The final whistle had blown, but Mancini was still trying to understand what he’d just seen.
He turned to Sylvinho.
“That last goal.
How did the ball get through to Icardi?” Sylvinho blinked.
“Hernanes passed it to Brenner, and Brenner played it on to Icardi.
I think.” “You think?
How did Brenner play it?
Did you see clearly?” “Not really, Boss.
We’re sixty metres away.
The penalty area was packed, I couldn’t see the detail.” Mancini looked at the players on the bench.
D’Ambrosio, Krhin, Mbaye, all shook their heads.
Nobody had seen the mechanism of the pass clearly.
The dummy had happened in a space barely a foot wide, at a speed that defeated eyesight from the other end of the pitch, and in a cluster of bodies that blocked the sightlines of everyone who wasn’t standing directly behind Thomas.
“I saw it!” Bonazzoli, sitting at the far end of the bench, raised his hand like a schoolboy.
“He flicked it with his heel.
Hardly touched it, just the tiniest nudge.
That’s what broke the defensive line.
It was brilliant.” Mancini regarded the seventeen-year-old striker with mild scepticism.
Bonazzoli was enthusiastic about everything and reliable about nothing.
But there was no replay available, the Olimpico’s big screens had already switched to post-match graphics, so a teenager’s eyewitness account was the best Mancini had.
He’d watch the replay later.
On the pitch, Rudi Garcia crossed the turf to shake Mancini’s hand.
The French coach wore the weary smile of a man who’d been beaten comprehensively and had no interest in pretending otherwise.
“Four goals at our place, Roberto?
You couldn’t have stopped at three?” Mancini spread his hands.
“Blame Totti’s temper, not me.
Playing ten against eleven for the last ten minutes, you need to have a word with him.” “Ha.
Easier said than done.
When will you come for coffee?
I’d like to pick your brain.” “Any time.
I’ve just come back to Serie A after years away, everything feels different.
Faster, maybe.
Or maybe I’m just older.” They walked toward the tunnel together, two professionals exchanging pleasantries while sixty-eight thousand Roma fans trudged toward the exits in silence.
Near the corner flag, Icardi stood shirtless in the November chill, applauding the cluster of Inter Milan away fans behind the goal.
A few hundred of them, wrapped in scarves, waving flags, singing, the diehards who’d made the three-hour trip from Milan for an away match and been rewarded with a 4-0 demolition.
Thomas jogged over and stood beside him, clapping along.
“How did you get to that ball?” Thomas asked.
“When I let it through, I had no idea where you were.
I couldn’t see you.” Icardi grinned.
“Striker’s intuition.
When everyone else freezes, I start moving.
That’s the difference between a good forward and a great one.” He paused.
“Wait, you let it through?
You didn’t flick it?” “I didn’t touch it.
I just opened my legs and let it roll through.” Icardi stared at him.
Then his face split into something between admiration and disbelief.
“You’re telling me you made a deliberate decision, in that fraction of a second, to not touch the ball and you somehow knew it would reach me?” Thomas shrugged, a little embarrassed.
“I didn’t know it would reach you.
I just knew that if I touched it, nothing good was going to happen.
Letting it go was the better option.” Icardi threw an arm around Thomas’s shoulder and kissed the top of his head, the spontaneous, uninhibited affection of an Argentine footballer who’d just scored twice.
“I don’t care how it got there.
In that moment, I had a feeling, like the ball was meant for me.
Like it was going to arrive whether I called for it or not.” He tapped his chest.
“Magnetism, my friend.
The ball finds me.” Thomas laughed.
“You’re a magnet, Mauro.
No argument.” They stood together for a moment, applauding the fans, letting the adrenaline settle.
For the first time since Thomas had arrived at Inter Milan, he felt something he hadn’t expected: belonging.
Not to the club, that was still complicated, still conditional, still wrapped up in Mancini’s political games and Guarín’s hostility.
But to this.
To the feeling of standing on a pitch after a victory, shoulder to shoulder with a striker who trusted his passes, hearing a few hundred voices singing your club’s name into the cold Roman night.
This was why he’d wanted to play football.
This exact feeling.
A tap on Thomas’s shoulder brought him back.
He turned to find a Roma player, tall, dark-skinned, built like a tank holding out his hand.
“Brenner?
I’m Maicon.
Can we swap shirts?” Thomas blinked.
Maicon.
The Maicon.
The Brazilian right-back who’d spent six years at Inter Milan, who’d been the starting full-back in the 2010 treble-winning side, who’d been arguably the best right-back in the world during his peak years.
After Inter’s financial decline, he’d been sold off like so many of the treble heroes, drifting to Manchester City and then Roma, his best years behind him.
Thomas pulled off his number 99 shirt and handed it over.
Maicon gave him a Roma jersey in return.
“It’s an honour, Maicon.
Seriously.
I grew up watching your highlights.” “That’s kind of you.
But all of that is in the past.” Maicon smiled, the warm, easy smile of a Brazilian who’d made peace with his career trajectory.
“I’m happy here.
Roma is good to me.
Serie A is my home.” Thomas couldn’t help asking.
“Why me, though?
For the jersey swap.
We’ve barely met.
You could have anyone.” Maicon held up the number 99 shirt and looked at it.
The stadium floodlights caught the Inter crest on the front, casting a faint blue glow across the fabric.
“Your passing,” Maicon said simply.
“It was good.
The way you change the tempo of an attack, the sudden shift, the unexpected angle.
I played with a lot of great midfielders at Inter.
Cambiasso, Stankovic, Motta.
All excellent.
But there was only one who did what you did tonight.
Just one.” He looked Thomas right in the eye.
“He wore the number ten.
His name was Sneijder.” Thomas stood frozen.
The chilly November wind swept through the Olimpico, carrying away the last echoes of the departing crowd.
Maicon carefully folded the number 99 shirt, tucked it under his arm, and started walking toward the tunnel.
Over his shoulder, almost as an afterthought, he added: “You’re not there yet.
Not even close.
But that vision?
I’d recognise it anywhere.” Then he was gone.
Thomas stood alone on the pitch, holding a Roma shirt he’d never wear, thinking about a Dutch midfielder he’d only ever watched on a laptop screen in a darkened dormitory room.
Sneijder.
Two people had now compared him to one of the greatest playmakers in Inter Milan’s history.
First Vecchi.
Now Maicon.
The weight of the comparison settled on Thomas’s shoulders, not as pressure, but as possibility.
I’m not there yet.
Not even close.
But I’m getting closer.