Alex sat back in his office chair, blinking at the system’s holographic display. Diagrams of pressing traps, nurical symbols for probability, interlocking arrows showing midfield rotations, it was all there. And he still felt nothing. Blank, blocked, maybe drained. Hard to tell.
He hit "Pause" on the video analysis of Inter Milan’s overlapping fullbacks. The office clock ticked past nine. He’d started drawing out potential formations at six. Six hours of staring at tactics that once felt alive, now feeling like dense fog.
He leaned forward and spoke to the emptiness of the System, half‑joking, half‑pleading, "System...?" But the silence answered. No ding. No pop. Just the holographic display.
He sighed and stood up, walked over to the window, looked out at Lecce’s quiet streets. Even at night the city buzzed with life. Neon signs glowed, occasional voices drifted from nearby cafés. He let the silence settle into him.
After a mont he grabbed his jacket. Keyboard clicks and screen images faded behind him as he exited his office for the final ti that day.
The apartnt felt like a waiting space. Dim lights revealed empty coffee mugs, notes strewn across the coffee table. A thin layer of dust sprayed across his desk, a testant to nights spent planning, worrying, coaching.
He walked into the kitchen. The fridge light flickered on and he pulled out a water bottle. He drank it quickly, paused, then opened another. Hydration was all he had left of his ntal clarity. He paced back into the living room like a restless chess player, moving from the couch to the bookshelves and stopping at the whiteboard. Nothing helpful there either. Half‑erased phrases floated across it: pressing triggers, opponent analysis, formation adjustnts. They just mocked him.
They had made progress. So much progress. Defeating Monza, holding Fiorentina nearly dead even through the first half. But facing Inter? That felt like a mirror with no reflection. Not just proving them wrong... but proving himself right? Or at least not entirely wrong.
He grunted, rubbed his temples hard. He checked his phone. Evening texts from Isabella asking how his preparation was going. A ssage from Gallo requesting extra footage on Inter’s left wing. An old audio ssage from Banda joking, "When you gonna let shoot more?"
He ignored most of it except for Isabella’s. "Be there later?" she asked simply.
He typed back in shorthand, "Yeah. See you."
The bar wasn’t early‑evening anymore. It was late‑night now. Low lights, warm tones, scattered clusters of people, so students, a few older locals, occasional strangers just passing through. Gentle music played. Conversations moved in quiet tides.
He pushed open the door and the usual hum of greetings fell almost silent. He spotted Isabella at their corner table, alone, wearing a blazer and jeans, her hair tucked behind one ear. She looked up at him, eyes bright in a tired smile.
"You ca," she said simply.
He smiled back, sitting across from her. No word needed on drinks. They had morized each other’s preferences by now. After the first night when they bumped into each other, they had been eting a lot more regularly at the bar. By now, they could be considered friends.
"Rough day?" she asked gently, leaning forward.
"You could say that," he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "Tried all morning. Now...and now I’m pushing water uphill."
She reached across and touched his forearm briefly. A gesture small but comforting. "No sha in being stuck."
He exhaled, leaning into her touch. "Match is in two days. San Siro. Inter."
She raised an eyebrow. "Special?"
He shrugged. "Last season I retired from playing. Inter was my ho. My teammates...people I’ve known for a long ti played there. So are still there. It’s not just a coach facing a team. It’s a man facing his past. Odds are I’ll get embraced or booed. Maybe both."
Her lips curved into a smile full of empathy. "You’ll get what you deserve."
He scoffed softly, half joke, half tension. "That sounds like a challenge."
She laughed lightly. "Maybe it is."
He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. "I’m worried about crossing that line. About going into my old ho under a new banner. It’s weird. It feels surreal."
"You can do this," she replied gently. "You’ve earned it. And if they boo you, they’re booing a legend. Not the coach who’s trying to build sothing real."
He swallowed, feeling the weight ease slightly. "Thanks."
"Coffee?" she offered.
"Yeah," he said, feeling gratitude.
The next hour passed in gentle conversation. They talked about local restaurants still open, of Lecce’s training ground lights still burning late, of Banda’s ongoing inability to put the ball in from six yards. Isabella teased him, "He’ll outscore you one day."
He rolled his eyes but laughed. It felt important. It felt real.
A lull ca, the bar ambient hum resuming around them. Isabella sipped her coffee. "You’ve done well," she said finally.
Alex paused between sips. "We’ve gone from relegation scrap to mid‑table in almost two months. Eight unbeaten league gas. We’ve dealt with Frosinone, Bologna , ugly wins, ugly draws, emotional monts. Every ga has stretched us."
Her eyes held his. "Sounds like progress."
He rubbed the mug between his hands. "Progress is one thing. Facing my forr club at their temple...?" He spat out the words half‑smile, half‑grimace. "That’s sothing else entirely."
Isabella leaned forward and squeezed his arm. "Not the sa man they knew."
He nodded slowly, quietly grateful for her presence. "I hope not."
The bar lights seed softer now. Less glare, more warmth.
He stood, preparing to leave. Isabella gave him a asured look as if she was seeing him wholly for the first ti in days. A steady anchor.
"Go get them," she said softly.
He nodded, smiled. "Thanks."
—
His apartnt was exactly as he left it, quiet. Pendant lamp glowing softly. He flicked on a table light near the couch, clicked open the laptop, and leaned forward with renewed purpose.
Then-
[Ding!]
A/N: Alright, so this book has gotten contracted(whopee), and although I haven’t put out any premium Chapters yet, you can still gift this book if you’re feeling particularly generous. Thanks
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