“Are you kidding me?
We scored first and now we’re losing?!”
“It’s over.
This one’s done.”
“How many rounds without a win now?
Four before this, right?
If we don’t take this, that’s five.”
“Borja Valero was our attacking engine in midfield.
Losing him for the season wrecked us.”
“Don’t even get me started.
Our midfield playmaker goes down for the year, everyone knows that’s a disaster, and what do we do in the winter window?
Nothing.”
“Look out there.
There’s not one midfielder who can play a dangerous ball.”
“No key signing, and the only midfield addition is that sixteen-year-old rookie kid.
Are they even trying?”
When the name came up, the Fiorentina fans in the stands just sighed.
They knew Ethan Cross had come up through England’s academy system.
But the kid had Chinese blood, and everyone knew what Chinese football was.
No need to elaborate.
It was a total inversion of that country’s global standing and influence.
The only Asian players making noise in Europe were Japanese and Korean.
Their quality had earned real respect from European fans.
In Serie A especially, the Japanese players stood out.
Inter’s Yuto Nagatomo was an untouchable starter at left-back.
And AC Milan had already built their midfield around Keisuke Honda, handing him the number ten shirt.
It wasn’t that Fiorentina fans had a bias against Ethan personally.
But the miserable state of Chinese men’s football made it easy for the Viola faithful to assume, right from the start, that a player with Chinese heritage couldn’t play the world’s game at a high level.
“Look!
The kid’s warming up on the sideline!”
“Montella must be desperate.
He’s going to bet everything on this guy?”
“This is naive.
A sixteen-year-old rookie with zero professional experience, and you expect him to turn the match around?”
“What else can he do?
The midfield’s empty.
Looks like Montella’s given up.”
On the touchline, Montella checked the clock.
David Pizarro, the thirty-six-year-old veteran, was hitting his physical limit.
Pizarro was a rotation player, not a locked-in starter.
Montella had only pushed him into the eleven because Valero was out and there was no one else.
Truth was, with this lineup, Montella had never planned for Pizarro to go the full ninety.
The original idea was to lock down the win, sub him off after the eightieth minute, and give Ethan a few minutes to feel the professional atmosphere.
He hadn’t expected the match to go this badly.
Twenty minutes left.
Ethan was supposed to be a formality.
Now he was being asked to play savior.
“Ethan, don’t overthink it out there.
Just play steady.”
“Forget the result.
Give it everything you’ve got.”
Montella was worried.
By normal logic, a young player with no professional experience should spend weeks absorbing the team’s tactical system before seeing the pitch.
A few rounds later, maybe.
That was standard.
If the midfield wasn’t so thin, he’d never be throwing the kid into this.
And on top of that, his professional debut was coming in a losing battle.
If he played poorly, the self-blame and the public pressure could do irreversible damage to his development.
Montella genuinely valued Ethan’s passing talent.
That was exactly why he was trying to ease the mental burden before sending him on.
Ethan, who had lived through all of this in another life, understood the kindness behind the words completely.
“Coach, don’t worry.
From my first day at Fiorentina, I’ve been ready.”
“I’m here on loan, but every minute I wear the Viola shirt, I’ll fight with everything I have.”
The conviction in his voice hit Montella hard.
And that familiar fire in Ethan’s eyes was burning again.
Fiorentina’s young manager felt it once more.
This sixteen-year-old carried an aura unlike anything he’d seen in a player that age.
None of his peers had it.
Not one.
The fourth official raised the substitution board.
Pizarro came off.
A quick handshake of encouragement, and Ethan stepped onto the pitch.
The roar inside the Stadio Luigi Ferraris hit its peak.
A 2–1 lead had sent the Genoa fans into a frenzy. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
No one cared about Fiorentina’s substitution.
Even the Viola’s own supporters just sighed.
In everyone’s eyes, a sixteen-year-old nobody wasn’t going to make a ripple in Serie A.
The Fiorentina players, already anxious, figured the deafening noise in this stadium would crush the kid’s spirit completely.
What no one knew was that Ethan’s blood was boiling so hot it felt like it would burst through every pore.
The madness of the Genoa crowd didn’t weigh on him at all.
It just set the perfect backdrop for the hunger burning inside him.
In his last life, his career had been nothing but regret.
He’d never set foot on a top-five league pitch.
But now, he was here.
The match resumed.
Genoa hadn’t lost their heads after the surprise lead.
Their manager, Gian Piero Gasperini, was too cunning for that.
He adjusted the defensive shape immediately.
Past the seventieth minute, Genoa’s attack noticeably faded.
The whole team shifted toward defense, trying to lock the lead down to the final whistle.
After coming on, Ethan didn’t do anything flashy.
His few passes were all safe ones.
Playing centrally, he either dropped the ball back to the defense or spread it sideways.
The only thing worth noting was his work rate.
That invisible performance broke the Fiorentina fans completely.
“What did I tell you?
Pinning our hopes on this kid was a fantasy.”
“Fraud.
Total fraud.
All he does is play safe balls.”
“How is he a fraud?
He’s a sixteen-year-old rookie.
This is exactly what you’d expect.”
“Why even put him on?
He’s not helping the attack.
Complete waste of time.”
The complaints poured down from the stands.
But on the touchline, Montella’s brow was furrowed.
Not from disappointment.
The opposite.
Ethan’s performance since coming on, especially the small details, had far exceeded anything Montella had imagined.