Harbinger Of Glory

Outside the San Siro, the day had been moving lazily along, with the city treating the match taking place in their city for what it was supposed to be: a preseason friendly.

Then people started seeing the score.

From a glance at a phone on a café table.

To a muttered ”Seriously?” from someone stepping off a tram.

And finally, a sports channel suddenly getting turned up louder inside a bar.

The reactions and the mediums varied.

And somewhere on the other side of Milan, where the shirts changed from red and black to blue and black, Inter fans reacted the way they always did when something involving their neighbours became entertaining and funny.

They did so immediately, collectively and with far too much enjoyment.

And very soon, the main word floating around the street was, ”Why not?”

Why not go and watch the game?

And so some did.

The Inter supporters who made the decision did so with the cheerful opportunism of people who understood the joy in watching their city rivals lose, even in pre-season, even to a team most of them couldn’t have placed on a map two hours ago.

It was an opportunity that didn’t come with conditions attached, and they were ready to take it.

They came in groups, filtering toward the San Siro from the surrounding streets, and the stadium that had been half empty when the game started was considerably less half empty by the time the second half was ready to begin.

Jake had been attached to Leo’s side since they came back through the tunnel, which had started as gratitude and was now becoming something else.

”I’m just saying,” Jake said, for the third time as he slung his arm over Leo’s shoulder.

”A simple thank you doesn’t cut it. How about I french kiss you on the cheek?”

”Get away from me,” Leo said and shoved him sideways.

Jake stumbled and recovered and fell back into step beside him while shrugging.

”Hey, I’m just saying.”

A moment later, Leo walked out of the tunnel and onto the pitch, and as the stadium came back into view, he stopped thinking about Jake entirely.

He looked up, and his brow went up with it.

”Is it just me,” he said, mostly to himself, ”or does this place look more full than when we went in?”

Jake, who had been mid-sentence about something else, stopped and looked around.

”Now that you mention it,” he said slowly, his gaze moving around the tiers.

The two of them stood there for a moment, taking inventory of the stands, which had filled and were still looking fuller and fuller by the second.

After shaking away that thought, the duo continued onto the pitch and made their way towards the half opposite the one they had been on in the first half.

Across the pitch, the AC Milan players were settling into their positions for the second half when the substitution boards came up.

And with that came the commentary from the gantry, noting what was happening with the particular energy of people who had been waiting for this.

”And we are back for the second half here at the San Siro,” the commentator said, ”and before we even get to the restart, AC Milan have decided that whatever this is, it is no longer something they are approaching lightly.”

Leão came on first, and the mood inside the San Siro changed with him.

They knew what he could do with the ball, but he wasn’t the only one they cheered for.

Then Pulisic replaced Chukwueze on the right.

Then Tomori came on, same as Gabbia and Loftus-Cheek!

”Allegri has seen enough,” the co-commentator said.

”I was wondering when he’d make his move, and it turns out I didn’t have to wait very long. This is a significantly different AC Milan from the one that started this game.”

”It is,” the main commentator agreed.

”And the question now is whether Wigan, who have been outstanding in the first half, can maintain what they’ve been doing against players of this calibre. Because Leao and Pulisic in particular are a very different proposition to what they’ve been facing.”

Leo watched the new arrivals find their positions.

He was getting excited, and he knew why!

These were some of the top players in the world.

Those who, a year and a half ago, he wouldn’t have dreamt of playing against them, even though they weren’t even the cream of the crop.

But that was that, and since he was now on the pitch against them, he had to do his best, since that was the best form of admiration he could give them.

A moment later, the referee appeared.

”Second half underway,” the commentator said.

”AC Milan kicking off and they come forward with considerably more intent than they showed in the opening forty-five minutes.”

Up in the VIP area, Vittoria had settled into her seat with the contentment of someone who had found the version of the experience that suited them.

The atmosphere below had been good, but it had also been crowded.

Up here, there was enough space to breathe and still see everything.

Gianna was beside her, leaning forward slightly with her elbows on the rail.

”Better up here,” Vittoria said.

”Mm,” Gianna said, not fully listening because something was happening on the pitch.

Below them, the game had resumed its conversation, and the Wigan players were finding themselves on the receiving end of something they hadn’t encountered in the first half, which was a Milan side that had decided to be serious.

But the strangest thing was the noise.

When Wigan did something right, the stands responded, and it wasn’t the Wigan supporters making that noise because there were no Wigan supporters in the stadium.

It was something else, and Dawson had been trying to work out what it was for about three minutes before he turned and looked at a section of the stands and saw a cluster of Inter jerseys in the lower tier and understood immediately.

He turned back to the pitch with a smile he hadn’t planned and let out a short laugh that Nolan caught and questioned with a look.

”The enemy of my enemy,” Dawson said, and left it there.