Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The Inter players were a single, living organism of pure joy, a rolling maul of hugs, tears, and triumphant screams in the middle of the Stadio Olimpico.

Alessandro Bastoni, the man who had traveled from hell to heaven in the space of thirty minutes, was being held aloft on the shoulders of his teammates, tears of pure, unadulterated redemption streaming down his face.

The commentator, his voice now just a hoarse, happy whisper, was trying to find the words. "They have done it! The kings of the comeback have conquered Rome! Inter Milan are the champions of the Coppa Italia! From the brink of despair, they have snatched glory! Football, you beautiful, cruel, magnificent beast! You have given us another masterpiece!"

On the other side of the pitch, the Roma players lay on the grass, utterly broken.

The home crowd, who had been a deafening wall of noise all night, began to slowly, silently file out, leaving behind a stadium that now belonged entirely to Inter.

As a podium was hastily assembled on the pitch, the Inter players took a lap of honor, their weary legs forgotten, fueled by the pure adrenaline of victory.

They walked over to the corner of the stadium housing their own traveling fans, a small but deafeningly loud pocket of blue and black.

"GRAZIE! GRAZIE!" Lautaro Martínez roared, beating the crest on his chest, his voice raw with emotion. The fans roared back, a thousand voices united in a single, triumphant chorus.

"Did you see the look on their faces when your penalty went in?" Federico Dimarco yelled to Bastoni, throwing a sweaty arm around his neck. "Priceless! Absolutely priceless!"

"I didn't see anything," Bastoni admitted, his voice thick with tears and laughter. "I think my eyes were closed!"

As they celebrated, a few lingering Roma fans near the tunnel hurled insults at them, their faces contorted with the rage of defeat. "Thieves! You were lucky!" one screamed.

Julián Álvarez, who was trying to swap shirts with a dejected-looking Roma player, just turned and gave them a cheerful, oblivious wave. "Thank you! You played a great game too!" he shouted back, completely misunderstanding their intent. The sheer, innocent absurdity of it made his teammates howl with laughter.

The ceremony began. One by one, the dejected Roma players walked up to the podium to receive their runners-up medals, the silver discs looking like weights around their necks. Then, it was Inter's turn.

The first in line was Julián. He bounded up the steps, shook the hands of the dignitaries, and when he was given his medal, he held it up to his ear like a seashell. "I can't hear the ocean," he said to the confused official, "but I think I can hear the sound of victory!"

Cole Palmer was next, his walk as cool and unhurried as ever. He accepted his medal with a polite nod, a small, satisfied smile on his face. As he walked past his teammates, he just said, "See? Told you we'd win."

One by one they went, a parade of muddy, exhausted, ecstatic champions.

Bastoni kissed his medal, his eyes shining. Barella, who had watched the entire second half from the dressing room, was given a huge hug by every single one of his teammates as he received his medal, a silent message of forgiveness and shared triumph.

Finally, it was Lautaro's turn.

As captain, he was the last to go. He walked up the steps, his face a mask of immense pride.

He shook the hands, received his medal, and then walked towards the gleaming, beautiful, three-handled Coppa Italia trophy.

The team gathered behind him, a tense, excited scrum of blue and black. The stadium held its breath.

Lautaro wrapped his hands around the handles of the cup.

He took a deep breath. He looked at his team.

He looked at the fans. And then he lifted it high into the Roman night.

BOOM!

Confetti cannons exploded, showering the podium in a blizzard of blue and black paper.

The epic, triumphant sound of Queen's "We Are The Champions" blasted from the stadium speakers.

The players were a single, jumping, screaming entity, every man trying to get his hands on the trophy, passing it from one to another, each kissing it as if it were a long-lost love.

The dressing room was a scene of beautiful, glorious anarchy.

Champagne was sprayed in every direction, drenching players, coaches, and the expensive suits of the club officials who had dared to enter.

The Coppa Italia trophy sat in the center of the room, and every player took a turn doing something ridiculous with it. Julián tried to wear it as a hat.

Dimarco filled it with a sports drink and chugged from it.

Bastoni just sat in a corner, staring at it, a look of profound, peaceful joy on his face.

Coach Chivu stood in the doorway, trying to look stern, but the corners of his mouth were twitching, betraying his immense pride.

He was about to say something when Hakan Çalhanoğlu and Lautaro snuck up behind him and emptied two entire bottles of champagne over his head.

The room erupted. The coach, dripping from head to toe, finally let go, a huge, rare, genuine laugh booming through the chaos.

He was mobbed by his players, a giant, happy, soaking wet group hug.

Later, as things began to calm down, Leon sat on the bench, a medal around his neck, a contented ache in his muscles, and a deep sense of peace in his heart.

They had done it. They were champions. He checked his phone, a hundred congratulatory messages flooding his screen. One from his mom, which was just a long string of heart emojis. One from Biyon, saying, "CHAMPION! You owe me a pizza!"

And then he saw one that made his heart do a little flip. It was from Sofia.

Sofia: "Congratulations, footballer. You guys were incredible. My dad is... well, he's actually smiling. It's a little scary. Talk to you tomorrow? :)"

Leon grinned, typing back a quick reply.

Tomorrow sounds perfect.

He felt on top of the world. He had a trophy, a team that was a family, and a date with the coach's daughter.

What could possibly go wrong?