"GOAL! GOAL! GOAL! G—O—A—L!!!"
"Fiorentina takes the lead!"
"A magnificent finish from our Colombian lightning bolt, Juan Cuadrado!"
"And the architect? The boy who turns grass into gold! Three games, five assists! Fans, you know what to do... give him the roar he deserves!"
"RENZO!"
"UZUMAKI!"
"RENZO!"
"UZUMAKI!"
Guided by the stadium DJ, the Artemio Franchi became a literal wall of sound. In the Curva Fiesole, the heartbeat of the Viola ultras, Alex—the fan club president—was losing his mind. He stood on the railing, sunglasses gleaming under the floodlights, waving his arms like a possessed conductor.
"Wave those flags! Higher! I want the boy to see the purple sea from the center circle!" Alex screamed. "That pass... that wasn't a pass, it was a work of art! I've been coming here since the Batistuta days, and I've never seen a ball move like that!"
On the pitch, Renzo barely had time to acknowledge the fans before he was nearly flattened.
"Ren! You beautiful, black-haired monster!" Cuadrado shouted, leaping onto Renzo's back with the agility of a jungle cat. "I knew you had it in you! I've been watching Gomez and Salah get fed like kings all week—finally, it's my turn to eat!"
Renzo chuckled, struggling to keep his balance under the hyperactive winger. "Alright, Juan, get off! You're going to snap my spine before the half-time whistle."
Cuadrado didn't care. As a winger, his career had been built on "chaos factor," but he had never played with a midfielder who could put the ball on a dime from forty yards with the outside of his boot. For Cuadrado, Renzo wasn't just a teammate; he was a career-extender. If I stay glued to this kid, Cuadrado thought, I'll score fifteen a season.
However, while the Viola celebrated, the Verona side of the pitch was a portrait of grim determination. Luca Toni looked at the grass, a long sigh escaping his lungs. He knew that look—the look of a defense that had been psychologically broken by a single touch of the ball.
Verona coach Mandorlini didn't wait for half-time. He walked to the edge of his technical area and whistled sharply, pointing a finger at his midfield general: Luca Marrone.
As the match restarted, Renzo felt a shadow loom over him.
Marrone stood 1.86 meters tall, a physical specimen forged in the elite fires of the Juventus youth academy. At 24, Marrone was a "Bianconeri" soul on loan, a player who possessed the tactical discipline of Antonio Conte's system. He was currently stuck behind Pirlo and Pogba in Turin, but here in Verona, he was the law.
Marrone didn't say a word. He simply stepped into Renzo's personal space, his eyes cold and focused. He wasn't just defending a lead; he was defending his future. To Marrone, shutting down the "japanese Genius" was his ticket back to the Juventus starting eleven.
Renzo felt the shift immediately. Marrone wasn't just marking him; he was haunting him. Every time Renzo moved, he felt the heavy presence of the 80kg midfielder.
Renzo glanced at Marrone and flashed a small, almost imperceptible grin. The "Dark Horse" had finally brought out their heavy hitter.
So, you want to see if I can play under pressure? Renzo thought, his 77-rated Ball Control humming in his feet. Let's see how Juventus's finest handles a little bit of magic.
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