CHAPTER 179: COPPA ITALIA FINAL AGAINST AS ROMA (1)

The drive to training was a masterclass in controlled paranoia.

Every time Leon saw a car that remotely resembled Coach Chivu’s, his heart did a little jump-kick in his chest.

He spent the entire journey practicing his "normal face" in the rearview mirror, trying to find a look that said, "I am a dedicated professional footballer who is definitely not having heart palpitations about the fact that I just had lunch with our terrifying coach’s wonderful daughter."

He wasn’t sure he was succeeding. It mostly looked like he was trying to solve a complex math problem while also smelling something bad.

The ’Observing’ status on Chivu’s profile felt like a giant, invisible spotlight following him. It was unnerving.

Did Chivu know? W

as this some kind of sixth sense that all scary, overprotective fathers possessed?

He finally pulled into the training ground, took a deep, steadying breath, and put on his best "normal face." Time to act natural.

The atmosphere on the training pitch was electric, a perfect blend of high stakes and high spirits. Tomorrow was the Coppa Italia Final against AS Roma, a chance to win their first piece of silverware of the season.

The pressure was immense, but you wouldn’t know it from the warm-up, which had descended into the usual philosophical chaos, courtesy of Julián Álvarez.

"Okay, guys, serious question," Julián said, jogging backward while juggling a ball. "If you win a cup, it’s yours, right? So are you technically its dad? And if another team wins it next year, is that like a messy custody battle?"

Nicolò Barella just groaned, the sound a mixture of pain and amusement. "Julián, for the love of all that is holy, can we just have one normal training session before a final?"

"I’m just saying, we should probably prepare a good legal argument, just in case," Julián replied with a completely straight face.

"Don’t worry, Julián," Cole Palmer chimed in, not missing a beat. "If we win, I’m sure the club has lawyers who specialize in trophy custody. It’s probably a standard clause in the contract."

The group burst out laughing, the easy, familiar banter a perfect shield against the mounting pressure.

Then, a whistle blew, a sound so sharp and piercing it could cut glass.

The laughter died instantly. Coach Cristian Chivu strode onto the pitch, his arms crossed, his face a thundercloud.

"Are we finished with the comedy show?" he roared, his voice echoing across the pristine grass. "Or do you need me to get you all clown noses? This is not a social club! This is the final training session before a cup final! ROME isn’t laughing! DYBALA isn’t laughing! LUKAKU isn’t laughing! They are sharpening their knives, waiting to carve you up tomorrow, and you are here talking about breadsticks and trophy custody!"

The players immediately snapped into focus, a jolt of pure adrenaline shooting through the squad. Leon tried to avoid looking at the coach, focusing intently on the cone in front of him, convinced that any eye contact would somehow transmit the message, "Hello sir, your daughter thinks my jokes are funny."

Chivu put them through a grueling shooting drill. He wanted every shot to be perfect, every movement to be sharp.

"FASTER!" he screamed as Lautaro collected a pass and fired a shot that nearly broke the crossbar. "The defender would have blocked that! AGAIN!"

Lautaro, dripping with sweat, just nodded and got back in line, his expression one of grim determination.

"TOO SOFT, PALMER!" Chivu yelled as Cole caressed a beautiful, curling shot into the top corner. "There’s no time for art in a final! Hit it with conviction! AGAIN!"

Palmer, the picture of calm, just gave a subtle nod and went again.

Then it was Leon’s turn.

The ball was played to his feet.

He took one touch and rifled a shot into the bottom corner. It was a good, clean strike.

"WHAT WAS THAT?!" Chivu bellowed, marching towards him. Leon’s heart hammered in his chest. This was it. The confrontation. "You are our playmaker! Our ghost! Why are you standing still and shooting like a common striker? I want movement! I want unpredictability! I want the ball in the net, but I want the defender’s soul to be completely confused before it gets there! AGAIN!"

Leon just nodded, his face a mask of pure focus, and sprinted back to the start.

Outwardly, he was a professional. Inwardly, his brain was just a loop of panicked screaming.

The drill continued, a relentless symphony of thunderous shots from Çalhanoğlu, powerful headers from Bastoni on set-piece practice, and the constant, motivating roar of their coach.

They were being forged in the fire, their focus sharpened to a razor’s edge.

For the final part of the session, Chivu gathered them in the center circle.

The yelling was gone, replaced by a low, intense calm that was somehow even more intimidating.

"Tomorrow, we face a team of gladiators," he began, his eyes scanning the faces of his players. "Roma is a team built for a fight.

They have the elegance of Paulo Dybala, a player who can produce a moment of magic that can kill you." He looked at the midfielders. "You do not give him an inch of space. You live in his shadow."

He continued, "They have the power of Romelu Lukaku, a bull who will try to run through you." He looked at his defenders. "You do not let him turn. You absorb the impact, and you push back harder."

"And they have the heart of Lorenzo Pellegrini, their captain, who will run himself into the ground for that badge. We must match that heart. We must exceed it."

He paused, letting the weight of the challenge settle.

"They will fight for their city. They will fight for their fans. They will fight for the glory of Rome." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But they have a weakness. They are a team of moments. A team of individuals. We," he said, his voice rising again, filled with a powerful, unshakeable belief, "are a MACHINE. A single, unified, unstoppable machine. We do not wait for moments of magic. We create them, together. Tomorrow, we do not just win a cup. We make a statement. We show all of Italy what a true champion team looks like."

Goosebumps erupted across the squad.

As they walked off the pitch, exhausted but buzzing, Julián Álvarez jogged up beside Leon.

"So," Julián said with a sly grin. "Did the coach’s secret agent report say if you passed your mission?"

Leon just laughed, the tension finally breaking. "Something like that."

He felt a sense of relief so profound it was almost dizzying.

He had survived. Chivu had treated him like any other player.

Maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.