Harbinger Of Glory

The next day, the blue team bus rolled through the narrow streets leading toward Stadio Tre Fontane, its polished sides catching flashes of afternoon sun.

The hum of the engine was steady, but inside, the noise was uneven with quiet chatter, zipping of bags, and the occasional cough.

They were half an hour from camp, and now the stadium was already visible through the windows, tucked between the trees and buildings of the EUR district, its stands slowly filling up.

The Italian U21S leaned toward the windows as they neared, spotting flags, camera crews, and the mix of blue and red shirts of early fans.

When the bus finally turned into the small access road leading to the players’ entrance, a small group of spectators gathered near the barriers began cheering as the bus hissed to a halt.

The first to step out was the staff, followed by the players one by one, all dressed in their official blue FIGC tracksuits.

Leo followed behind Carlo, his headphones around his neck, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the setting, glaring sun.

The noise of the crowd was faint here, but the energy was still there, humming in the air.

”Let’s go, ragazzi,” Marco called from near the entrance with a bag slung over his shoulder.

The players filed in after him, shoes squeaking slightly against the tunnel floor as they entered the stadium interior, white walls, narrow hallways, and the distant thump of music coming from the loudspeakers outside.

They reached the locker room, a neat space lined with open cubbies and benches where training shirts and bibs had already been laid out by the staff.

”Change into your warm-up kits,” one of the assistant coaches said as the group spread out, finding their places.

Bags dropped, jackets came off, and the room filled with the quick rhythm of rustling fabric and conversations.

Leo found his spot, with a number ”17” stitched above his bench, and began changing without much fuss.

A few minutes later, Marco stepped back into the room, closing the door behind him.

”We’re a bit behind schedule,” he said, glancing at his watch.

”So warm-ups will have to go fast. The sooner you’re ready, the better.”

A couple of players groaned jokingly, but most just nodded and kept dressing.

After that, Marco clapped his hands once and then spoke again.

”Those who are done, join the other coaches outside. Don’t waste time.”

”Sì, mister,

” came the reply, scattered around the room.Carlo, already laced up, nudged Leo before slipping on his warm-up kit.

”Let’s go see how big the crowd is.”

Leo just gave an awkward nod before tightening the laces of his boots and then following behind.

They stepped out through the tunnel and onto the edge of the pitch, but what had been a half-full stadium earlier was now almost packed with fans trickling in by the minute.

Flags waved, cameras clicked, and the blue of Italy mixed with the smaller number of Japan’s white in the stands, while the grass below glistened with the floodlights that had just turned on.

You could feel the match building even before the whistle, the quiet tension that sat just beneath the noise.

Walking behind his mates, Leo stretched his arms as they made their way onto their side of the pitch, where the sun was just dipping enough to throw a soft orange tint across the stands.

Soon after that, the warm-ups were in full swing now with quick touches, short passes and light stretches, just keeping the players on their toes.

Ricci stood beside Leo, rolling his shoulders as he scanned the growing crowd.

After long, a low whistle escaped him.

”Mamma mia,” he muttered, squinting toward one of the middle sections before nudging Ruggeri.

”You see that? Carlo’s got fans.”

Ruggeri followed his line of sight, grinning as soon as he spotted the familiar face.

”Fans? That’s his girl, isn’t it?”

”Yeah,” Ricci said, smirking.

”Gianna. Man, I wish my girl came to see me play like that. I’d score two just to make her scream my name.”

”Only two?” Udogie teased, earning a few quiet laughs from the group.

Carlo, who’d been pretending not to notice, finally turned toward where they were looking.

Sure enough, there she was, Gianna, tucked between a group of friends, her brown hair pulled back, sunglasses perched on her head.

She caught his eyes almost immediately and broke into a small wave, smiling widely.

Carlo’s composure cracked into a grin as he lifted a hand in return, giving a quick, subtle wave back, though subtle wasn’t really his thing.

”Eh, look at him,” Fornella said under his breath, grinning.

”The romantic.”

Leo, standing a few feet away, caught the motion out of the corner of his eye.

He looked toward the stands briefly, long enough to recognise Gianna’s face and the scene, but his focus didn’t stay there.

He went right back to his stretches, switching from lunges to a few side shuffles.

After a few minutes, Marco’s voice carried from near the sideline, sharp and cutting through the chatter.

”Let’s finish it up, ragazzi! Last round.”

Leo straightened, giving a small exhale before breaking into a sprint towards the byline and then back to where the players were.

On his second sprint, the rest of the players fell in line, with Leo glancing back at them before continuing his run.

They turned, hit the third sprint with Leo still slightly ahead, the others following close behind, just as Marco came calling ”time” as they crossed the halfway line again.

Leo slowed to a jog, the others doing the same, sweat glistening on their foreheads as they began drifting back toward the tunnel.

Carlo, ever the showman, turned once more toward the stands where Gianna was still watching and blew her a kiss with a grin, drawing a few laughs and whistles from the guys around him.

Ricci elbowed him lightly.

”You better back that up with a good game, amore.”

Carlo smirked.

”Don’t worry. I always do.”

A few minutes after the players entered the tunnel, Gianna leaned over the railing, her eyes searching through the seats opposite, when she suddenly cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, ”Fiorella!”

Heads turned, some out of curiosity, others just startled by her volume.

A few rows down, a woman with dark sunglasses and a cascade of dark hair paused mid-step.

Even with the glasses on, it was clear she was stunning in that careless, almost inconvenient way.

Her name, Fiorella, fit her perfectly; she looked like someone who’d just stepped out of an editorial spread, and that might have not been far from the answer.

She lifted a hand, spotted Gianna, and smiled slightly before weaving through the row of spectators to the empty seat on Gianna’s left.

”Gianna,” Vittoria said, sitting down with a sigh, ”for the last time, use my name, Vittoria. Vee-ttoh-ree-ah

. Not Fiorella or whatever you just screamed. I should at least keep that one to myself.”Gianna rolled her eyes, waving off the lecture while Vittoria huffed, then settled back in her seat, crossing her long legs.

”So, what are we doing here again? You know I was perfectly fine in the hotel. Room service, air conditioning, silence—”

”Boredom,” Gianna interrupted. ”You said you were bored.”

Vittoria gave a lazy shrug.

”I said I might be bored. And then I got bored, so...” she gestured around.

”Here I am. A football game. How thrilling.”

Gianna laughed, shaking her head.

”You act like I dragged you here.”

”You kind of did,” Vittoria muttered, before her eyes flicked toward the field.

”So, which one is he? The boyfriend?”

”They went inside and should be out in a bit,” Gianna said, pointing toward the tunnel, but almost on cue, the players in blue filed out onto the pitch in a neat line beside the Japanese team.

Gianna leaned forward slightly, scanning the Italian lineup until her eyes landed on one figure in particular, tall, lean and confident in his stride.

”There,” she said, smiling. ”Number eleven.”

Vittoria followed her finger, squinting for a second before spotting Carlo.

”Hmm,” she hummed, her tone unreadable.

”He’s cute. I’ll give you that.”

Gianna turned toward her, eyebrows lifting.

”Don’t even start.”

”What?” Vittoria said innocently, already pulling out her phone.

”I was just saying. It’s a compliment.”

”Just cute. He’s more than that,” Gianna muttered, folding her arms.

”You should’ve just stayed home and scrolled through your phone like you always do.”

Vittoria smirked without looking up, tapping away on her screen.

”And miss watching sweaty boys run around chasing balls. No, I am so in.”

Gianna just shook her head, muttering something under her breath, before turning her attention back to the pitch where the players had now lined up in the centre circle, the referee standing between the two captains, ready for the pre-match photos.

The stadium roared again, banners waving, as the PA system shifted to the Italian anthem.

Gianna stood with the crowd, eyes locked on Carlo, while Vittoria barely lifted her head, still typing something into her phone, before she finally looked up, expression softening just a touch.

”Well,” she murmured, almost to herself, ”at least it’s not boring.”