CHAPTER 176: "PRONTO? (HELLO?)"

The revelation about Coach Chivu’s ’Gambler’ trait was the final piece of a puzzle Leon hadn’t even known he was solving.

Chivu’s ultra-attacking substitution in the Derby d’Italia, the shift to a False 9 against AC Milan—it all made sense now.

Leon finally closed the ’Manager Mode’ tab in his mind, the dressing room’s joyous noise slowly filtering back into his awareness.

It felt like he’d been gone for an hour, but only a few seconds had passed.

He said his goodbyes, still buzzing from the match and the revelations of his newly evolved system. The drive home was a slow, contented cruise through the sleeping city.

The adrenaline from the game was finally wearing off, leaving behind a deep, satisfying weariness. He had the car’s sound system playing some lo-fi hip-hop, the chill beats a perfect soundtrack to the quiet, post-battle peace.

He stopped at a red light, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, his mind idly replaying the chaotic final moments of the match.

Palmer’s calm finish, Julián’s ridiculous dribble, his own Zidane roulette...

And then, like a bolt of lightning from a clear blue sky, a completely unrelated memory surfaced. A coffee shop. The smell of roasted beans and pastries.

A frantic search for a lost wallet. A kind, laughing face. A hastily scribbled phone number on a napkin.

Sofia.

The name appeared in his mind, clear as day. The girl from weeks ago, the one who had helped him when he thought he’d lost everything before a training session.

In the whirlwind of matches against Napoli, Milan, Atalanta, and Juventus, he had completely forgotten.

He’d shoved the napkin into the glove compartment of his car and never thought of it again.

The light turned green, but Leon didn’t move. He just stared at the glove compartment.

His heart, which had been calm just a moment ago, started beating a little faster, a completely different rhythm than the pre-match adrenaline he was used to.

This was... nerves. Real, human, ’what-do-I-even-say’ nerves.

It’s too late, he thought. It’s past midnight. She’s probably asleep. It would be weird to call now.

He started to drive, the sensible part of his brain winning the argument.

But then he remembered the feeling of her laughing, the easy warmth in her eyes.

He thought of his conversation with his mom, her gentle reminder to not just be a footballer, but to be happy.

"Oh, what the heck," he said out loud to the empty car.

He pulled over to a quiet side street, parked, and with a slightly trembling hand, opened the glove compartment.

There it was, the napkin, looking a little crumpled but still perfectly legible.

He took a deep breath, the kind he usually took before a penalty kick, and dialed the number.

It rang once. Twice.

He was about to lose his nerve and hang up when a voice answered, sleepy and a little confused.

"Pronto? (Hello?)"

Leon’s mind went completely blank.

All the suave, confident lines he might have imagined saying evaporated.

"Uh... hi," he stammered, feeling like a clumsy teenager. "Is this... is this Sofia?"

There was a pause on the other end. "...Yes? Who is this?"

"It’s Leon," he said, and then immediately cringed.

Just Leon? Like there’s only one Leon in all of Milan?

"From the... the coffee shop. With the wallet. The... lost wallet." He was messing this up spectacularly.

Another pause, and then he heard a soft, sleepy laugh. The laugh he remembered. "The footballer with the lost wallet," she said, her voice warming up. "I remember. I can’t believe you actually called. It’s... what time is it?"

"It’s late, I know, I’m so sorry," he rushed to say. "I just finished a match, and my brain is a little scrambled, and I just remembered now, and I know it’s a terrible time, I should just go—"

"Hey," she interrupted, her voice gentle. "It’s okay. I was just reading. You can breathe."

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. "Right. Breathing. Good idea."

She laughed again. "So, the scrambled-brain footballer. Did you win your match?"

"We drew," he said. "3-3. But it felt like a win."

"Sounds exciting," she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "More exciting than my book, anyway."

They talked for a few more minutes, a simple, easy conversation that felt surprisingly natural. He found out she was a university student studying art history.

She found out that his favorite post-match food was anything that didn’t come from the team’s nutritionist. It was effortless.

"Listen," he said finally, feeling a surge of confidence. "I know this is sudden, and I promise my timing is usually better than this, but... I’d really like to see you again. When I’m not a sleep-deprived, post-game mess."

"I think I’d like that too, Leon," she said softly.

"Great," he said, a huge, goofy grin spreading across his face. "Okay. I’ll... I’ll let you get back to your book. I’ll call you tomorrow? At a normal hour?"

"Tomorrow sounds good," she confirmed. "Goodnight, footballer."

"Goodnight, Sofia."

He hung up the phone and just sat there in the quiet car, his grin so wide it hurt his cheeks.

The draw against Juventus, the unlocked Manager Mode, the pressure of the title race—all of it faded into the background, replaced by a simple, profound, and utterly thrilling feeling of happiness.

When he finally got home, he tiptoed inside, not wanting to wake his mother.

On the kitchen counter, under a glass dome, was a plate of her famous lemon ricotta cookies and a small note.

For my champion. Eat before you sleep. Love, Mom.

He picked one up. It was still slightly warm.

He leaned against the counter, munching on the sweet, citrusy cookie, the silence of the apartment a peaceful cocoon.

The day had been a rollercoaster of emotions—nerves, pressure, brutal competition, frustration, ecstasy, and now... this.

This quiet, hopeful joy.

He finished the cookie, drank a glass of milk like he was ten years old again, and headed to bed.

As he fell onto his pillow, the exhaustion finally catching up to him, a single, final thought drifted through his mind.

He had a five-point lead in the race for the Scudetto.

He had unlocked a new dimension to his power.

And tomorrow, at a normal hour, he was going to call a girl who studied art history and had a laugh that could make you forget about everything else in the world.

He fell asleep instantly, a deep, dreamless, and profoundly happy sleep.