The referee’s whistle finally sounded, but it disappeared beneath the roar that surged through the San Siro.

Every stand rose together, applause crashing into chants as blue scarves spun overhead, the stadium saluting a team that had finally given it something to believe in again.

"Final whistle here at the Giuseppe Meazza," the commentator said, and there was something in his voice that wasn’t quite composure.

"Italy three, Ukraine nil. And Luciano Spalletti’s Italy have announced themselves."

As the commentary went through their proceedings, the broadcast cameras found Spalletti and Rebrov on the touchline as the two managers met, exchanging a handshake.

One on top and the other outclassed.

"A revelation," the co-commentator said, as the camera moved across the pitch.

"We don’t use that word lightly in football, but what we’ve seen from Italy tonight, and specifically from one player in this Italian setup, is the kind of thing you go a long time in this job without seeing. A debut like that doesn’t happen often."

Leo was bent forward with his hands just above his knees when Zinchenko appeared in front of him.

He straightened and took the Arsenal man’s hand, and right then and there, Mudryk also appeared.

The Chelsea winger offered a few quiet words as they walked by.

Leo acknowledged them with a nod before they separated again, a small moment of respect after an evening spent on opposite sides of the contest.

Following that, Udogie and Carlo arrived.

Both of them were still in their training bibs, not a minute played between them across the entire international window.

They walked over together, smiles on their faces that didn’t quite hide the disappointment underneath.

Leo looked from one to the other before deciding against saying anything.

There wasn’t a sentence that would make either of them feel better, and they knew it as well as he did.

So they stood there for a few seconds, sharing the moment before Carlo shook his head with a quiet laugh and nudged Leo’s shoulder.

Across the pitch, Donnarumma gathered the rest of the squad with a wave of his arm before leading them toward the touchline.

One by one, the Italian players spread out around the edge of the field, applauding every stand they passed.

The supporters answered with another swell of noise, flags still waving above a sea of blue as chants continued to roll around the San Siro long after the match had ended.

.....

Up in the more expensive part of the stadium, behind glass that revealed the full pitch below, a man sat alone near the front, his attention fixed on the players still making their way around the pitch.

The door behind him opened as another man stepped inside, closing it quietly before walking deeper into the box.

His eyes drifted briefly to the celebrations below, then back to the man seated near the glass, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I’ll admit," he said as he came to a stop beside the chair, "I never really took you for an avid football fan."

The man in the chair turned his head slightly, looking a bit offended and amused at the same time.

"That feels like an insult."

The man in the chair finally looked away from the pitch, an amused smile touching one corner of his mouth.

"Especially considering I own a stake in one of the clubs that plays here," he said.

"Not to mention a few interests elsewhere in the game."

A chuckle escaped the other man as he turned back toward the glass.

"Fair enough."

His eyes drifted across the pitch where the Italian players were still making their way around the stadium, applauding each stand they passed.

"Still..." he said. "That was some match."

"It was," the man in his seat said without hesitation.

He kept watching the celebrations below until his gaze settled on one player in particular.

"That number twenty-two," he said after a moment.

"I started paying attention to him after his weird pass at the start."

He leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the arm of his chair.

"But he made me stop watching the ball and start watching him instead."

The standing man glanced at him, his brow a bit raised as he chuckled.

"You did, huh?"

"I did."

Another brief silence passed.

"Count them if you ever watch the match back," the seated man said.

"Every touch. Every decision. See how many times he gives the ball away."

The other man’s eyes returned to the pitch where Leo was laughing now, saying something to one of his teammates as they reached another section of the stadium.

"Interesting player," he murmured.

"Very."

The standing man smiled faintly.

"I’ve heard a few people say the same."

"He played against AC Milan in pre-season," he said.

"I work with the club, as you know. His performance was dominant in that game too. There were conversations afterwards about monitoring him more closely in the Premier League."

The man in the chair’s head turned slightly, really looking at the figure behind his seat.

"He plays in the Premier League?"

"For a newly promoted side. Wigan." He said the name before the question could form.

"They’ve played three games this season and won all three. Brighton, Chelsea, West Ham. Some of those results were not small results."

The man in the chair looked back toward the pitch. It didn’t take him long to find number twenty-two again, and once he did, his eyes stayed there.

"Calderon," he said. "Right?"

"Yes."

"Leo Calderon!"

After the man behind the chair said that, the seated man hesitated slightly.

"Wigan," the man said slowly.

"That’s in Manchester, isn’t it?"

The man standing shook his head.

"Not quite. North of Greater Manchester. It is close enough that people assume it, but not quite."

The man in the chair nodded slowly and said nothing further.

He just looked at the player on the pitch, making faces that were difficult to read.

He sat back without saying anything, the silence lingering just long enough to suggest his thoughts had gone elsewhere.

While still in his thoughts, a phone rang behind the chair.

The man standing looked at the screen and then looked up.

"Forgive me," he said.

"It’s been a pleasure, Mr D’Averna. I’ll arrange tickets for you for the next significant fixture at the San Siro."

The man in the chair raised a hand in acknowledgement, and the man behind the chair took his leave, already speaking into his phone as he went.