Tell Me How It Goes Later
As Juventus prepared to take the corner, I finally had a moment to catch my breath.
The other Torino FC players kept bumping into me, so I still hadn't fully recovered — which made this fleeting pause feel impossibly precious. I exhaled hard, forcing my breathing back under control and willing my body to reset as fast as it could.
That was when I spotted the player lining up the kick at the corner flag. Juan Cuadrado, Juventus's right wingback. The second I saw a right-footed specialist stepping up as the taker, one conclusion snapped into place in my head.
Ah. It's coming my way.
A long delivery from a right-footed kicker on our right-side corner was perfectly set up to land right where I was standing as the left center-back. And more importantly, Dušan Vlahović was over here — which made this the highest-probability target.
I'm dying here… this is bad…
Before the whistle even blew, I glued myself to Vlahović as tightly as I could. I didn't use my arms, but I kept slamming into him with my shoulder and chest, harassing him so he couldn't move freely.
Vlahović looked down at me with an irritated scowl.
"Why do you keep sticking to me like this? It's annoying."
I huffed out a breathless laugh.
"Must be frustrating when you've done absolutely nothing all day. I get it."
Vlahović's expression hardened for a second. But he was a veteran striker — he didn't rattle easily. A moment later he planted hard, drove power through his frame, and shoved me off with raw force.
My balance broke at the exact instant Cuadrado's right foot whipped cleanly through the ball and bent it in.
Oh, shit—!
I tried to reattach myself a beat too late. Vlahović had already slipped free and was surging into the perfect position. Catching that frame and that leap now was impossible.
In that split second, I changed my read.
I can't stop the header.
So I stop the ball after he heads it.
Instead of chasing Vlahović, I threw my body into the flight path ahead of where he'd strike it — not contesting the aerial duel, but blocking the shot.
Thud!
Vlahović's powerful header connected flush.
Whump!
But the ball smacked straight into my shoulder and ricocheted the other way.
Ow…
The impact blanked my vision white for a moment, but the only thing that mattered was that I'd stopped it. A shot that would have been on target had been shut down cold.
The rebound was met by central midfielder Samuel Ricci, who sprinted in and headed it clear with everything he had.
"Handball!"
"It hit his arm!"
Several Juventus players threw both arms up at once and swarmed the referee, insisting I'd handled it. But the referee was firm. He pointed to his shoulder and shook his head.
"Shoulder! Fair play!"
The call stood. And those few seconds decided everything. A handful of Juventus players still had their eyes locked on the referee, delayed in their defensive transition by the protest.
Torino's players, meanwhile, registered that no whistle had blown and started charging forward.
Samuel Ricci's clearance header found left midfielder Nikola Vlašić cleanly. Vlašić didn't dwell on the ball — he slipped it straight into Antonio Sanabria, who was already bursting ahead. Sanabria shielded it with his back, then spotted David Okereke exploding down the right flank.
Okereke drove straight into the box. Juventus goalkeeper Szczęsny rushed out desperately to narrow the angle — but Okereke stayed ice-cold. Instead of blasting it, he slid a low shot aimed between the keeper's legs.
Slip.
The ball threaded through and rolled over the line, rippling the net.
"WAAAAAAAAAH!"
The stadium detonated. Torino fans' roar shook the entire ground so hard my ears rang.
Torino's players sprinted toward the corner flag and piled into each other. On the bench, manager Ivan Jurić and the coaching staff pumped their fists and roared.
Across the way, the Juventus bench had frozen solid. Massimiliano Allegri, face flushed deep red, screamed at his players with a string of raw curses.
"You don't have time to argue! You should have been running!"
A few seconds of complacency. That single blink when their eyes drifted to the referee — Torino seized it without mercy and flipped the match with one perfect counterattack.
My shoulder still throbbed as I stood there gasping, watching it all unfold.
Yes.
The corner of my mouth tugged upward.
The rest of regulation burned away, and stoppage time began.
The stadium filled with tension. Every Torino player pushed one step harder, desperate to protect the lead, while Juventus shoved their line all the way forward hunting one last chance.
But the crack opened exactly where it had been most dangerous all night. Juventus's left side came alive again.
The moment Federico Chiesa took the ball, Manuel Locatelli closed in to offer a return, and Filip Kostić joined them — three players rattling quick combinations through a tight pocket of space.
"Stop them!"
The shout came from the Torino bench, but it was already too late. Bellanova and Sazonov lost the timing for a split second, and Chiesa didn't waste the gap. A blur of passes and a dribble later, both of them were beaten.
Buongiorno charged out to cover. I moved at the same time.
Once again I cut off the passing lane toward Vlahović first, convinced Chiesa would whip in a cross. He'd shown the same pattern several times already, and the highest-percentage ball was still the one aimed at Vlahović.
But Chiesa was a step ahead.
He dipped his body as if cutting inside, and the instant Buongiorno leaned right with him, Chiesa snapped his ankle and burst the other way — outside.
That single change of direction left both Buongiorno and me a beat late.
No way…!
Chiesa didn't cross this time. He didn't cut it back to a surging midfielder either. He stepped just outside the penalty box and bent it with his right foot.
A gorgeous, curling trajectory painted itself through the air.
I threw myself at it on pure instinct, but the ball was already sailing past anything my head could reach.
BANG!
It smashed the far post. For a heartbeat everyone expected it to bounce out. Instead the rebound spun inward and shook the net.
Keeper, defenders — none of them had a chance. A genuine wonder goal.
The stadium went silent in an instant. Torino fans who had been certain of victory clutched their heads in disbelief, while Juventus players snatched the ball and jogged straight back to the halfway line.
"Haaah…"
I planted my hands on my knees and dragged in air.
Damn it. I couldn't stop that.
Frustration came second. Admiration hit first. A strike like that was nearly impossible to save even if you saw it coming. But that was as far as Juventus got.
They'd equalized and seized the momentum, but there simply wasn't enough time left. Torino never lost their concentration, and no more dangerous chances materialized through stoppage time.
Tweeeet! Tweeeeet! Tweeeeeet!
The final whistle stretched long across the pitch.
The match ended 1–1.
Torino's players couldn't hide their disappointment. The hollow ache of letting a victory slip through their fingers sat heavy on all of them.
I felt different.
My chest was light enough to float.
Hoo… I did it.
My second shot at a Serie A debut. I'd held my own against Juventus without any major mistakes and produced several decisive defensive plays — one of which had even sparked the opening goal. In truth, I'd done my job.
I'd proven my name in front of tens of thousands of Torino fans.
That alone was enough to make my chest swell.
Still riding the afterglow out on the pitch, I suddenly spotted one particular player.
Federico Chiesa. The man who'd scored the equalizer.
The second I saw him, Mateo — the Juventus-obsessed classmate who never stopped mocking me at school — flashed through my mind like lightning.
…Wait a second.
A mischievous idea sparked. I walked straight over to Chiesa.
"Hey… Chiesa?"
He turned at the unexpected call.
"Yeah? What's up?"
I led with praise.
"You were incredible today. Especially that breakthrough — even if I'd been over there, I wouldn't have been able to do a thing. I threw myself at the last shot, but… yeah. Stopping that was impossible."
Chiesa looked at me like he hadn't expected that, then covered his mouth with one hand and grinned.
"You sure you're allowed to say that? You know Torino and Juventus don't exactly get along. Even a youth player has to know that much, right?"
I shrugged.
"Well… yeah, I know. I just don't really care about that stuff."
Chiesa studied me for a moment. An East Asian kid. He seemed to grasp quickly that I didn't carry the Torino–Juventus rivalry as deep in my bones as the Italian players did.
"Yeah, I guess that makes sense."
I scratched the back of my head, then got to the point.
"Anyway… any chance I could get one of your jerseys?"
Chiesa's eyes went wide.
"Kid."
He stared at me, speechless for a second, then looked at me like I'd lost my mind.
"Are you crazy? That's a little…"
I waved my hands in a hurry.
"Ah! There's this one Juventus fan at my school."
"Ahh~ so you want it for him?"
"No."
I shook my head firmly.
"I'm going to wear it in front of him and rub it in his face."
"…What?"
"Why would I give it to him just because he likes you?"
Chiesa let out a disbelieving half-laugh. I barreled straight into the explanation.
"He messes with me every single day. 'You? Called up to the first team? Yeah, right.' 'Even if you go up you'll just warm the bench.' 'Think you'll even make the substitutes' list?' Nonstop. It's infuriating."
"Ahem."
Chiesa bit his lip, fighting a laugh. I didn't stop.
"So tomorrow when I get to school, I'm walking in holding the jersey and going, 'What did I tell you, you little punk.'"
I mimed draping a jersey over my shoulders and grinned.
"'You don't have one of these, do you? Tsk. Typical Juventus fan — can't even get a match-worn jersey. I might be a better Juventus fan than you.' Something like that. And since he's specifically your fan, I figure his eyes are going to roll straight back into his head."
Chiesa finally lost it.
"Pff—!"
It started small, then his shoulders started shaking, and before long he was bent double clutching his stomach.
"Hahaha! You're a ridiculous kid, you know that?"
He kept covering his face with his hands, shaking his head, laughter still pouring out of him.
I waited as long as I could before asking again.
"So… will you give it to me?"
Chiesa was still trying to catch his breath between chuckles.
"Tha— pff — alright. Come inside… hah… I'll give it to you in the dressing room… Tell me how it goes later."
"Of course."