Outside a small convenience store near the Hellas Verona training facilities, a group of players from the second team had gathered. Their favorite gathering spot, a worn-out table set up under the shade of a small awning, gave them a place to unwind after training. Laughter and banter filled the air as they shared stories and planned for the weekend.
Domenico Rinaldi pulled up in a smoky, vintage car that sputtered noisily before coming to a stop near the group. The vehicle's aged, yet charming look immediately caught everyone's attention. Dressed in a sleek, fashionable outfit, Domenico stepped out and let out a whistle, smirking at his former teammates.
"Domenico, where'd you get the car?" one of them called out, quickly drawing the interest of the others. For young players from modest backgrounds, even an old car was a symbol of independence and success.
Domenico leaned casually against the car, basking in their admiration. "I've been helping out at my dad's workshop," he said, pride evident in his voice. "Saved up enough to buy her. If you ever need a ride, just let me know!"
The group clapped and cheered, their excitement genuine despite the car's worn condition. Domenico took it all in stride, heading into the store to grab a few drinks before rejoining the group. As he handed out the bottles, their conversation shifted to the team and their upcoming match.
Turning toward Tommaso, a tall striker who had been thriving under Aymar Zambo's leadership, Domenico asked, "Hey, Tommaso, how's it going? The boss hasn't been giving you too much trouble, has he?"
Tommaso grinned, shaking his head. "Not at all. We've been preparing for our league match this weekend. The boss has been pushing us hard, but he's confident we're ready."
"Who are you playing?" Domenico asked.
"Montebelluna," Tommaso replied. "They've been tough in this league for a while, but we're ready. The boss has a plan, and honestly, we believe in it."
Domenico Rinaldi raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Montebelluna? They've got a reputation for being scrappy. A few of their players could probably compete at a higher level. You sure you're up for it?"
Tommaso shrugged, his confidence unwavering. "The boss says we can win. That's enough for me."
"The boss?" Domenico frowned, his tone sharpening.
Tommaso, familiar with Domenico's temper, noticed the slight shift in his expression. Trying to ease the tension, he chuckled. "That's what Aymar—uh, Mister Zambo—likes us to call him. He says 'Mister' sounds too stiff, so we just go with 'the boss.'"
Domenico nodded, but his dissatisfaction was evident. Though he listened to Tommaso's explanation, the frown on his face lingered. The camaraderie among the players, the way they spoke about Aymar with respect and confidence—it grated on him. These were the same teammates who used to follow him unquestioningly, and now it seemed they had all shifted their loyalty to the man who had cast him out.
"Do you think you'll be in the starting lineup tomorrow?" Domenico asked, feigning casual interest.
Tommaso and the other players exchanged uneasy glances. A few laughed nervously, trying to brush off the question. "Uh, we're not sure, Domenico..." one of them mumbled.
"Don't lie to me," Domenico snapped. "Doesn't Aymar usually announce the lineup the day before the match?"
"Yeah, but he made it a rule not to leak the lineup to anyone," one of the players admitted quietly, avoiding eye contact.
"Not even to me?" Domenico demanded, his voice rising as he stepped forward, glaring at the group.
Silence fell over the gathering. None of the players dared to meet Domenico's eyes. Their unease was palpable as they shuffled uncomfortably, unwilling to betray the trust Aymar had instilled in them. For Domenico, the shift in their behavior was a slap in the face. These were the same players who once idolized him, but now they seemed reluctant to even speak freely in his presence.
Tommaso, sensing the growing tension, stood and offered a weak smile. "Sorry, Domenico, but we've got to be up early tomorrow. Thanks for the drinks, though." With that, he placed his half-empty bottle on the ground and walked away.
The others quickly followed suit, murmuring their apologies and excuses as they left one by one. In a matter of moments, Domenico found himself standing alone in front of the convenience store, his frustration boiling over.
With a growl, he hurled the empty soda bottle in his hand to the ground. It shattered on impact, fragments scattering across the pavement. Domenico clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as he wrestled with the urge to storm back to the training ground and confront Aymar directly. But the memory of Aymar's commanding presence on the pitch, combined with his father's stern warning to let the matter go, stopped him.
Since leaving Verona's second team, Domenico had come to a bitter realization: without his father's influence, he was nothing. The safety net he had always taken for granted was gone, and for the first time in his life, he felt truly powerless.
From a distance, Domenico Rinaldi spotted Louis Hutt riding a three-wheeled delivery bike. The sight immediately stoked his anger. Domenico knew Louis well—knew his quiet nature, his humble background, and the fact that he had always juggled football with part-time work to support his struggling family. Louis's reserved demeanor had made him an easy target in the past, and Domenico had often exploited that.
Still seething from his earlier encounter with Tommaso and the others, Domenico marched forward, blocking Louis's path.
"Hey, stop right there, Louis!" Domenico called, stepping boldly into the road.
Louis froze, startled. His eyes darted nervously, the familiar anxiety creeping back. "What is it, Domenico?" he asked cautiously.
"Come have a drink with me!" Domenico said, flashing a grin that didn't quite mask the menace in his tone.
Louis shook his head firmly but timidly. "Sorry, Domenico, I'm busy. I need to make this delivery."
He had heard those words before. Domenico's invitations always ended poorly, usually with humiliation or trouble, and Louis wasn't about to fall into that trap again. He gripped the handlebars of his bike and tried to move around Domenico.
"Oh, so you're too busy now?" Domenico's voice turned mocking as he leaned closer, tapping one of the beer crates strapped to the bike. "Nice delivery job. What happens if someone tips it over, huh?"
"Please, Domenico," Louis muttered, his voice low but steady. "I don't have time for this."
As he pushed his bike forward, Domenico's temper flared. Feeling the sting of rejection from his teammates earlier and now from Louis, he lashed out. With a sharp pull, he grabbed one of the crates from the bike. Bottles tumbled out, shattering loudly against the pavement.
Louis froze as the sound of breaking glass filled the air. He turned to see beer pooling on the ground, the soaked cardboard sagging. Domenico stood there, smirking triumphantly, arms crossed as if daring him to respond.
"Careful with your deliveries, Louis," Domenico sneered. "Don't you know better than to ignore me?"
Louis's chest tightened, his fists clenching involuntarily. He stared at the broken glass and back at Domenico, his breathing quickening. Memories of humiliation flashed in his mind, followed by something Aymar had told him recently:
"Whether you want to be a professional footballer or an upright man, you need to stand up for yourself. You're bigger, stronger, and smarter than the people who push you around. But until you find your strength, you'll keep letting them win."
Louis's fists trembled, and his jaw clenched. Two voices seemed to battle in his head: "Let it go, don't escalate," and "Stand up for yourself, once and for all." His body tensed as if on the edge of a breaking point.
Before he knew it, Louis's fist flew forward, connecting squarely with Domenico's jaw. The force sent Domenico stumbling back, his legs giving way as he crumpled to the ground with a cry of pain. Blood trickled from his mouth as he spat out a tooth, his eyes wide in disbelief.
Louis didn't stop there. Stepping closer, he glared down at Domenico, his face hardened with an intensity that made his usual quiet demeanor unrecognizable.
"Stay away from me," Louis growled, his voice steady but filled with restrained fury. "If you touch me or my work again, I won't hold back next time."
Domenico, still reeling from the punch, scrambled backward on the ground, his hands raised defensively. "O-okay, Louis. Just—don't hit me again!"
Louis turned away, ignoring the broken glass and spilled beer, and climbed back onto his bike. He pedaled off without another word, his back straight, and his resolve clear. For the first time in his life, he felt something new—control.
Domenico lay there for several minutes, too stunned to move. His anger was gone, replaced by humiliation and fear. For the first time, he truly understood how powerless he was without the influence he had relied on his entire life. The realization struck deeper than Louis's punch ever could.
...
...
The next morning, everyone gathered at the Hellas Verona training ground. A bus arrived promptly, ready to take the second team to Montebelluna for their first match of the new season in the Serie Leggera, a competitive league for reserve and second teams of professional clubs across northern Italy.
Aymar Zambo selected 18 players for the trip, accompanied by his assistant coach Pippo Glaviano and Pierino Fanna, who had taken a keen interest in the team and offered to join them on the journey. Along with the rest of the coaching staff, the group totaled 22 people, with Aymar firmly at the helm.
Unlike Serie A or Serie B, the Serie Leggera was designed to provide a structured competition for the reserve and development squads of professional clubs, along with a few strong independent teams seeking to prove their mettle. With 16 teams competing in a home-and-away format, the league offered consistent, high-level competition without overshadowing the professional pyramid. Clubs like Hellas Verona used it as a platform to groom younger players while keeping fringe professionals sharp and engaged.
Familiar names populated the schedule, with clubs like Vicenza II, Padova II, and Brescia II also fielding teams in the league. Teams like Montebelluna, though independent, brought a blend of experienced semi-professionals and hungry younger players, making them a dangerous opponent.
Aymar was satisfied with the current state of his squad. The tactical adjustments he had implemented before the season appeared to be taking hold. Players were adapting quickly to the 3-5-2 system, and their on-field coordination was steadily improving. However, he knew the team was far from its potential. His immediate goal was simple: build a solid foundation, use these matches to familiarize players with his philosophy, and gradually introduce more complexity—like off-ball movement patterns and fluid inter-positional cooperation.
The bus ride from Verona to Montebelluna took just over an hour. Throughout the journey, the players sat silently, many with their eyes closed, listening to music or mentally preparing. Aymar had made it clear—there would be no unnecessary noise or distractions on match days. Discipline off the pitch was as important as on it, and the players were beginning to understand and respect that.
Since the removal of Domenico Rinaldi and the win in their final warm-up match, Aymar was slowly earning the trust of his squad. The CoachMaster Guidance System reflected this shift in attitudes. Of the 25 players under his management, only four still held negative opinions of him, their dissatisfaction minor enough to resolve with time. Meanwhile, seven players now sat in the favorability range between 45 and 69. Aymar knew that with a strong performance in today's match, he could push them into fully trusting his leadership.
The expulsion of Domenico had been a turning point. Though unpopular outside the team, the decision had resonated with many players, who had grown tired of the disruptive behavior. Aymar's decisive action and no-nonsense approach had earned respect, even admiration, from some. However, he knew trust was fragile. Today's match was another crucial opportunity to solidify the growing bond between himself and the team.
As the bus rolled into Montebelluna's modest stadium, Aymar stood, breaking the silence. "Remember what we've worked on. Stay focused. Trust each other. Let's show them what this team is about."
The players nodded silently, their determination visible in their expressions. Aymar allowed himself a brief smile as he turned toward the window, watching the small crowd gathering in the stands. This game wasn't just about three points—it was about proving that Verona's second team could rise to the challenge.
...
...
In Italy, Verona had always been celebrated as a city of art, history, and culture. Known as the setting of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, the city's cobblestone streets and classical architecture drew tourists from around the world.
The Piazza dei Signori, often called the "Drawing Room of Verona," was a central hub of activity, framed by Renaissance-era buildings and statues of historical figures like Dante Alighieri. Among its many attractions was the nearby Castelvecchio Bridge, offering a breathtaking view of the Adige River as it flowed through the city. Verona's charm and rich history made it a natural choice for cultural events and media projects.
Today, the usual crowd of visitors at Castelvecchio and the Piazza dei Signori had their attention drawn elsewhere—to a bustling working group conducting a photo shoot. The focus of the spectacle? Francesca Bianchi, a world-renowned Italian supermodel.
Draped in elegant attire that complemented the timeless beauty of Verona's architecture, Francesca moved gracefully through the shoot. The flashes of the cameras and the crew's bustling energy seemed to amplify her natural poise. The Adige River in the background and the golden hues of the historic cityscape made for a stunning backdrop, perfectly suited to Francesca's striking presence.
In just a few short years, Francesca had risen to fame in the fashion capitals of Milan and Paris, her name becoming synonymous with sophistication and versatility. Many viewed her as Italy's next great icon, following in the footsteps of Claudia Cardinale and Monica Bellucci. For locals in Verona, seeing such a prominent figure shooting in their city was a rare and cherished moment. A small group of fans gathered nearby, eager for a glimpse of her in person.
As the shoot wrapped up, Francesca's professionalism shone through, even as the signs of fatigue became apparent. She smiled graciously at a few fans who approached, agreeing to pose for photos despite her evident exhaustion.
"What's next on the schedule?" she asked her assistant as they walked toward a quieter corner of the piazza.
"You've got the evening free to rest," the assistant replied. "But tomorrow morning, we're flying to Paris for a magazine cover shoot. Everything's already arranged."
The assistant's words brought a flicker of relief to Francesca's face. The relentless pace of her career, hopping between cities and continents, often left little room for herself. A quiet evening in Verona felt like a small blessing.
"What time is it now?" a passerby asked, interrupting the calm.
"Three in the afternoon," someone replied.
"Oh no, I'm late!" a young man exclaimed, breaking into a run. "The match starts soon—we're playing Verona's second team today!"
"What's the rush?" another passerby called after him.
"We're playing Hellas Verona II!" he shouted over his shoulder. "Kickoff's at four!"
Francesca, overhearing the exchange, paused mid-step. The mention of Verona's second team brought a subtle smile to her lips. She recalled a recent conversation with someone connected to the team. Though their interaction had been brief, it had left an impression on her—a mix of coincidence and curiosity that lingered in her mind.
"I will definitely make those doubters shut up obediently! I swear!"
The words echoed in Francesca's mind, bringing a flicker of amusement to her expression. She remembered the young coach she had met unexpectedly during her travels. There had been something magnetic about him—an unshakable confidence she rarely encountered. The determination in his voice, coupled with the intensity in his eyes, had stuck with her.
"Is that guy still coaching Verona's second team?" Francesca murmured, the question more to herself than anyone else.
Born in Modena, Francesca had spent much of her youth disconnected from football, her focus always on her career in fashion. While she was familiar with names like Juventus and Milan, she had never considered herself a fan. The sport had been little more than a distant spectacle to her.
Her assistant, Angelica, glanced up from her phone. "What was that?"
"Oh, Angelica, are you interested in watching a football match?" Francesca asked with a playful curiosity.
Angelica frowned, shaking her head slightly. "Not today. Besides, the Serie A season doesn't start for a few more weeks, and there aren't many matches happening now. Maybe a preseason friendly, but nothing exciting."
Francesca raised an eyebrow, her tone teasing. "So you do know about football."
Angelica laughed. "Of course! You've just never asked. I may not be a die-hard fan, but I know enough to keep up."
Francesca smiled at the response. "What team do you follow, then? Don't tell me it's Juventus."
Angelica scoffed, her grin widening. "No, not Juventus. I've always liked Fiorentina—they play with flair when they're at their best. Though, if you're looking for football tonight, there might be some preseason action elsewhere. Paris Saint-Germain, maybe?"
"Paris Saint-Germain?" Francesca repeated, intrigued. "You surprise me, Angelica."
Angelica laughed again. "It's true! PSG's an exciting team these days, and Ligue 1 has some charm. If you're interested, I'll look up some matches for tonight."
Francesca chuckled softly, her thoughts drifting back to Verona's second team. "I'll think about it. For now, let's get some rest."
...
...
Standing on the edge of the worn-out pitch, Aymar Zambo glanced around the modest surroundings. The game was set to begin in five minutes, and his players were ready, standing near the tunnel. Yet, the stands remained almost entirely empty.
"This is the grandstand of the Serie Leggera?" Aymar asked, glancing at Pippo Glaviano with a wry smile.
Pippo shrugged, equally unimpressed. "What did you expect? Last season, Verona's senior team in Serie B barely drew a few thousand on average for home games. You can imagine what it's like for the second team."
"I'll bet there aren't even 100 people here today," one of the other coaches quipped with a shake of his head.
Aymar laughed softly. "It's fine. The opponents won't have much more. No real home advantage means we can focus entirely on our performance."
Pippo exchanged a look with the coach and chuckled. Sometimes, no matter how much preparation a coach put into tactics and drills, everything ultimately rested on how the players executed on the pitch.
For teams like Montebelluna, precision tactics were often unnecessary. Their game plans were riddled with gaps, inconsistencies, and lapses in discipline. The real question wasn't how Montebelluna would play but whether Verona's second team could deliver the level of football Aymar had been instilling in them.
With a final look at his players, Aymar turned to survey the stands behind him. What few spectators had arrived were scattered in groups, most seeking shade under the small awning. The glaring afternoon sun made it difficult to focus, but one group stood out—a pair of tall, fashionable women making their way toward the front row. Their sunglasses and elegant clothing made them an unusual sight among the modestly dressed crowd.
When Francesca Bianchi took her seat in the front row, aided by a helpful male spectator eager to impress, her golden hair and confident demeanor immediately drew attention. As Aymar glanced her way, Francesca smiled and waved in his direction.
Aymar squinted, momentarily confused. With the sun glaring in his eyes, he couldn't make out her face clearly. He frowned slightly, muttered something under his breath, and turned back toward the pitch.
"Hey, who's that?" Pippo asked, nudging Aymar with a smirk.
Aymar shook his head. "No idea."
"She waved at you, though," Pippo teased. "Sure you don't know her?"
"She could've been waving at you—or Paul over there. You're both much better looking than I am," Aymar said dryly, earning a burst of laughter from the group.
Meanwhile, in the stands, Francesca tilted her head toward her assistant, Angelica, unable to hide her amusement. "That's him. The one I mentioned before."
Angelica glanced over at Aymar and smiled. "The dark-haired one? How'd you two meet?"
"We've only spoken a couple of times. He's... interesting," Francesca said with a small smile. "I thought I'd drop by and see what all this is about."
Angelica's grin widened. "Interesting, huh? I see where this is going. He didn't recognize you, though. You're wearing sunglasses—it's not like he'd put two and two together."
Francesca chuckled. "You're probably right. He doesn't seem like the type to remember faces, anyway."
As the players began filing onto the pitch, Francesca's attention remained on Aymar rather than the match. She watched him closely, observing the way he moved, gestured, and communicated with his players. To her, Aymar seemed far more captivating than the game itself.
It wasn't hard to see why Francesca wasn't too concerned with the match. From the first whistle, Verona's dominance became apparent. The balance of victory tipped early in their favor.
...
...
Aymar Zambo's tactical plan for the match focused heavily on the right flank. The midfield triangle of Gianluca Nicco, Mattia Cassani, and Emanuele Torrisi was particularly active in that area, with Nicco's pace and technique proving a constant threat from the start.
Montebelluna, a team of semi-professional players, was managed by Carlo Belloni, an experienced yet modest coach who had led the club for over a decade. His primary achievement was keeping the team stable in the competitive landscape of the Serie Leggera, though his tactical adaptability left much to be desired. Aymar, having analyzed Belloni through the CoachMaster Guidance System, had noted his low ratings in in-game adjustments. Confident in his own strategy, Aymar instructed his team to press hard from the first whistle.
The two strikers led the charge, relentlessly harassing Montebelluna's backline with piercing runs and quick positional shifts. This constant pressure opened up spaces for Mattia Cassani to exploit with his late runs from midfield.
In the 7th minute, Tommaso, Verona's primary striker, made a clever diagonal run to the right, pulling defenders with him. Cassani darted into the vacated space at the back of the penalty area, perfectly positioned to meet a precise cross from Nicco. Timing his leap expertly, Cassani powered a header into the net. 0–1!
The bench erupted as Cassani celebrated, running back to midfield with high-fives and cheers from his teammates. When he passed the sideline, he caught Aymar's approving smile and the thumbs-up gesture. Cassani's grin widened, a mix of excitement and gratitude. He could see clearly that Aymar had crafted the team's strategy to maximize his strengths.
Just two minutes later, the partnership between Nicco and Cassani struck again. Nicco delivered another dangerous cross into the box, this time aimed at Tommaso, who used his height and physicality to muscle his way into position. His towering header left the Montebelluna goalkeeper rooted to the spot. 0–2!
From the sideline, Aymar pumped his fist triumphantly, signaling his players to maintain the pressure. "Don't let them breathe!" he called out, his voice cutting through the noise. With their confidence growing, Verona's second team pressed even harder, refusing to let Montebelluna settle.
Carlo Belloni could only watch helplessly as his team struggled to handle Verona's intensity. The visitors dominated the midfield, with Cassani, Nicco, and Torrisi controlling the tempo, switching between aggressive attacks and precise ball retention. The trio outclassed their counterparts, showcasing superior control, creativity, and aggression.
In defense, Louis Hutt held the central position in the back three. While he wasn't yet commanding the backline like a seasoned leader, his performance showed marked improvement. His positioning was more assured, and his ability to handle Montebelluna's limited counterattacks gave Verona a solid foundation.
"Looks like Louis is making real progress," Aymar remarked to Pippo Glaviano, standing beside him on the sideline.
Unbeknownst to Aymar, Hutt's newfound confidence stemmed not just from his recent training but also from a pivotal moment the previous night. After standing up to Domenico Rinaldi, Hutt had returned home with a sense of empowerment he hadn't felt before. As he lay awake in bed, replaying the encounter in his mind, the realization struck him: he could overcome challenges, both on and off the pitch.
Today, Aymar saw only the results of that shift. Watching Hutt step into his role with growing assurance filled him with pride. "If he keeps this up," Aymar mused, "he'll secure his place here without a doubt."
Pippo nodded in agreement. "With more matches under his belt and the confidence to match, Louis will only get better. I can see him turning into the anchor we need at the back."
The game continued with Verona firmly in control, their lead growing, and their confidence soaring. Aymar allowed himself a small smile as he watched his players execute his tactics seamlessly. For now, they were on the right path.