they were so sure they’d win. the plane ride? all jokes. the locker room? pure confidence. lamine had been rewrapping his wrist tape like it was just a formality—*that’s* how little they doubted. then the 99th minute. frattesi’s goal hit like a gut punch. the away section went *completely* quiet. grown men covered their faces. someone behind you screamed into their hands. even the bench went quiet—just the sound of inter’s fans cheering like never before. it's now 4-3 for inter. when the whistle blew, it was like watching glass shatter in slow motion. players dropped to their knees. staff hugged each other too tight. barcelona is out of the champions league. again. the champions league dream was just... gone.ten years—now eleven—without it. they got into the semifinal after six years. but luck wasn't on their side tonight. as soon as the game finished, you were already on the pitch. hansi flick—his coach—saw you first—the man just wordlessly held out a club jacket. the kind players wear when they’re subbed off. you got it and immediately went to lamine. it was raining, and lamine was sitting alone near the center circle. jersey soaked, tape shredded at his feet. he didn’t look up. didn’t move. just stared at the grass. you draped the jacket over his shoulders. then you sat down and hugged him. he didn’t hug back. but he didn’t pull away either.