Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The San Siro dressing room, which had been a carnival of joyous noise just two hours earlier, was now a tomb.

Alessandro Bastoni sat with his head in his hands, the image of his catastrophic mistake replaying in his mind on a cruel, endless loop.

Julián Álvarez, for the first time since anyone could remember, was completely silent, his usual wellspring of bizarre questions having run completely dry.

They hadn't just dropped two points; they had thrown them away with a casual, arrogant flick of the wrist, and the full weight of that failure was now crushing them.

The door opened and Coach Cristian Chivu walked in.The players braced themselves for the storm. They expected a hurricane of fury, a tirade that would strip the paint from the walls. They deserved it.

But the storm never came.

Chivu walked to the center of the room and stood there, his hands in his pockets, his face a mask of cold, hard calm.

The silence stretched, becoming more uncomfortable than any amount of yelling.

"Four points," he said finally, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

"That is our lead. Four points. With two games to go."

He let the numbers hang in the air, a stark, mathematical representation of their reality.

"Two weeks ago, after the Derby, you were heroes," he continued, his eyes scanning the faces of his dejected players. "Last week, after the cup final, you were champions. Today... today you were arrogant fools. You thought the game was a party. You stopped respecting your opponent, and you stopped respecting the work it took to get here. And you were punished for it. Deservedly."

He wasn't angry. He was something far worse: disappointed.

"So, what now?" he asked the silent room.

"Do we cry? Do we blame each other? Do we let this one moment of stupidity define our entire season? Or do we remember who we are?"

He took a step forward, his voice rising with a familiar, powerful intensity. "The league is not lost. The title is still in our hands. But there is no more room for error. There are no more second chances. There are only two matches left. Two finals. We must win them both. It is that simple."

He looked at Bastoni, whose head was still bowed.

"Get your head up, Alessandro. A champion is not a man who never makes a mistake. He is a man who refuses to be defined by it. Your redemption is not in the past. It is in the next two games."

A flicker of life returned to the room. Heads began to lift.

"From this moment on, the Torino match is deleted from our history," Chivu declared, his voice a final, unshakeable command. "It never happened. Our season comes down to two games. We win them, we are the champions of Italy. We fail... and we will have deserved to fail. The choice is yours. Rest. Recover. And come back on Monday ready to go to war."

The walk to the players' car park was a somber, silent affair. The usual post-match banter was gone, replaced by a grim, shared determination. They had been given a reprieve by their coach, and no one wanted to waste it.

Leon was walking alongside Cole Palmer, the two of them lost in their own thoughts.

"He's right, you know," Palmer said quietly, breaking the silence.

"We got cocky. We thought we were invincible."

"We played like idiots," Leon agreed, kicking at a loose stone on the ground. He felt a sudden, overwhelming need to talk, to get the swirling confusion out of his head.

"Hey, can I ask you something? You've played in England, you know how it is over there."

"Shoot," Palmer said, his curiosity piqued.

Leon took a deep breath.

"The other day... a scout from Liverpool approached me."

Palmer stopped walking, a flicker of genuine surprise on his usually unreadable face.

"Liverpool? Seriously? That's... big."

"He told me they want me for next season," Leon continued, the words tumbling out. "That the manager is a fan, that I'd be a perfect fit. And my agent, he's going crazy, talking about private jets and... I don't know, becoming best friends with the King."

He looked at Palmer, a desperate need for perspective in his eyes. "And then I've got this other thing with a scout from Madrid, and my head is just... a mess. I'm trying to focus on winning the league, but my future is a giant question mark."

Palmer listened patiently, his expression thoughtful.

"It's a good problem to have, isn't it?" he said finally, a small, wry smile on his face.

"Being wanted by the biggest clubs in the world." He started walking again, and Leon fell into step beside him.

"Listen," Palmer said, his tone serious.

"The Premier League is a different beast. It's faster, more physical. The media pressure is insane. They build you up just to tear you down. But... it's the best league in the world. And playing in it, testing yourself against the best, week in, week out... there's nothing like it."

He glanced at Leon.

"You're good enough. More than good enough. You'd kill it over there. But... that's a decision for the summer. For June. Right now, it's May. And right now, we have a title to win. All that other stuff... Liverpool, Madrid, your agent's friendship with royalty... it's just noise. Don't let the noise distract you from the job."

The Englishman's words were a bucket of cold, clarifying water. He was right. It was just noise.

Leon got home to find his mother waiting for him, a worried expression on her face.

She had clearly seen the result.

"Don't say anything, Mom," he said, giving her a tired but genuine smile as he walked in.

"We were arrogant. We were stupid. But it's not over."

"Of course it's not over," she said, pulling him into a hug. "You are my son. You are a fighter."

She looked at him, her eyes soft.

"But you look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders. Is it just the football?"

He hesitated for a second, then decided to tell her. He told her about the Liverpool offer, the pressure, the confusion about his future.

She listened patiently, and when he was done, she didn't offer tactical advice or career guidance. She just asked a simple, powerful question.

"Leo," she said, her voice gentle. "Are you happy here?"

The question cut through all the noise, all the what-ifs and maybes.

He thought of his teammates, of Julián's ridiculous questions, of Lautaro's leadership, of Palmer's quiet wisdom. He thought of Chivu's terrifying but brilliant mind. He thought of the San Siro roaring his name. He thought of Sofia's easy, brilliant laugh.

"Yeah, Mom," he said, a slow, sure smile spreading across his face.

"I am."

"Then that is your answer," she said simply. "For now."

He went to his room, his mind clear for the first time in days. Palmer was right. His mom was right. The future could wait.

The only thing that mattered was the badge on his chest and the two games left to play.

He closed his eyes, a new resolve hardening in his heart, and decided to do one last check. He activated his 'Manager Mode', a tool he now saw not as a glimpse into the future, but as a weapon for the present. He pulled up the profile of their next opponent, a mid-table team they absolutely had to beat: Sassuolo.

His Vision scanned the squad list, their stats and potentials appearing in a neat, orderly column. It was a good team, but nothing they couldn't handle.

Then, his system snagged on a familiar name, a player listed as being on loan... from Inter Milan.

He focused on the profile, and a new, chilling piece of text appeared, written in a jagged, aggressive font he had only seen once before.

[Player Profile: Stefano Sensi]

[Status: On loan from Inter Milan]

[Hidden Trait Detected: 'Giant Killer'. Player's Current Rating receives a significant, temporary boost when playing against a top-four team.]