His movement looked casual, but every step landed in the blind spots between defenders’ vision and responsibility.
Capuano, the center-back tasked with marking him, felt miserable.
Step out and risk leaving space behind.
Stay put and risk the kid receiving in a dangerous area.
“Excellent off-ball movement.” Sarri nodded slightly from the sideline.
Luca’s understanding of space was far beyond his years.
Jorginho controlled on the wing, scanning the box.
He spotted Luca drifting into a tiny gap between Capuano and the other center-back, Cesare.
And he looked onside.
No hesitation.
Jorginho’s ankle flicked, a surgical diagonal ball along the grass, splitting the defense and rolling perfectly into Luca’s path.
“Danger!”
Capuano panicked, arm shooting up for offside, legs pumping to recover.
But Luca had started earlier and moved with more conviction.
He reached the ball first, just left of the penalty spot.
Facing the onrushing Brignoli, Luca was ice.
He raised his left foot as if to blast it near post.
Brignoli shifted, committing to block the near corner.
It was a feint.
Luca’s left foot came down softly, scooping under the ball.
A delicate chip, arcing over the diving keeper, dropping toward the empty net.
A chip.
An audacious, imaginative finish.
“Luca!
It’s in!”
The commentator’s voice exploded.
“Incredible!
Serie A debut!
First touch, a goal!
And what a chip!
That’s…”
The whistle cut through everything.
Sharp.
Brutal.
The linesman’s flag was up, rigid, unmoving.
The referee blew and signaled.
Offside.
Goal disallowed.
“What?!”
Luca, arms just beginning to rise, froze.
He grabbed his head.
He turned to the linesman, palms open, disbelief written across his face.
In his vision, he had seen it clearly.
At the moment Jorginho played the pass, he was level with the last defender.
Maybe even a fraction behind.
Millimeters.
“Offside?!
Are you blind?
That was a perfect run!”
On the sideline, Sarri erupted.
He stormed toward the fourth official, arms flailing, glasses nearly flying off.
“Are your eyes painted on?!
That was clean!
Perfectly timed!”
Jorginho, Hamsik, and others swarmed the referee.
The stadium screen showed the replay.
Slow motion revealed a marginal call.
Barely detectable to the naked eye.
But in 2016, Serie A had no VAR.
No precise offside technology.
The linesman’s flag was final.
“Unlucky!
So unlucky!” The commentator groaned.
“From the replay, it’s razor thin.
The call is debatable.
But that’s football.
Luca’s debut goal, wiped out.
Still, the run, the composure, the finish.
All showed maturity far beyond his years.”
The Pescara coach, Oddo, exhaled on the sideline, a cold sweat on his back.
He screamed at his defenders.
“Capuano!
Bovo!
Wake up!
Mark that number sixty-six!
Do not let him slip in again!” Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Brignoli wiped his forehead.
Being chipped like that was humiliating.
If it had counted, he would be on every highlight reel for the wrong reason.
Play resumed.
Pescara kicked off, trying to slow things down.
But Napoli, stung, pressed harder.
Luca, though physically outmatched, used his defensive reading template to harass and intercept.
A ghost in the passing lanes.
Pescara’s build-up suffered.
“He’s a pest, this kid.” Pescara’s midfielder muttered after Luca forced him into a backward pass.
A clearance fell to Napoli.
The ball cycled to Jorginho.
He spotted Luca calling for it in the half-space and delivered a precise pass.
Luca received with his back to goal.
Pescara’s midfielder pressed immediately.
His vision showed him no clean forward options.
Everyone marked.
He laid it back and turned, looking for a combination.
Mertens, playing as a false nine, dropped deep, dragging center-back Bovo with him.
Space opened.
Right back Hysaj overlapped at speed, pulling the left back’s attention.
“Watch the edge of the box!
Don’t lose your man!” Bovo shouted, tracking Mertens.
Luca received a return pass on the right side of the box.
The edge of the area was open.
Pescara’s back line, stretched by Mertens’s drop and Hysaj’s run, had a gap between the center-backs.
Now.
Luca adjusted his feet, preparing a cutback.
Then his vision screamed a warning.
From his blind side, a figure was closing.
Capuano.
The other center-back.
Capuano was twenty-nine.
A career journeyman, mostly Serie B, promoted last year.
Not the most talented, but molded by years of Italian lower-league defending.
Dark arts.
Hidden fouls.
Psychological warfare.
He knew how to educate young talents.
He had been educated the same way.
Showboating, kid?
Chipping?
Capuano checked the referee’s line of sight, blocked.
He aimed for Luca’s standing calf and drove his studs in.
A hidden, filthy challenge.
The goal: pain.
A forced substitution.
At minimum, fear.
In Luca’s vision, it played out in slow motion.
He could see the impact coming.
Feel the phantom pain before it arrived.
But he also saw the pass.
Mertens, seeing Capuano leave his position to lunge, had intelligently spun and attacked the gap at the edge of the box.
Luca made his choice.
He did not dodge.
Did not protect himself.
He absorbed the coming pain and, meeting Capuano’s black boot, swung his right outstep through the ball.
A perfect curled pass, arcing over the defense, landing precisely in Mertens’s path.
The scream and the thud of the pass came together.
Luca felt fire shoot up his calf.
He crumpled backward.
“Mertens!”
Mertens did not waste the gift.
Facing the defense and the keeper, he coolly chipped with his left foot.
The ball arced over Brignoli’s fingertips and into the net.
Two-one.
Napoli had one back.
“Goal!
Dries Mertens!
The substitute makes an instant impact!” The commentator shouted.
“But wait.
The passer, Luca, is down!
He was fouled!”
Mertens did not celebrate.
He ran to Luca, concern on his face.
Other Napoli players swarmed.
Near Luca, the scene was strange.
Luca clutched his calf, face twisted in pain.
Capuano, the offender, was also down, curled up, clutching his chest, moaning as if gravely injured.
What happened: as Capuano’s boot connected with Luca’s calf, Luca, falling, had used his core strength and his precise spatial awareness to swing a hidden, vicious elbow backward.
It landed squarely in Capuano’s ribs.
Luca’s logic was simple.
Revenge on the spot.
Let them know he was not prey.
The referee arrived.
He saw both men down.
Capuano clutching his chest.
Luca’s calf showing clear stud marks.
Confused, the referee showed Capuano a yellow card for the dangerous challenge.
He looked at Luca, hesitated, and signaled nothing.
Napoli players protested.
“That’s a red!”
Pescara players protested the elbow.
The referee waved them all away.
“You okay, Luca?” Mertens and Jorginho helped him up.
“Fine.
Just sore.” Luca tested his ankle.
Bone seemed fine.
Muscle bruise.
Maybe worse.
Then.
Ding.
[Host suffered a malicious foul, completed a key assist, and retaliated with strength, defending his dignity.]
[Mental fortitude evaluation: Excellent.
Matches specific legendary playing styles.]
[Congratulations, host.
You have earned the appreciation of legendary striker Zlatan Ibrahimović.]
[Special binding unlocked: Ibrahimović’s Physicality (Growth Type).]
[Current fusion rate: 10%.]
[Effect: Improves balance in physical duels, enhances injury recovery speed, minor boost to strength growth potential.]
[Bonus reward: ‘Injury Recovery Acceleration Card (Minor)’ x1.
Use on current calf bruise?
Pain will decrease significantly.
Immediate recovery.]
[Note: Ibrahimović says: I am Ibrahimović.
Best player in the world.
Who the hell are you?
Stay hard, kid.]
Luca blinked at the flood of notifications.
Ibrahimović?
The system had taste.
“Use recovery card.” No hesitation.
Warmth flooded his calf.
The pain faded rapidly.
Still tender, but functional.
He could run.
He could strike the ball.
Luca stood with his teammates’ help.
He glanced at Capuano, still whimpering on the ground, clutching his chest.
Luca’s lip curled.
That elbow had every ounce of his core and upper body behind it.
Maybe the system should have credited Kobe for that one.
“Luca is up!
He’s waving off the medical staff!
He’s telling Sarri he can continue!”
The commentator’s voice was urgent.
“Tough kid.
Really tough.”
As Luca re-entered the flow, Pescara had a problem.
Capuano, after the medical check, could not continue.
Still clutching his chest, in obvious pain, he was stretchered off to confused looks from the home crowd.
“Pescara is forced into a substitution.
Capuano is off.” The commentator paused, unsure how to frame it.
The co-commentator chuckled dryly.
“Backfired, didn’t it?
He tried to hurt the kid and ended up hurting himself.”
The match resumed.
Two-one.
Napoli, injected with new life, surged.
More than thirty minutes remained.
Time to equalize.
Time to win.