Sandro turned around, high-fived his teammates to wrap up the celebration, and jogged back to his own half.
"Beautifully done, mate!" Petagna said, though a hint of displeasure crept into his voice. "But didn't you tell me to wait for your pass? I waited. Where was the ball?"
"Your positioning was off," Sandro said, shaking his head. "Next time."
"My positioning was off..." Petagna muttered. He swallowed the rest of his words, deciding it was best not to ruin squad unity.
The match restarted, and the young Inter Milan players were visibly rattled.
They might still have the lead, but their momentum had been completely crushed.
Everyone on the AC Milan squad was suddenly playing like their lives depended on it. They ran tirelessly, fought fiercely for every ball, and launched wide-open attacks with blistering pace.
That was especially true for their number 11. He wore a completely innocent face, yet he played like a predatory beast. Every time he touched the ball, the Inter players' hearts leapt into their throats.
If his first near-miss from distance had been luck, and his blistering solo run straight into the heart of the defense a fluke, his current performance shattered those illusions. Now that Sandro created a deadly threat with every touch, everyone finally realized the truth: this kid was playing on an entirely different level than anyone else on the pitch.
He was noticeably a cut above the rest.
"Blind! Every last one of them is fucking blind!" Inzaghi muttered incessantly. "The children's teams, the youth academy, the U15s, the U17s... coaches, scouts—they're all fucking blind! How did they miss a talent like this? How could they not see it?"
A wave of profound relief washed over him. Thank God he had a habit of picking players based on their looks, or he would have completely buried Sandro. He would have regretted the mistake for the rest of his life.
Of course, a lingering awkwardness gnawed at him. The U17 coach he had just cursed out was actually himself.
The Sandro before his eyes was a completely different person. This was no longer the player he thought he knew.
His skills, his playstyle, even his personality—nothing matched the number 11 of the Milan youth team he had grown so familiar with.
He immediately thought back to Sandro's injury, which naturally led his mind to Kaka.
They had both suffered spinal injuries. They had both undergone a complete metamorphosis after returning to the pitch. Were they both... favored by God?
He couldn't make sense of it, and he probably never would. But the undeniable truth standing right in front of him was that he had just unearthed a new Kaka.
"Hold the line! Hold the line!" the Inter Milan coach screamed from the opposite touchline, his voice going hoarse. "Don't let him build up speed!"
Mbaye wiped the sweat from his brow, groaning inwardly.
'Don't let him build up speed? Do you really need to tell me that?'
He was really starting to regret clashing with Sandro.
The kid was absolutely impossible to mark one-on-one. Fortunately, the team had already tightened their defensive line. His teammates constantly rushed over to double-team Sandro or cover the spaces Mbaye left behind. Without that support, Mbaye wouldn't even have had the courage to stay on the pitch.
For Mbaye, those brief five minutes dragged on like five agonizing years.
"We are now in the eightieth minute, and the score remains 1-2. AC Milan are trailing by a goal at home," the commentator announced, playfully stressing the word 'home'. "But their current offensive is incredibly fierce. Inter Milan are struggling to contain them, and an equalizer could happen at any moment."
"Milan's number 11 has been exceptionally active. It's just a shame he has so little time left. Of course, you can't place all the blame on Inzaghi. Less than a week ago, Sandro was still lying in a bed at San Raffaele Hospital. He honestly shouldn't even be in the matchday squad.
"Fortunately... well, perhaps it's inappropriate to phrase it that way, but the truth is that Rick's blunder is the only reason Sandro got the chance to step onto the pitch.
"Just think about that goal he scored. Even if the referee blew the final whistle right now, even if AC Milan lost this match 1-10, this kid would still be today's biggest winner!
"All I can say is that it's all down to fate. Everything happens for a reason..."
Today's match had indeed drawn the attention of quite a few scouts. These men were regulars who loved gambling on unproven talents in the youth leagues, so Sandro was no stranger to them.
His Asian heritage and incredibly high-tier good looks were more than enough for people to remember his face.
Still, a dozen minutes of good football wasn't enough to make everyone lose their minds.
If Sandro truly possessed generational talent, he would have been on every major scout's radar years ago. Why would he only break out now?
Most of them remained calm, opting to observe him a little longer before making any decisions.
However, the history of world football was full of late bloomers—players who looked thoroughly mediocre until one specific day, or one specific match, when something suddenly clicked. Because of that, a few of the more impatient scouts couldn't sit still.
They slipped away from the stands, sought out secluded corners where they could pretend no one saw them, and started frantically calling their clubs.
"San Siro Stadium!
"The Milan Youth Derby!
"A new Kaka!
"Yes, Kaka!
"Who else would I mean?
"How many Kakas are there in the world? Well... okay, now there are two!"
"You have to move fast. We're going to have a lot of competition, and I'm still not sure if Milan will promote him to the first team. I can only pray that Allegri has gone senile..."
"He's as fast as Kaka, and just as handsome!
"Actually, scratch that, I think he might be even better looking than Kaka!
"Football skills? With a face like that, who needs skills?! Do you have any idea how many female fans we'll gain because of him? Do you want to sell tickets or not?"
"He can dribble like Kaka, and he shoots like Kaka...
"How many goals has he scored?
"One!
"What do you mean, only one?!
"He's only been on the pitch for fifteen minutes... okay, wait, he just got an assist.
"Let me amend that: he can also assist like Kaka..."
In the eighty-fifth minute, Sandro received the ball in midfield.
Two opposing defenders instantly swarmed him, looking so desperate they seemed ready to physically climb on his back to stop him.
But Sandro executed another rapid change of direction.
The shift wasn't particularly wide, but it was perfectly timed, allowing him to slip right past the defenders.
Inter Milan immediately threw up a heavy defensive wall in front of him.
Sandro kept his head up, his eyes fixed dead ahead, though his pace slowed ever so slightly.
Just as everyone assumed he was gathering his strength for another explosive sprint, he suddenly slipped a disguised through ball off the side of his boot.
The football darted away, gliding across the turf like a scalpel carving through flesh. It effortlessly pierced the defensive line, appearing right behind the opposing defenders.
Petagna was already poised and ready to strike.
Truth be told, he hadn't fully believed that Sandro could thread a pass through such a heavy defense.
If it had been him in that situation, he probably would have just closed his eyes and taken a wild shot.
He didn't know Sandro, but he knew forwards.
When the odds between an assist and a shot on goal were fifty-fifty, ninety-nine percent of strikers would choose to shoot.
But even as those thoughts crossed his mind, the moment Sandro drew near, Petagna's body involuntarily angled itself, bracing for a sprint toward goal.
A split second later, the football zipped between two defenders and appeared right in his path.
Like a starving cheetah, he exploded forward and struck the ball with vicious power...