Chapter 37: The Aftermath
The flight from Madrid to Milan landed just after midnight. Leo had slept for most of it, his body finally surrendering to exhaustion. When he woke, the plane was taxiing toward the terminal, and Maldini was shaking his shoulder.
"Look."
Leo pressed his face to the window. Beyond the runway lights, beyond the terminal buildings, there was a glow. Red. Flickering. Hundreds of flares.
The Milan ultras had come to the airport.
The players descended the steps into the cold March night, and the noise hit them. A wall of sound, raw and joyous. Thousands of fans packed behind barriers, flags waving, smoke billowing, singing the same chant over and over.
"Il diavolo è tornato! Il diavolo è tornato!" The devil has returned!
Leo stood at the bottom of the steps, frozen. He'd seen fan receptions before—the FA Cup parade, the San Siro celebrations—but this was different. This was spontaneous. This was love, pure and unconditional.
Gattuso grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the barriers. "Vai! Vai! Sono qui per te!" Go! They're here for you!
Leo walked toward the fans, and the roar intensified. Hands reached out, grasping for him. Scarves were thrown. A young boy, maybe ten years old, held up a homemade sign: LEO CARTER - IL MIO EROE. My hero.
Leo stopped. He pulled off his training jacket—the one he'd worn on the bench after being substituted—and handed it to the boy. The child's eyes went wide. His father, standing behind him, was crying.
"Grazie," the man said, his voice breaking. "Grazie, Leo."
Leo nodded, unable to speak. He signed a few more autographs, posed for photos, and then Maldini was pulling him away. "Basta. Dobbiamo andare." Enough. We have to go.
On the bus back to Milanello, Leo sat in silence, staring out the window. His phone buzzed. Chloe.
"Saw the airport footage on Italian TV. You gave that kid your jacket. I'm crying again."
He smiled. "He had a sign. Called me his hero."
"You are. To a lot of people."
"I just play football."
"That's why you're a hero. You don't think you are."
---
Thursday, 13th March 2003. Milanello.
The morning papers were spread across the canteen table. Leo sat with a cappuccino, reading the headlines.
La Gazzetta dello Sport: "CARTER E SHEVA: IL REAL È CADUTO. MILAN, CHE IMPRESA!" Carter and Sheva: Real has fallen. Milan, what a feat!
Corriere della Sera: "IL BAMBINO PRODIGIO CHE HA ZITTITO IL BERNABÉU." The child prodigy who silenced the Bernabéu.
Marca (Spanish): "EL MILÁN DE CARTER HUMILLA AL MADRID." Carter's Milan humiliates Madrid.
AS (Spanish): "ADIÓS A LA CHAMPIONS. ZIDANE: 'MERECIERON GANAR.'" Goodbye to the Champions League. Zidane: 'They deserved to win.'
Leo paused at the Zidane quote. He read it twice.
"They were better than us. The young one, Carter—he has something I have rarely seen. A calmness. A clarity. He plays like he has done this for twenty years. I told him after the match: one day, you will be a legend. I believe this."
Leo set the paper down. Zidane. The greatest player of his generation. Saying that about him.
Gattuso slid into the seat opposite, a croissant in each hand. "Hai visto? Zidane ti ha elogiato." Did you see? Zidane praised you. "Ora sei famoso." Now you're famous.
"Ero già famoso." I was already famous.
Gattuso grinned. "Ora sei più famoso." Now you're more famous.
Pirlo walked past, a newspaper under his arm. He paused and looked at Leo. "Bel colpo di testa." Nice header. Then he walked on. From Pirlo, that was a speech.
---
Friday, 14th March 2003. Central Milan.
Leo had the afternoon off. Ancelotti had given the squad two days to recover before focusing on the weekend's Serie A match against Atalanta. Leo decided to walk into the city centre, alone, no security.
He wore a plain black hoodie and jeans, a baseball cap pulled low. It worked for about ten minutes.
He was in the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, staring at the window of a bookshop, when a voice behind him said, "Sei Leo Carter." You're Leo Carter.
He turned. A teenage girl, maybe sixteen, with dark hair and a Milan scarf. Her eyes were wide.
"Non dirlo a nessuno." Don't tell anyone.
She nodded solemnly. "Posso avere una foto?" Can I have a photo?
He took the photo. She thanked him and walked away, glancing back twice. But the damage was done. Within minutes, a small crowd had gathered. Not aggressive—just curious, excited. Phones out. Whispers.
"È lui. È Leo Carter."
He signed autographs on napkins, receipts, a train ticket. A young man asked him to sign his forearm. "Me lo farò tatuare." I'll get it tattooed.
Leo laughed. "Non fare stupidaggini." Don't do anything stupid.
"Troppo tardi." Too late.
An elderly woman pushed through the crowd and grabbed his hand. "Mio nipote ti adora. Ha il tuo poster nella sua camera." My grandson adores you. He has your poster in his room.
"Come si chiama?" What's his name?
"Matteo."
Leo found a scrap of paper and wrote: A Matteo, sogna in grande. Leo Carter. To Matteo, dream big. He handed it to her. Her eyes filled with tears.
"Grazie. Grazie mille."
He slipped away before the crowd could grow larger, disappearing into a side street. His heart was pounding, but not from fear. From something else. Connection. These people didn't know him—not really. But they believed in him. They saw him as something more than a footballer.
He wasn't sure he deserved it. But he wanted to.
---
Saturday, 15th March 2003. Leo's Apartment.
Chloe had flown in that morning. She stood in his kitchen, making tea, wearing one of his Milan shirts. It hung off her like a dress.
"The English press is going mad," she said, pouring boiling water into two mugs. "They're calling you the best teenager since Pelé."
"That's ridiculous."
"Is it?" She handed him a mug and sat beside him on the sofa. "You just knocked Real Madrid out of the Champions League. You scored against Zidane, Figo, and Ronaldo. You're eighteen."
"Seventeen. For a few more months."
She stared at him. "You're seventeen."
"Until June."
She set her mug down. "Leo. You're seventeen years old, and you just did that. Do you understand how insane that is?"
He shrugged. "I don't think about it. I just play."
"That's why you're so good. You don't overthink." She leaned into him, her head on his shoulder. "But promise me something."
"What?"
"When you're thirty and you've won everything, remember this. Remember what it felt like. Don't lose that."
He kissed the top of her head. "I promise."
---
Sunday, 16th March 2003. San Siro.
Serie A. Atalanta at home. A match Milan should win comfortably. Ancelotti rotated heavily—Shevchenko rested, Inzaghi started, Rui Costa came into the trequartista role. Leo was on the bench, preserved for the bigger battles ahead.
He watched from the dugout as Milan dominated. Inzaghi scored twice. Seedorf added a third. The San Siro sang and danced. A routine 3-0 win.
Leo came on for the final twenty minutes, more to keep his legs moving than anything else. He didn't score, but he didn't need to. The job was already done.
[Match Complete. AC Milan 3 - 0 Atalanta.]
[Serie A: 3 Points. League Position: 3rd. Gap to 1st: 7 points.]
The Scudetto was still unlikely—Juventus kept winning—but the gap was shrinking. Stranger things had happened.
---
Monday, 17th March 2003. Milanello.
The Champions League quarter-final draw was made. Milan would face Ajax. The Dutch side had knocked out Arsenal in the previous round, a young team full of talent—Zlatan Ibrahimović, Rafael van der Vaart, Wesley Sneijder. Dangerous, but beatable.
The other ties: Barcelona vs. Juventus, Manchester United vs. Valencia, Inter vs. Borussia Dortmund.
The path was clear. Beat Ajax, and Milan would face the winner of Inter vs. Dortmund in the semi-finals. A potential Derby della Madonnina for a place in the final.
Ancelotti gathered the squad. "Ajax are young. They are hungry. They will try to outrun us, outfight us. But we are Milan. We have experience. We have quality. And we have Carter." He looked at Leo. "You will be the difference again. I am sure of it."
Leo nodded. The Clutch Gene pulsed.
---
Tuesday, 18th March 2003. Milan City Centre.
He met Chloe for dinner at a small trattoria near the Navigli. She was leaving the next morning, back to London, back to her life.
"I don't want to go," she said, pushing pasta around her plate.
"I don't want you to go."
"But I have to. Work. Life." She smiled sadly. "Story of us, isn't it?"
"Not forever." He reached across the table and took her hand. "After the season. Come to Milan. Properly. Move in with me."
She stared at him. "Leo..."
"I know it's fast. I know we're young. But I don't care. I want you here. With me."
Tears welled in her eyes. "You're serious."
"I'm always serious."
She laughed, a wet, happy laugh. "Okay. After the season. I'll come."
He squeezed her hand. "Okay."
---
Wednesday, 19th March 2003. Malpensa Airport.
He stood at the departures gate, the same place he'd stood two months earlier. Chloe was wrapped in his Milan scarf, her eyes red.
"Don't cry," he said.
"I'm not crying. It's allergies."
"It's March. There's no pollen."
"Shut up." She kissed him. Long. Properly. When she pulled back, she was smiling through the tears. "Win the Champions League. I want to write about you lifting that trophy."
"I will."
She walked through security, turning once to wave. Leo stood there until she disappeared.
The system flickered.
[Next: Champions League Quarter-Final, First Leg - Ajax vs. AC Milan. 2nd April 2003. Amsterdam Arena.]
Leo walked out of the airport, into the cold March air. The journey continued.