Who's Getting Fucked?!

Lecce's training ground buzzed with fresh energy.

It was early, too early for most of them. The sun had only just begun to rise, casting long shadows across the pitch, painting the grass in a soft gold hue. The cool breeze that rolled off the Adriatic added a sharpness to the air, one that snapped at bare legs and flushed cheeks. Still, despite the lingering fog of sleep, the players had arrived on time.

That said something.

They were dragging themselves in, sure, rubbing their eyes, sipping from oversized water bottles, groaning as they bent to lace up their boots. But they were here. And there was a certain kind of purpose moving beneath the surface. An awareness that something had shifted after the Milan game. Something subtle. Something solid.

It felt like momentum.