We had done it. We had actually done it. The scoreboard, once a symbol of our defeat, now flashed with our victory: Inter 3, Roma 2.
The world around me turned into a beautiful, confusing blur of sweaty hugs, ecstatic shouts, and flying jerseys.
I was lifted off my feet, my teammates hoisting me into the air, chanting my name. I saw Lautaro Martínez's face, streaked with tears of joy, and Julián Álvarez's wide, toothy grin. I looked over at Cole Palmer, and he just nodded, a deep, knowing look in his eyes that said, "I told you so."
After what felt like an eternity of celebration on the pitch, we finally stumbled back into the dressing room, the air thick with the smell of champagne and victory.
The music was blasting, everyone was singing, and the noise was a constant, joyous thunder.
Coach Chivu stood in the center of the room, holding the gleaming silver trophy above his head, a wide, genuine smile on his face.
