeven could feel the pulse of adrenaline pushing through every nerve. The crowd wasn't huge — a few hundred locals, scarves of maroon and white waving lazily — but the noise still carried.
He lined up on the left flank, adjusting his gloves as the referee checked his watch. Beside him, Matteo cracked his neck and muttered, "Let's make some noise, huh?"
Jaeven nodded once. "Let's."
The first half began with chaos.
Arezzo pressed high — their midfield moved like a well-drilled machine, closing down space fast. Virtus struggled to build rhythm; every time Jaeven touched the ball, a defender was already breathing down his neck.
He kept his composure, though. The new synchronization between his mind and body was clearer now. His perception — Spectral Awareness — let him sense movement before it happened, catching faint cues: a shift in weight, a breath drawn too sharply, the shadow of a run forming on the far side.
Still, the opposition was good.
They weren't 10th by accident.
Fifteen minutes in, Virtus went down 0–1 — a messy rebound off a corner that slipped past the keeper. The crowd roared.
Jaeven exhaled through his nose, steadying himself.
Matteo clapped his shoulder. "No worries. We flip it before halftime."
"Confident as ever."
"You'll score," Matteo said simply, eyes gleaming. "I can feel it. You're due."
Jaeven didn't answer, but he didn't deny it either.
Because part of him — the quiet, burning part — knew Matteo was right.
The next twenty minutes were grueling. Jaeven's lungs burned as he tracked back, defended, and sprinted forward again. Virtus finally found a rhythm through Rossi's tactical adjustments — shorter passes, less risk, more buildup through the center.
Then, it came.
A quick interception by Matteo.
A one-two with the attacking midfielder.
Space opened up — a narrow channel along the left.
"Go!" Matteo barked.
Jaeven sprinted. The world slowed. He cut inside, his cleats biting into wet grass, the defender lunging in too late.
The ball rolled toward him like fate.
A feint with his right, drag with his left — the defender bit. Jaeven slipped through, swung, and—
The net rippled.
For a second, time froze. Then the noise hit like a wave.
1–1.
He didn't celebrate loudly — just clenched his fists, looked toward the bench, and nodded. Rossi gave a single approving gesture. That was all the validation Jaeven needed.
Matteo jogged up, ruffling his hair. "What did I tell you? I felt it!"
"Yeah, yeah," Jaeven replied, smiling faintly. "Save the psychic act for later."
The first half was far from over.
Arezzo responded aggressively, pushing their fullbacks higher. Jaeven found himself trapped between defending and countering — a mental tug-of-war that tested his focus.
And then came the moment.
It was the 43rd minute.
Matteo intercepted again near midfield, threading a long pass to the left.
"Jaeven, run!"
He did.
He burst past one defender, then another — the ball glued to his feet, his lungs burning as the penalty box loomed closer. The keeper advanced, the defender on his side slid desperately—
Contact.
Jaeven felt the sharp sweep against his ankle and the cold slap of turf as he went down hard. The whistle didn't come. Not immediately.
For a heartbeat, the stadium went dead silent.
The referee was running toward him, arm slightly raised. The defenders were shouting, claiming he dived.
Matteo was sprinting toward the spot, eyes wide.
Jaeven stayed on the ground, staring up at the gray sky, chest heaving. He could still feel the faint sting of the tackle — the pressure of boot against skin. It was a foul. It had to be.
But the ref's face was unreadable.
The Arezzo captain stood nearby, arguing, gesturing wildly. "He slipped! He slipped!"
Matteo pointed at the turf. "You call that a slip? Look at his leg!"
The referee blew the whistle at last.
But his hand… was going toward his pocket.
Red?
Yellow?
Or nothing at all?
The air seemed to tighten.
Jaeven pushed himself up, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He couldn't read the expression — not of the ref, not of the players around him. Even Matteo's grin faltered.
For that single suspended moment, everything — the rain, the crowd, the smell of grass — vanished into a silent freeze.
Then the whistle came again.
The decision dropped.
But the words — whether it was penalty or play on — were swallowed by the roar that followed.
Jaeven's eyes widened.
The scoreboard didn't change.
The referee pointed toward the goal line…
---