By the poolside, the chaos had dulled into laughter and slow conversation. The kind of buzz that lingers after the party has passed its peak but refuses to die out completely. The air was thick with the sll of chlorine, mixed with the cool night breeze, and the bright lights that once spotlighted the post-match celebration now humd gently, like distant stars softening into the horizon.
Alex still sat by the edge of the pool, his legs dangling into the lukewarm water. He hadn’t moved much since Isabella had co to sit beside him, and honestly, he didn’t want to. His body ached in all the places it always did after a high-pressure ga, even though he hadn’t set foot on the pitch. It was the ntal grind that weighed on him now, the decisions, the substitutions, the pressure of ninety minutes plus stoppage ti. And yet, in this mont of stillness, he felt... okay. Maybe even happy.
The gentle splashing and occasional echoes of water against tile were the only signs of life around them now. A few players had wandered off to their rooms. Others, too tired to talk, simply lay on sun loungers, staring at the night sky with content smiles. Banda had long abandoned his whistle and was probably asleep in a corner sowhere, wrapped in a towel like a child who had partied too hard at sumr camp.
Isabella drew in a breath, stretching her legs out over the pool’s edge, mirroring Alex’s posture.
"Alright," she said softly, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Her tone was light, but her eyes carried sothing deeper. "You wanted to know about , yeah?"
Alex turned his head toward her, arms stretched behind him, palms pressing into the cold tiles. "Go on, I’m listening."
She gave him a small smile, one that barely curled the corners of her mouth, and looked out across the water. The pool shimred with reflections of the overhead lights, quiet ripples catching every flicker of movent.
"I was born in Florence," she began, her voice calm but threaded with sothing nostalgic. "Proper city girl. Grew up near the stadium actually. My dad was the type who watched every Fiorentina ga like it was his last day on Earth. I think I learned to shout at referees before I even learned how to spell my na."
Alex chuckled. It was an image that ca easily, a little girl on a worn-out couch, waving her arms and screaming at the TV like her life depended on it.
"Sounds like he’d have made a good coach," he said with a smile.
She burst into laughter. "God no. Too emotional. He once broke the remote when we lost to Inter. Mum banned him from watching away gas on the TV after that. He used to sneak off to the pub with my uncle and co back sulking like a teenager."
Alex laughed again, the kind that ca from deep in his chest. It felt good to hear her like this, unguarded, less clipped, not hiding behind her usual professional mask.
"Anyway," Isabella continued, stretching her toes in the water, "I was obsessed with stories more than sports, to be honest. Went to university in Bologna, studied communications. I thought I’d be a big-ti journalist. Maybe a docuntary filmmaker, even. Real serious stuff. Political pieces, social issues, all that."
"Didn’t work out?" Alex asked gently.
"Not exactly. I interned at a radio station and got stuck reading weather reports and football gossip. Then I did a stint covering lower-league matches for a regional sports network. It paid in bus tickets and vending machine coffee."
He laughed. "Sounds glamorous."
"Beyond glamorous," she said, her tone dry, though her smile never faded. "Eventually, I figured I liked people more than scoops. I liked the atmosphere of clubs, the language of it all. That’s how I ended up working behind the scenes. PR, logistics, press handling. I bounced around for a bit. Empoli, then Parma, until Lecce made a real offer."
"And you took it," Alex said.
"Yeah. Took the train down with one suitcase and a broken laptop. Haven’t looked back since."
She paused then, her gaze drifting across the water again, thoughtful. "It’s weird. I’m not a coach or a player. I don’t score goals or write headlines. But I still feel like I belong here, you know? Like I’m part of sothing."
Alex nodded slowly. "You are. Don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise."
She looked at him then, really looked at him. Her expression softened, and for a mont, sothing quiet passed between them, unspoken but understood.
Then, a small smile tugged at her lips. "Alright, your turn," she said. "Tell sothing I wouldn’t find on your Wikipedia page."
Alex leaned back slightly, rubbing the back of his neck, a little sheepish. "Where do I even start?"
"From the beginning, obviously," she said, nudging his arm.
"First week of training at United," he began, the mory returning so vividly it felt like yesterday. "I’d just been promoted to the first team. I was nervous, trying to act cool. Roy Keane gave a death stare for wearing white boots. Then, they put in a five-a-side with Rooney."
Isabella raised an eyebrow, already smiling. "And?"
"Rooney turned inside out. I swear, I’m still dizzy thinking about it. He nutgged twice in the sa drill. Second ti, he shouted ’GS!’ as he did it. Everyone laughed. Even the kitman."
Isabella burst out laughing. A full, proper laugh that echoed off the walls. "No way."
"Way. I went ho thinking I’d never make it as a pro. But the next day, Ferguson gave a pat on the shoulder and said, ’At least you tried to close him down.’ That was it. I knew I’d be alright."
"You know," she said, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye, "I always pictured your start being so dramatic fairy tale. Like, first touch and everyone gasped in awe."
Alex grinned. "My first touch was so heavy it nearly took out a cara operator."
She laughed again, shaking her head. "You’re not half bad at storytelling."
"Spent enough ti on the bench, had to do sothing," he quipped.
And with that, they slipped into a rhythm. They shared stories like old friends catching up after years apart. Alex told her about his first goal, his worst injury, the superstition that made him wear the sa brand of socks for every important match. Isabella told him about her university days: the flatmate who kept turtles, the ti she accidentally ended up in a cyclist group chat and pretended to be a rider for three months just for the s, and the date with a philosophy major who quoted Nietzsche before every bite of spaghetti.
The hours passed unnoticed. The music had stopped. The lights dimd into soft glows, casting a calm reflection on the surface of the pool. It was just them now, two figures outlined in the low shimr, talking like ti wasn’t real.
"I think everyone’s gone," Isabella murmured, her voice now a whisper, almost afraid to break the peace.
Across the pool, a lone figure stood up in the water. Dorgu. His curls clung to his forehead, wet and dripping, and he stretched as he stepped out. He noticed them and gave a crisp, mock salute.
Alex returned it with a nod and a quiet grin.
Dorgu wrapped a towel around his shoulders and wandered off into the building, his flip-flops slapping against the tile.
Isabella turned back to Alex. "I didn’t realize how late it was."
"Neither did I," he said.
The air between them felt different now. Softer. More intimate.
"We should probably get so sleep," she said, but she didn’t move. Her feet still floated lazily in the water, her hands resting beside her on the ground.
"Yeah," Alex said, though he too stayed exactly where he was.
They sat in silence, the kind that was full of aning rather than awkwardness. Their shoulders nearly touched. The night wrapped around them gently, like a secret blanket.
"Thanks for tonight," Isabella said finally, her voice barely louder than the whispering breeze.
"Anyti," Alex replied.
A/N: Sorry about the late update. The three Chapters are ready, I just couldn’t publish them due to so issues on my end.
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