I Coach Football With A System Chapter 3: Job Hunting

A full week passed.

Seven long, dragging days.

Alex had locked himself indoors like a man possessed. The initial shock of waking up in his younger body, in a different tiline, had given way to a strange kind of focus. With the weight of his unique knowledge pressing down on him, he felt an urgency that bordered on obsession. The world outside his apartnt might as well have been a different planet; he had no ti for it. Ti, after all, was both his enemy and his ally.

His flat was nothing short of luxurious. Nestled in an upscale Milan neighborhood, it had floor-to-ceiling windows that offered panoramic views of the city skyline. Sunlight poured into the open-concept living space, illuminating the marble countertops, polished hardwood floors, and designer furniture. A leather sectional sprawled across the living room, facing a state-of-the-art entertainnt system. Abstract art adorned the walls. A shelf in the corner displayed a mix of trophies, signed morabilia, and hardcover books on football tactics and leadership.

The flat was the kind of place that spoke not of extravagance, but of a man who had once lived well—and still knew how to carry himself with a quiet, refined pride. Despite the beauty around him, Alex barely noticed any of it that week. His mind was elsewhere.

He read match reports until his eyes burned. Reviewed starting elevens from mory. Watched highlights and full matches on mute, letting body language tell its own story. Most of all, he scouted.

He knew football history like gospel—at least, the history that had been until he intervened. He recalled which clubs faltered around this ti in late 2024. Which managers were skating on thin ice. Which boards were trigger-happy. Which squads were on the brink of collapse.

Two nas kept floating to the top.

Lecce.

A small club fighting for survival in Italy’s Serie A. As of now, they were sitting 16th in the table—perilously close to the relegation zone. Their squad was thin, more heart than muscle. Their budget was laughably low compared to the giants in the league. But there was sothing about them. A blank canvas. The kind of club where miracles were expected only once every twenty years—and no one would bla you for falling short.

Sporting CP.

One of Portugal’s Big Three. A club known for its prestigious youth academy—Cristiano Ronaldo’s alma mater, among others. They were currently third in the Liga Portugal, but the mood around them was tense. Their manager, Rúben Amorim, had lost two consecutive matches in Europe. That alone wouldn’t have been fatal, but a dostic upset at the hands of a bottom-half side had put serious pressure on him. Rumors were swirling. The kind that Alex had learned to read like weather patterns.

He didn’t need confirmation. He knew it was ti.

He ran both clubs through the system—the one he’d ntally constructed over a lifeti of watching managerial careers rise and implode. He coded suitability scores based on squad makeup, dia pressure, expectations, budget elasticity, and room for tactical evolution.

The results appeared on screen:

[Evaluating club trajectories...]

[Lecce: High developnt potential. Low dia pressure. Low expectations. Suitability Score: 72%.]

[Sporting CP: Youth academy strength. High European ambitions. Moderate tactical compatibility. Suitability Score: 85%.]

He leaned back in his ergonomic chair, exhaling.

Sporting was the obvious choice. Bigger club. Higher ceiling. But also greater scrutiny. Fewer second chances. He would need to walk the line between visionary and pragmatist with terrifying precision.

Still, Lecce had its appeal. He could rebuild them from the ground up. Create a system. Imprint his identity. He could fail without being crucified.

But the clock was ticking. He couldn’t sit around waiting for perfection.

He got to work.

He pulled up a blank docunt and began drafting.

First ca the cover letters—personal, targeted, confident without sounding arrogant. One in Italian. One in Portuguese, which he polished with help from an online translator and a short crash course.

Then the CV—a carefully constructed piece of fiction rooted in the truth he could reveal. Forr academy player turned manager. A few anonymous stints in lower-tier English football. So tactical consultancy work. Enough vagueness to leave room for curiosity.

He left out the future relegations. The heartbreaks. The sackings. The parts that hadn’t happened yet—but still haunted him like fresh scars.

He adjusted the layout. Clean. Minimal. Professional.

He attached everything, checked each email three tis, and hovered over the send button.

Then, with a breath, he clicked.

Sent.

After that, ca the waiting.

He tried not to obsess.

He resud light training at a nearby private facility. Nothing heavy—just enough to keep the muscles alive. He jogged on the treadmill in his personal gym, sotis kicking a ball against a rebounder in his dedicated training room to remind himself of simpler tis. He kept active on social dia, posting tactical breakdowns, clips from classic matches, thoughts on football philosophy. Enough to suggest he was involved. Available. But not desperate.

He appeared as a guest on a couple of respected football podcasts, where his articulate insights drew attention. He carefully ntioned he was "open to the right opportunity," always with a asured smile and a knowing nod.

Privately, the silence chewed at him.

Five days passed.

Then six.

By the seventh day, he was certain neither club would respond. He tried not to take it personally—after all, what club would trust an unproven Englishman in his early thirties with their future?

Still, it stung. He had bet on his knowledge of the future to give him an edge, but now it felt like a cruel joke.

He stood in his gleaming kitchen, reheating yesterday’s coffee in the built-in espresso machine, phone face-down on the island.

When it rang, he nearly jumped.

He flipped it over. Unknown Number. Portugal.

His heart kicked into gear. He grabbed it, then paused, took a breath to steady himself, and answered.

"Alex Walker speaking."

A warm but businesslike voice ca through the line.

"Mr. Walker, this is Hugo Viana, Sporting CP’s sporting director. Are you available to visit Lisbon for an interview this week?"

He almost dropped the phone.

"Yes," he said, forcing his voice into sothing approaching calm. "Yes, I am."