The streets of Milan were a lot different a week after a big win.

The air still had that electric hum, a subtle aftershock of the San Siro's roar.

I decided to take a walk, just to clear my head and grab something to eat.

The weight of the world, as Barella had put it, felt like it had been lifted from my shoulders and replaced by a light, hopeful energy.

I wasn't Leon the anxious kid anymore; I was Leon the player who had scored against the kings. It was a nice feeling.

As I strolled down a quiet street, enjoying the crisp autumn air, I spotted a small, old-school gelato shop. Perfect. I was just about to head inside when I heard a small voice call out.

"Leon! You're Leon!"

I turned to see a boy, no older than ten, holding a football and wearing a slightly too-big Inter jersey with my name on the back.

His eyes were wide with a mix of awe and shyness. He looked a little nervous, clutching the ball tightly against his chest.

I smiled, crouching down a little to be on his level.

"Hey there. Yeah, that's me."

He took a step forward, his hesitation melting away.

"The goal you scored against Napoli… it was so cool. How did you do that? It was a low shot, and the keeper was right there!"

I laughed softly, my heart swelling with a warmth I hadn't expected. The boy's innocent excitement took me back, not just a few years, but a whole lifetime. I saw a little bit of myself in him.

I remember being his age, with scuffed knees and a beat-up football, playing in the local park back home.

My mom would always be there, worried about the scrapes on my legs but always with a plate of food ready for me.

"I just saw a small gap," I told the boy, pulling myself out of the memory.

"The keeper's foot was in the wrong place for just a split second. I just aimed for that little spot."

The boy's eyes grew even wider.

"Wow. That's… you have to be really, really fast to see that."

"You learn to be," I said, winking at him. "Keep practicing. One day, you'll see those things too."

I signed his jersey and his football before heading into the shop, leaving him standing there with a huge grin on his face.

The small interaction felt more meaningful than any article I'd read or any stat I'd seen about my performance. This was the real reason I played. To inspire that kid. To be the name on the back of his shirt.

Later that evening, after a relaxing meal at home, I was sitting on the couch with my mom. She was knitting a scarf, her fingers moving with a comfortable, familiar rhythm, while I was channel surfing. My mom had been a little quiet since I got home, and I knew why. She was still adjusting to her son being a professional footballer, to the speed and the pressure of it all.

"Mom," I said, putting the remote down. "Are you okay?"

She looked up, her soft eyes meeting mine

. "I'm always okay, honey. I'm just so proud of you. I saw the news. They were talking about you again."

"Just football stuff," I said, shrugging. "You know how it is."

"I do," she said, a small, sad smile on her lips.

"I remember when you were ten. You used to come home, your face and knees covered in dirt, so excited about a goal you scored. Now it's on TV for the whole world to see." She put her knitting down and reached over to take my hand. "It's a beautiful thing, Leon. Just… don't lose yourself in all the noise, okay?"

"Never," I promised, squeezing her hand. "You and Byon are my anchors."

Just then, the TV news segment I had landed on got interesting. It was a show about the transfer market, and a giant infographic filled the screen, showing the most valuable players in the world. I saw names like Erling Haaland, Kylian Mbappé, and my friend Alex.

Then, to my utter shock, my own name flashed on the screen.

Leon - Inter Milan - Left Winger - Market Value: €86M

I just stared, my jaw slack. Eighty-six million euros. It felt like a number from a video game, not my life. I knew I was playing well, but this? This was insane.

My mom gasped softly beside me, but I couldn't take my eyes off the screen. It was another one of those surreal moments where the world was catching up to my dreams.

I saw the stats of some of the other players, too.

Julián Álvarez (Potential: 90, Current Ability: 87)

Cole Palmer (Potential: 91, Current Ability: 85)

Federico Dimarco (Potential: 86, Current Ability: 85)

It was a strange feeling to see myself on that list, among those giants of the game. It was a validation of all the hard work, all the fear, all the moments of doubt. I was really doing it.

A notification popped up on my phone, pulling me away from the news report. It was a message from Coach Cristian Chivu.

I opened the message.

"Good game against Napoli. Don't get too comfortable. Our next match is against Roma, and it's for the Coppa Italia. We're facing them in the round of 16. It's a different kind of pressure. Be ready."

A cup match. A chance to compete for silverware. And against Roma, a team with legendary players and a tactical mastermind in their manager, José Mourinho.

I immediately started thinking about their key players, the ones I'd have to watch out for.

I knew Roma's defense was solid, and their attack was dangerous. I thought about their star player, the one who pulled the strings for them.

Paulo Dybala (Potential: 89, Current Ability: 88)

He was a master of his craft. Quick, creative, and with a wicked shot.

This wasn't going to be a simple victory like the Napoli match. This was going to be a battle. But the thought of it didn't fill me with dread.