The match restarted with AC Milan’s corner.
Luca positioned himself at the edge of the box, per Sarri’s instructions, protecting the second ball and blocking long shots.
But he was not standing idle.
His vision showed him everything.
The positioning of every player in the box.
Their intent.
Their movement.
The corner curled toward the back post.
Milan’s tall striker, José Sosa, outjumped Albiol and headed it toward the penalty spot.
The real target was Suso, lurking at the second point.
Quick.
Clinical.
Born for rebounds and half-volleys.
Suso’s eyes lit up.
His first Serie A goal of the season was calling.
He adjusted his feet, stepped back, raised his right arm, and cocked his right leg like a drawn bow.
His eyes locked onto the dropping ball.
A spectacular volley was coming.
In the instant before his power unleashed, a sky-blue figure ghosted into his shooting lane and leaped half a step ahead.
Luca.
The moment Suso committed, Luca had read the entire sequence.
Sosa’s header direction.
Suso’s likely strike zone.
He had moved before anyone.
Thud.
A clean, powerful header cleared the danger.
Jorginho pounced on the second ball.
“What a read!
Brilliant anticipation and clearance!
Luca saw through that corner routine completely!” The commentator praised.
Suso swung at air.
His full commitment left him off balance, stumbling.
He stared at Luca, who had already landed and turned.
Confusion flooded his face.
When did he get there?
Wasn’t he at the edge of the box?
Luca did not pause.
His mental 3D map was already reorganizing.
With Milan’s players pushed up for the corner, their left side, Luca’s side, was wide open.
Mertens was near the halfway line.
A route existed.
“João!
Here!” Luca sprinted up the left flank, hand raised.
Jorginho did not hesitate.
No look.
No extra touch.
Trusting Luca’s run, he drilled a ground pass into his path.
Luca collected in stride.
Open field ahead.
His heat-map vision showed Milan’s defense scrambling back.
Their winger was too deep to press.
Only right-back Abate was cutting inside to block Luca’s path.
Suso was chasing from behind, teeth gritted.
Luca did not care about the closing trap.
His eyes pierced the half-pitch and locked onto a small figure making a quiet diagonal run.
Mertens.
About to slip behind Milan’s back line.
Luca adjusted his stride mid-run.
Upper body tilted left.
Left arm raised for balance.
Right leg swung like a whip.
His outstep cracked the ball’s lower half.
Crack.
The ball left the ground but stayed low, curling with vicious spin, hugging the grass, bending in a bizarre, beautiful arc.
It looked like a pass to the center, then swerved, a rainbow bridge, around Abate’s desperate lunge, past the Milan midfielder’s outstretched leg, splitting the entire midfield and defense.
A rainbow pass.
The magic of the outstep.
“That pass…
my God!” The commentator’s voice cracked.
The ball landed perfectly in Mertens’s path.
Weight.
Speed.
Spin.
All tailored for the Belgian’s next touch.
Mertens controlled it in stride, or perhaps never controlled it at all.
The ball stuck to his feet, rolled forward, and he was through.
One-on-one with Donnarumma.
Cool as ice, Mertens side-footed it to the far corner.
The net rippled.
3-1.
“Goal!
Dries Mertens!
Luca with the assist!
He just came on and delivered a pass worthy of assist of the season!
The rainbow outstep, across half the pitch!
The imagination!
The technique!
The match is over!”
“That ball reminded me of Kevin De Bruyne at Manchester City.
That trademark low curling pass.”
The San Paolo erupted.
Fans leaped from their seats, screaming, scarves flying.
On the sideline, Sarri grabbed his head, disbelief, then ecstasy.
He turned to his assistant.
“Did you see that?
That pass!
My God!
From that position, with that technique…
the kid is a genius!”
Mertens sprinted to the corner flag, slid on his knees, and immediately pointed at Luca.
Luca charged over, laughing.
They embraced, teammates piling on.
“That pass was filthy, Luca!” Mertens shouted in his ear.
“Your run was perfect!” Luca shouted back.
The outside-of-the-boot ball had been a gamble.
But Luca had gambled correctly.
AC Milan’s players stood frozen.
Suso stared at the celebrating Napoli players, then at the scoreboard.
His face was twisted.
The goal had started from his loss of possession.
And Luca’s pass had been a personal humiliation.
“Still time!
Heads up!
The match is not over!” Montella screamed from the sideline.
The players snapped back.
They urged the referee to restart.
The whistle blew.
Milan kicked off.
“Give it to me!” Suso demanded near the center circle, eyes locked on Luca.
He needed revenge.
Immediately.
The ball reached the wing.
Suso received, facing Luca.
This time, Suso brought out his full arsenal.
Stepovers.
Shifts in rhythm.
Trying to unbalance Luca.
Luca stayed rooted.
Knees bent.
Eyes on the ball.
Body swaying with Suso’s rhythm, but his center of gravity stable.
“Hey, kid, scared?
Won’t come at me?” Suso taunted, feet still moving.
“Southern geniuses just turtle up?
Come on.
Let me embarrass you.
Coward.”
Luca raised an eyebrow.
“Your feints are like my grandmother walking to the shops.
Soft.
All that talk, did you burn your legs at the club last night, soft-foot?”
Trash talk?
Luca grew up on the streets of southern Italy.
He could do this all day.
“You…!” Suso’s face flushed.
Rage boiled over.
He abandoned the fancy moves.
His right foot pushed the ball forward.
Pure speed.
He would burn past.
The instant Suso committed, Luca moved.
Not a blind lunge.
He read Suso’s weight shift.
Turned his body.
Dropped his shoulder.
And drove the shoulder reinforced by Ibrahimović’s template into Suso’s shoulder.
Thud.
A heavy, muscular impact.
Suso felt like he had hit a moving wall.
His balance shattered.
His feet tangled.
Luca, core stable, poked the ball cleanly away.
“OH!”
The home crowd roared.
A clean, powerful, winning challenge.
“Beautiful defending!
Luca wins the duel completely!
Positioned himself, timed it perfectly!” The commentator praised.
Luca calmly passed to Hamsik and felt a rush of heat through his body.
Winning a physical duel with anticipation and strength was pure adrenaline.
He glanced at Suso, stumbling, face pale with fury, and twisted the knife.
“That’s it?
I thought you were supposed to be good.
Eat a proper meal next time.
If Milan’s cafeteria is lacking, I can pack you some of ours, soft-foot.”
The words were the final straw.
Suso, humiliated, mocked, booed by 30,000 fans, lost all reason.
As Luca turned to join the attack, Suso, from behind, with clear malice, launched a vicious tackle aimed directly at Luca’s standing ankle.
A red card challenge.
Intent to injure.
“Watch out!”
Sarri and the fans screamed.
But Luca, though his back was turned, had 360-degree awareness.
The studs grazed his heel, tearing up grass.
He evaded a potentially career-threatening foul.
But the rage ignited.
Luca was not one to swallow injustice.
He had retaliated against Pescara.
He would not hold back now.
As he landed and spun, his forehead drove forward and slammed squarely into Suso’s chest.
Ugh.
Suso grunted and stumbled back.
“My God!
Suso!
A malicious tackle from behind!
Luca dodged it!
But Luca retaliated!
Conflict!
The match has erupted!”
The referee’s whistle screamed.
He was close by.
He had seen everything.
“What are you doing?!
What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”
Captain Hamsik charged in first, a furious lion, arms spread, shielding Luca, roaring at Suso.
“You trying to end his career?!
You want to leave this stadium on a stretcher?!”
Insigne, Callejón, Allan, the entire Napoli team swarmed, surrounding Suso, eyes blazing.
The tension was explosive.
AC Milan players rushed to protect their teammate.
Shoving.
Screaming.
The situation teetered on the edge of chaos.
“Suso!
You son of a bitch!
You trying to destroy him?!”
Even the usually composed Sarri lost it, storming toward the fourth official.
“Red card!
Straight red!
That was attempted assault!
If my boy is injured, I will hold you responsible!”
The San Paolo crowd was a mob.
Bottles, coins, even lighters rained toward the Milan bench.
Security scrambled.
Suso, finally cooling, looked at the furious Napoli players and the enraged crowd.
Cold sweat soaked his shirt.
He had made a terrible mistake.
A red card.
Possible post-match punishment.
He kept his head down.
Montella’s face was black.
He stomped on the sideline, powerless.
The referee pushed through the crowd, red card already in hand.
He gestured for calm to the Napoli players, then showed the red to Suso.
Straight dismissal.
Then he turned to Luca, who had also headbutted, and showed a yellow.
A warning.
Luca looked confused, pointing at himself.
The referee did not explain, just gestured for him to back off.
Retaliation, regardless of severity, usually drew a card.
“Red card!
Suso is off!
Luca gets a yellow.
The decision…
Suso’s challenge was undoubtedly a red.
Luca’s retaliation, while understandable, was still a foul.
Yellow is fair.”
The conflict subsided.
Suso walked off, head down, to deafening boos and insults.
Objects continued to fly.
The remaining minutes were garbage time, played out to Napoli songs and Milan curses.
Final score: 3-1.
Napoli’s second league win.
Full steam ahead.
At the final whistle, Luca walked toward the tunnel, still hearing the boos and “go back to Milan” chants.
He shook his head, the malice of Suso’s tackle still fresh, but warmed by his captain and teammates’ protection.
In the locker room, the mood was celebratory again.
They teased Luca.
“Luca, not just passing.
You can fight too!
I mean, duel!” Callejón laughed.
“Next time, don’t handle it yourself.
Call us.” Hamsik wrapped an arm around him, serious.
“You’re young.
Don’t take the hits.”
“Thanks, captain.” Luca meant it.
Jorginho raved about the assist.
“That outstep!
How did you even think of that?
Filthy!”
Luca grinned.
“Luck.
Pure luck.”
“Sure it was!”
Laughter filled the room.